A buzzing cuts through the moment. Her phone. Again. The name on the screen snags my attention before she flips it face-down.
Mum
A different tension knots in my chest.
“Everything okay?” I ask carefully.
She forces a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “She’s probably just checking in.”
Probably. But the way her shoulders tense tells me there’s more. Things she doesn’t say. Pain she hides. We’re the same that way, always pretending. Before I can push, my phone goes off. Of course it does. And of course it’s Talia. I inhale sharply, jaw clenched. Rose is staring at her hands, doing that thing where she tries to make herself small. Like she’s bracing for the moment I make this ugly. Ruin it.
I grab my phone, open the message, and read it:
Talia: You can’t just ignore me forever. We need to talk. You owe me that.
Anger flashes hot and fast. I type back before I can think too hard.
Cal: No. Don’t text again. We’re done.
I hit send.
Rose watches me with a careful, unreadable expression.
“It’s over,” I say, honestly. “It’s been over for a while. I’m just finishing it for good now.”
She nods, but uncertainty flickers across her face and I know she’s waiting for the twist. The part where I choose wrong. I set my phone aside and close the distance between us. One hand cups her cheek, encouraging her to meet my eyes.
“She doesn’t get to be in this anymore,” I whisper. “She doesn’t get to be in my life or my head. And she sure as hell doesn’t get to make you doubt anything.”
Her breath stutters. “I don’t want to be the reason you fight with someone.”
“You’re not,” I say, voice low, steady. “She’s the reason I stopped fighting for something that wasn’t good for me.”
Rose’s throat works around a swallow. “Callum,”
“I want you,” I cut in, before she can talk herself out of believing it. “Not her.”
Silence hangs heavy in the air. Then she surges forward and kisses me like oxygen finally returned to the world. Her fingers twist in my hoodie, and I lift her onto the counter, slotting myself between her knees, swallowing every soft sound she makes. I’m starving for her laugh, her lips, the way she looks at me as though I’m good enough.
Her hands slide under my hoodie again and a low groan escapes me before I can stop it.
“Breakfast,” she whispers against my mouth, breathless.
“I’m having breakfast,” I murmur back, kissing down her throat.
She laughs, breath hitching when my lips find a sensitive spot.
“Eggs are burning,” she gasps.
I turn, swear loudly, and yank the pan off the burner while she’s giggling behind me.
“See?” she teases. “Distraction.”
“The best kind,” I answer, kissing her forehead because I can’t not touch her.
We sit at the counter, plates of slightly charred eggs between us. I keep catching her looking at me like she’s afraid I’ll disappear. The truth is I’m terrified of the same thing.
When the plates are mostly clean, and she’s teased me relentlessly about my “culinary crimes”, I finally ask the question I’ve been chewing on all morning.
