Hate Me Like You Love Me (Serena and Caleb) novel Chapter 72

The aftermath of a storm is always quieter than you expect—all that violence, and then nothing but stillness and wreckage.

I find Caleb sitting on the front steps of the Bennett estate, away from the chaos still unfolding inside.

His shoulders are hunched, his forearms resting on his knees, his head bowed like he’s carrying a weight too heavy to hold upright anymore.

The garden lights cast his profile in soft gold, catching the dark hair falling across his forehead, the sharp line of his jaw.

His knuckles are raw and swollen. Dried blood crusts along his chin from where Lucas landed a hit. He looks exhausted—not just physically, but down to his bones. The kind of tired that sleep won’t fix.

I sit down beside him without asking permission, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. In my hand is a damp cloth I found in one of the guest bathrooms. The best I could manage.

“You should have someone look at that.” I nod toward his hands.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. You’re bleeding.”

He glances down at his knuckles like he’s noticing them for the first time. “Most of it is his.”

“Caleb.”

“Okay.” A ghost of a smile crosses his lips. “Maybe not most of it.”

I reach for his face, and he doesn’t protest. He stays perfectly still as I tilt his chin toward the light, examining the cut near his eyebrow. It’s shallow but angry-looking, the skin around it already darkening toward purple.

“This might sting.” I press the damp cloth against the wound. He winces but doesn’t pull away.

I work in silence for a moment, gently wiping away the dried blood, dabbing at the split skin with careful strokes.

His eyes stay fixed on my face the whole time, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin warm despite the cold night air.

“You didn’t have to do that.” My voice comes out softer than I intended. “Hit him, I mean. In front of everyone.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You could have let him talk. Let him say whatever he was going to say.”

“No.” His jaw tightens beneath my fingers. “I couldn’t.”

I don’t argue.

Part of me wanted to scream when Lucas grabbed my arms, that wanted to claw his eyes out for every whispered threat, every possessive touch, every moment he made me feel like property instead of a person.

“Hold still.” I move to his hands, cradling them in my lap as I clean the torn knuckles. The damage is worse here—split skin, swollen joints, blood dried into the creases of his fingers. “You really did a number on yourself.”

“Should see the other guy.”

“I did see the other guy. You rearranged his face.”

“Good.” There’s no remorse in his voice. “He deserved worse.”

I don’t disagree.

The silence between us settles into something comfortable, familiar. We don’t talk about what just happened—not about Lucas, not about the accusations, not about what comes next.

Those conversations will come later, when we’ve had time to process, when the adrenaline has fully faded and reality settles in.

For now, we speak about nothing important.

“Cold out here.” I tuck the cloth into my pocket.

“Didn’t notice.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe a little.” His lips twitch. “But I’d rather freeze than go back in there.”

“Same.”

“The stars are nice, at least.”

He tips his head back, and I follow his gaze. The sky is clear tonight, scattered with pinpricks of light that feel impossibly far away.

“My mom used to tell me that stars were just holes in the floor of heaven. That’s how the light gets through.”

“That’s beautiful.”

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