Collide

Chapter 25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

ROSE

The car is quiet as Callum’s hand rests on the gear stick, the veins on his forearm catching the faint orange light from the dashboard. His jaw is tight, unreadable. The wipers squeak against the glass as rain taps a steady rhythm on the windshield.

I glance at him, then back out at the blurred city lights. “I saw her leaving,” I say softly. “Talia.”

His hand tightens slightly. “Yeah?”

“She looked… furious.”

“She was.” His tone is flat, but his eyes flick to me, softening for a moment before returning to the road. “It’s done now. It needed to be. She left knowing the truth.”

I want to ask what she said. But the exhaustion in his shoulders tells me not to. Instead, I reach across the console and let my fingers rest over his. It’s small but he exhales as if he’s been holding his breath for an hour. He flips his hand, linking our fingers together, palm to palm.

We don’t speak again until he pulls into a space outside my building. It’s embarrassing. Cheap student flats stacked like cardboard boxes, one flickering security light, and a door that always jams unless you kick it twice. His fancy SUV looks like it’s made a wrong turn.

I can feel his frown before he even says anything. “This is where you live?”

“Temporarily.” I try to sound casual, but it comes out defensive. “It’s not that bad.”

He cuts the engine and turns toward me, one arm resting along the back of my seat. “Rose, the paint’s peeling off the windows.”

“Adds character,” I shrug on a smile.

“The kind of character that breeds mould.”

I roll my eyes, but my heart flips at how concerned he sounds. “Not all of us live in team housing, Prince Charming.”

“Correction,” he says, lips twitching. “Temporary team housing. It’s basically a glorified hotel room with a better fridge.” He grins, the tension finally cracking, and something warm settles in my chest. “Come back with me.”

My pulse skips. “To your flat?”

He nods, unbothered. “It’s closer than this, and I’m not leaving you here alone in this… haunted shoebox.”

“It’s not haunted.”

He gestures at the flickering light outside. “It’s auditioning to be.”

I try to keep my face stern, but laughter escapes. “You’re impossible.”

“Persistent,” he corrects, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch lingers. “Please. Just tonight.”

It’s the “please” that gets me. Not the protective tone, not even the grin, just the sincerity beneath it. “Okay,” I whisper. “But I’ll need to run inside and grab some things.”

“Okay, you need me to come with you?” he asks, still weighing up the possibility of ghosts hiding inside.

“Nah. I’ll be two minutes.” Actually, it takes me almost ten minutes to grab a few things and shove them into an overnight bag. But when I reappear his smile is small but real, and he pulls away from the curb, heading back toward his temporary flat near the training complex.

The warmth hits as soon as we step inside. It still smells faintly of his morning coffee and aftershave. A few things have changed since last time I was here, one of his is hoodies is draped over the sofa, and a new coffee mug sits on the counter, but it’s still neat and methodical.

He glances over his shoulder as I slip my boots off. “You know the drill, kick off your shoes, ignore the hockey gear, and pretend I’m a functioning adult.”

I laugh. “You make it sound like this place is a mess.”

“It is,” he says, dropping his keys on the counter. “Controlled mess though.”

“More like aggressively tidy,” I tease, running my fingers along the back of the sofa. “I swear, you rearranged the cushions since last time.”

He crosses the room, closing the distance between us with that calm, deliberate stride that always does ridiculous things to my heartbeat. “Maybe I was trying to impress you.”

“Mission accomplished,” I say, smiling.

He leans in slightly, eyes glinting. “I didn’t hear you say that last time.”

“That’s because last time you were too busy kissing me against the wall.”

His grin turns wicked, and it makes my stomach flip. “Ah. Right. Priorities.”

“Clearly.”

The air purrs with that familiar pull that feels dangerous and inevitable all at once. He steps even closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him, and my breath catches before I can help it.

“Still think it’s too tidy?” he asks, voice low, teasing.

“Maybe a little,” I whisper. “But you make up for it.”

He’s still damp from the rink, hair slightly curled from the humidity, his black T-shirt stretched across his chest. He looks down at me like he’s trying to read a language he’s only just learning.

