Her throat closes.
Callum sees the change in her immediately.“What is it?”
She turns the notebook so he can see.
He goes still.
“He never wrote names down,” Callum says quietly.“He said it made things too real.”
Her fingers trace the word.“Then why write mine?”
Callum doesn’t answer.
He can’t.
The silence stretches, heavy and intimate.Callum steps closer without seeming to realize he’s doing it, his presence warm and steady at her back.Not touching, but close enough that she feels anchored.
She hates how much she wants to lean into it.
Hates that her body reacts before her heart can harden.
“I can’t do this,” she says suddenly, snapping the notebook shut.“I can’t rewrite my entire childhood based on scraps of paper and your memories.”
Callum steps back at once.“Then don’t.”
She blinks.“What?”
“Don’t decide anything today,” he says.“Just… keep the evidence.”
She studies him.“You’re remarkably reasonable for someone who might lose everything.”
A corner of his mouth lifts.“I’ve already lost worse.”
She doesn’t ask what.
The room settles again, quieter now, but not empty.Isla gathers the notebook and the photograph, stacking them neatly.
“I’m keeping these,” she says.
Callum nods.“You should.”
She hesitates, then adds, “This doesn’t mean I trust you.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”
“And it doesn’t mean this—” she gestures vaguely between them, “—is anything.”
“Of course not.”
The agreement feels fragile.
Isla moves toward the door, then stops.“You know this makes things harder.”
Callum meets her gaze.“The truth usually does.”
She leaves the office with the weight of paper in her hands and something far heavier pressing against her ribs.
She tells herself Callum is temporary.
