“That’s not comforting.”
“No,” he agrees.“It’s worse.”
She sets the photo back in the drawer carefully, as if it might bruise if she’s careless.Her hands linger there longer than necessary.Did this mean he cared and still left?
Callum straightens and steps away, giving her space.The absence of his closeness feels like a loss she resents.
He picks up the guitar.
“I’m not here to distract you,” he says.“But sometimes music helps you think sideways.”
She arches a brow.“That sounds like a trap.”
“Probably is.”
He sits on the edge of the desk, not facing her directly, and tunes the guitar with quick, efficient movements.He doesn’t play one of Keir’s songs.He doesn’t show off.
He plays something spare.
A progression that loops and shifts, never quite resolving, leaving deliberate space between notes.
Isla listens despite herself.
“You rushed the third measure,” she says automatically.
Callum glances up, surprised, and then faintly amused.“Did I?”
“Yes.You didn’t let it breathe.”
He slows, fingers adjusting.
The sound deepens, settles into something steadier.
“Better,” she admits, then scowls at herself for saying it.
They don’t talk about Keir.
They talk about restraint.About silence.About why certain notes ache while others simply exist.About how sometimes the wrong note tells the truth faster than the right one ever could.
“I hate that this works,” Isla mutters.
Callum smiles faintly.“I won’t tell anyone.”
The moment is small.Fragile.
And dangerous.
Because for the first time since she arrived, Isla feels, just for a second, safe.
The realization takes shape inside her.When was the last time she felt truly secure?
She straightens abruptly.“This doesn’t mean anything.”
Callum nods easily.“Of course not.”
“I’m not staying,” she adds.“Not for you.Not for this.”
“I know.”
