"Yes."
We sat there, the city glittering below us, his words hanging in the air between us. I was aware of how closewe were. How quiet the apartment had gotten. How his gaze kept dropping to my mouth before snapping back up.
"Thank you. For letting me stay. For..." I gestured vaguely. "All of this."
"You're welcome."
Still neither of us moved.
The pull between us was magnetic—had been since Hartfield, since before that if I was being honest. Every interaction felt like holding a match near gasoline. It was only a matter of time before one of us dropped it.
He stood. The spell broke.
"I keep the thermostat low at night. There are extra blankets in the closet if you need them."
"Got it."
"Right." He ran a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture I'd never seen from him. "Goodnight, Willow."
"Goodnight, Callum."
I walked down the hall on legs that felt unsteady. Climbed into the sumptuous bedding, tossed the pillow I'd brought because his were better, and stared up at the ceiling, trying to forget that Callum was lying in the room down the hall. Did he sleep naked? Or did he sleep in boxers? Did he snore? Why did I even wonder what his sleeping habits were?
I lay there in the dark, wearing his clothes,surrounded by his scent—cedar and something warmer underneath—and stared at the ceiling.
Sleep felt impossible.
I lasted until 2 a.m.
The problem was the quiet. My apartment had noise—the neighbors fighting, the street traffic, the mysterious thumps from the unit above. Callum's apartment had nothing. Just silence and darkness and way too much space for my brain to spiral.
I crept down the hallway, aiming for the kitchen. Water. A glass of water would help. Or a snack. Or a full psychiatric evaluation, but that would have to wait until morning.
The living room was dark except for the city lights streaming through the windows. I was halfway to the kitchen when I realized I wasn't alone.
Callum sat at the piano. Not playing—just sitting, hands resting on the closed cover, staring at nothing.
"Can't sleep either?" I asked.
He didn't startle. Just turned his head, found me in the darkness. "No."
I crossed to him, bare feet silent on his expensive floors. Up close, I could see the tiredness in his face, the lines around his eyes deeper than usual.
"You could play," I said. "If you wanted. I won't judge."
"It's two in the morning."
"The apartment's soundproofed. I can tell by how quiet it is." I sat on the piano bench beside him. There was barely enough room for both of us. "Why don't you play anymore? The actual reason, not the story you tell people so they stop asking."
He was quiet. I thought he wouldn't answer.
"Jessica hated it," he said at last. "Said it was self-indulgent. A waste of time I should be spending on work or family. After the divorce, I kept the piano, but..." He trailed off. "It felt like admitting she was right. That I'd been selfish. That all the time I'd spent playing was time I should have spent being present."
"That's bullshit."
He looked at me sharply.
"Having a passion isn't selfish. Taking an hour to do things you enjoy isn't a moral failing." I bumped his shoulder with mine. "Jessica sounds like she had her own issues. You shouldn't let her voice live rent-free in your head forever."
