And I know exactly who I am as I do.
CALLUM
It’s taken us weeks to get here, none of them rushed, more of a steady life altering pace. What we’ve built during this time is trust. Honest and firm. I’ve learned a lot from Rose but mostly I’ve learned who I am and the man I want to be for her.
That’s the thing no one tells you about breaking something important. You don’t just learn how to put it back together. You learn what it was made of in the first place. What you were leaning on. What you were avoiding. What parts of yourself you’d been letting slide because life was loud and fast and you told yourself you’d deal with it later.
Rose doesn’t let me hide. Not behind hockey or guilt. And behind good intentions that never quite translated into honesty. She doesn’t interrogate me or punish me for it, either. She justexists with this silent clarity that makes it impossible not to step up when you’re standing next to her.
We talk. A lot. Sometimes it’s about the past and the crash, about Talia, about the pressure cooker my life became before I even knew I was suffocating. Sometimes it’s about nothing at all. Music playing low while we cook. Sitting by the river with takeaway coffee going cold between our hands. We are all about sharing space without filling it with noise to prove we’re okay.
There are still moments where I see the hesitation flicker through her. I don’t blame. I caused that. The difference now is that I don’t try to rush her past it or soothe it away with promises I can’t guarantee. I let it exist. I stay.
That’s the work. Staying when it would be easier to distract myself. Staying when there’s no applause for it. Or when the old instinct to fix and control starts itching under my skin.
Hockey helps in a strange way. Not as an escape, those days are over, but as a mirror. I play differently now. Less desperate to be the hero every shift. Coach noticed it before I did, pulled me aside one afternoon and said, “Whatever’s changed, don’t undo it.”
I didn’t tell him it was Rose. I didn’t have to.
The season winds down with a sense of momentum that feels earned instead of frantic. The noise around my name fades into something manageable. Fans stop speculating. Media moves on to shinier scandals. Talia disappears from my orbit entirely, she doesn’t have the power she once thought she did.
Rose never asks me to explain why. She doesn’t need the validation of my resentment.
The night I finally ask her about the charity event, we’re curled together on her sofa, legs tangled, some documentary playing that neither of us is watching. The invite has been sitting in my inbox for days, unopened, like it might explode if I acknowledge it.
It’s not the event itself that scares me. I’ve done a hundred of them. Black tie. Speeches. Photos. Smiles that last exactly as long as the camera flash. It’s what it represents. A public line drawn with intention instead of impulse.
I turn the volume down and she looks at me immediately, that soft, perceptive focus she has when she knows something’s coming.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” she asks.
I take a breath. Not because I’m afraid of her answer, but because I want to ask this the right way. “There’s a charity gala in a couple of weeks,” I say. “The foundation does it every year. You know the one.”
She nods slowly, waiting.
“I’d like you to come with me,” I continue. “As my partner. Publicly. No half-measures. No dodging questions. If that’s something you want.” I don’t reach for her hand. I don’t soften it with jokes or qualifiers. I let the words stand exactly as they are.
She studies me for a long moment before she speaks. “You’re asking,” she says quietly.
“Yes.”
“Not assuming.”
“Never again.”
That earns me a small smile that feels like sunlight breaking through cloud.
“I want to,” she says. “I just need to know something first.”
“Anything.”
“This isn’t about repairing your image,” she says. “Or proving something. This is about us.”
“It is,” I say immediately. “It’s about choosing you. Standing beside you. And being seen doing it.”
She nods, considering. Then she reaches for my hand, fingers threading through mine with intention that sends something steady and sure through my chest.
“Then yes,” she says. “I’ll go with you.”
