I know I won’t.
By morning, Talia’s already gone, filming breakfast content somewhere that smells of coffee and ambition. The flat’s quiet again, all polished surfaces and staged comfort. I make my own coffee and stand at the counter, phone in hand, thumb hovering over that blank chat window.
Still empty. Still waiting.
Maybe she’s looking through her photos right now. Maybe she sees me in every frame, eyes too sharp, jaw too tense, like I’m trying to tell her something without words. Maybe she feels it too. The thought lodges somewhere deep, both dangerous and comforting. I set the phone down, take a long sip of coffee, and let the warmth spread through my chest. Something’s shifting.
I don’t know where it leads yet, but I know the next time I see her, pretending indifference won’t be an option.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ROSE
Morning sunlight creeps through the thin curtains, a pale wash across my duvet that feels almost too gentle for how restless my mind is. I haven’t slept. My camera bag’s still open on the desk, memory card pulled out, laptop waiting. The itch to look is unbearable.
I roll onto my side and give in.
The photos load slowly, each click another heartbeat. The familiar rhythm calms me a little, like slipping into a language I know by instinct. Composition, light, motion. The controlled madness of capturing what can’t be paused.
And then, there he is.
Callum Fraser.
Number 14, cutting across the ice like the rink belongs to him. Eyes narrowed, jaw tight, every line of his body wired with purpose. He looks dangerous and beautiful, and completely out of reach. The camera doesn’t lie, but sometimes it reveals more than the eye can catch. In frame after frame, I see him differently, not just the athlete, but the man beneath. The strain in his shoulders. The shadow that follows him, even mid-celebration.
He’s everywhere.
I scroll through the shots again, trying to pretend I’m assessing focus and exposure, but my gaze keeps snagging on him. The way his eyes cut to the stands, just once. I tell myself hewasn’t looking for me. He couldn’t have been. Except maybe he was.
I exhale, pushing my hair back. This is ridiculous. He’s a professional hockey player with a life miles away from mine. A girlfriend, even. One I’ve seen plastered across his social media feed in perfectly staged couple shots.
I close the laptop. The room feels smaller without the glow of the screen, as though I’ve shut something vital away. “Right,” I mutter. “Coffee. Reality. Rent.”
The limp is worse today. My leg still pulls tight where the bruises bloom dark and ugly, and my shoulder twinges when I reach for the kettle. The doctor said light walking was fine, but I’m starting to think she underestimated the part where I work on my feet all day.
The shop’s dead when I clock in, just the hum of the fridge and the clink of the key in the till. It’s one of those small independent places near the arena—half convenience store, half gift shop, and perpetually understocked.
“Morning, love,” my manager, Fran, says, juggling boxes of snacks. “You look knackered.”
“Didn’t sleep,” I admit.
“You and me both. There’s coffee in the back, miracle-grade.” She squints at me. “How’s the leg?”
“Fine.”
She arches a brow.
“Mostly fine,” I concede.
“Don’t push it,” she warns, but there’s warmth in her tone.
The bell above the door chimes just as I’m shelving crisps. I glance up, expecting the usual early regulars; students, parents, someone grabbing a paper. It’s him. Callum. He’s in a hoodie and cap pulled low, hands stuffed into his pockets, pretending to browse the drinks fridge like he’s not six-foot-something and unmistakable.
For a second, I forget how to breathe. Then I remember myself, remember the conversation at the hospital, the easy charm, the way he’d made my pulse jump when he smiled. I also remember the game. The way he’d played as though he had something to prove, every hit a little too hard, every stride a fraction too desperate.
“Fancy seeing you here,” I say, keeping my tone light as I step behind the counter.
His head lifts, and when his eyes find mine, there’s that flicker again—guilt, maybe, or surprise. “Hey.” He clears his throat. “Didn’t know you worked mornings.”
