But that's the problem. I've let him too close. Let myself believe in something that was only ever supposed to be pretend.
"I heard some women talking at the reception." The words come out flat. "About how this is obviously just a fling. About how you've never mentioned me to your brothers. About how the city girl will get bored and leave and everything will go back to normal."
His expression hardens. "And you believed them?"
"I don't know what to believe." I pull my arm free. "We've known each other four days, Callum. Four days. And I've already planned out this whole future in my head like some kind of delusional teenager. Moving here. Building a life. Waking up in your bed every morning until we're old and gray."
"That sounds like something we could talk about."
"Talk about what? The logistics of uprooting my entire life for a man I just met? The reality that I have no job, no plan, and no reason to believe this is anything more than really good sex and forced proximity?"
"Is that what you think this is? Good sex and forced proximity?"
"I don't know what this is!" The words explode out of me. "I don't know if it's real or if it's just the novelty of someone who doesn't run when I push. I don't know if you actually want me or if you just wanted a buffer from the matchmakers. I don't know anything except that I'm terrified of how much I feel and I don't trust it."
Callum is quiet. His face has gone carefully blank, and I recognize it as the same controlled expression he wore the night we met. Walls going up. Defenses engaging.
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know."
"Then what do you want me to do?"
"I don't know that either."
He nods slowly. "Okay. Then here's what I know. I know that four days ago I met a woman who challenged me in ways I haven't been challenged in years. I know that I've told you things I haven't told anyone. I know that when I think about you leaving, it feels like losing something I didn't know I needed."
My eyes burn. "Callum..."
"But I can't make you believe that. I can't force you to trust what we have. If you've decided this is just a fling, if you've already made up your mind that it can't work, then nothing I say is going to change that."
"That's not fair."
"No. It's not." His voice is even, controlled. "But neither is walking away from what we've built because some strangers in a bathroom confirmed the fears you were already looking for."
The accusation lands like a slap. Because he's right. I was looking for reasons. Waiting for proof. Using those women's words as an excuse to retreat before I could get hurt.
"I need to think." I take a step back. "I just... I need space to think."
"Fine." He doesn't reach for me. Doesn't try to close the distance. "Guest room is yours. I'll stay out of your way."
He turns and walks toward the master bedroom. I watch him go, every step putting more distance between us.
This is what I wanted. Space. Time to think. Protection from the terrifying vulnerability of caring about someone who might not care back.
So why does it feel like I just made the worst mistake of my life?
I close myself in the guest room and finally let the tears fall. They come hard and ugly, soaking the pillow that smells like nothing but fabric softener and regret.
He didn't fight for me.
The thought is petty and unfair and I hate myself for thinking it. I told him I needed space. I pushed him away. What was he supposed to do, refuse to let me go?
But some small, wounded part of me wanted him to. Wanted him to prove that I'm worth fighting for. That this thing between us matters enough to hold onto even when I'm the one trying to let go.
Instead he gave me exactly what I asked for.
And now I'm alone in a guest room on Valentine's night, wondering if I just destroyed the best thing that's ever happened to me.