“Tea?” he asks eventually, breaking the tension.

I grin. “You’re very British about your emotions.”

“I’m trying to be polite.”

“Polite doesn’t usually sound that dangerous.”

He laughs then and the sound fills the flat in a way that makes something inside me loosen.

He moves to the kitchen, busying himself with mugs and the kettle. I watch the way he moves, it’s careful and measured, like he’s constantly fighting the urge to take up more space than he’s allowed. When he sets the mugs down, steam curling in the air, he hesitates. “You hungry?”

I blink. “A bit.”

“Good. Because I’m starving.”

He pulls out his phone. “Takeout?”

“What kind?”

“Dealer’s choice. But if you say salad, we’re breaking up before we even start.”

I laugh. “You don’t like greens?”

“Not unless they come with cheese and regret.”

I scroll through options, finally landing on Thai. “Pad Thai?”

“Perfect.”

By the time the food arrives, the tension from earlier has melted into something easy. We eat cross-legged, sharing containers, laughing when he tries to steal all the spring rolls.

“So,” I say, picking a stray noodle from the table. “What now?”

He pauses mid-bite. “Now as in…?”

“As in us. You and me.”

He leans back on his hands, studying me. “You tell me.”

I chew my lip, thinking. “I don’t know. Everything’s been kind of… fast.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to rush you.”

“It’s not that.” I meet his eyes. “It’s just I wasn’t planning on falling for anyone, especially not a pro hockey player.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. “Okay. But for the record, I wasn’t planning this either.” His tone shifts, soft but sure. “When I’m with you, it feels easy. I can breathe again.”

My chest tightens. “You mean that?”

He nods. “Yeah. I do.” He reaches across the table, tilting my chin up gently. “You make me want to be better, Rose.”

Something in his voice feels honest. It undoes me completely.

I lean in before I can stop myself, and he meets me halfway.

The kiss is slow this time, softer than the ones before.

It’s not about hunger, it’s about promise.

His hand finds the back of my neck, thumb stroking lightly.

When we finally pull apart, I can barely breathe.

“That was…” I start.

He smiles. “Yeah.”

We sit there, quiet except for the sound of the water gurgling in the radiator and the rain against the window.

After a while, he stands, stretching. “I want you to stay tonight, if you want to. Spare room’s made up.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s awfully polite for a man who kissed me like that.”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m trying to be a gentleman. For once.”

I grin. “You’re doing a terrible job, considering all the things we did on this couch the last time I was here.”

“Good,” he says, stepping close again, voice low. “Because I don’t want to be polite with you.”

My pulse flutters, but I shake my head. “You’re dangerous, Callum Fraser.”

He grins. “You say that like it’s news.” He kisses me again, deeper this time, but still controlled and just enough to remind me that he’s holding back. And that I’m glad he is. Because I want to feel it properly, whatever this is.

He’s standing close enough that I can feel his breath when he speaks. “Rose.” Just my name, but it hits hard. The air thickens with all the things neither of us is saying. His eyes flick down to my mouth, then back up again. I can feel the pull of him.

“Are you going to keep looking at me like that?” I whisper, my voice unsteady and teasing just to hide how hard my pulse is hammering.

He smiles faintly, that slow, crooked grin that’s half trouble, half worship. “Can’t help it.”

I take a step nearer, and the heat from his body wraps around mine. My fingers find the hem of his hoodie, tugging just slightly. “You could try.”

He laughs under his breath, but it dies quickly when I press my hand flat against his chest. His heart beats hard beneath my palm. Mirroring mine. “Callum,” I breathe out.

That’s all it takes.

His hand slides into my hair, his other finding my waist and pulling me flush against him. The first kiss is hungry, the kind that steals all sense. His mouth moves over mine as though he’s been waiting for this since the second he saw me.

I sink into him, my fingers curling in his hoodie, tugging him closer until there’s no space left. His breath catches as I nip at his bottom lip, and he groans, the sound vibrates against my skin.

He backs me gently toward the sofa, hands roaming.

My knees hit the edge and we tumble together, laughter spilling out between kisses that turn into something else, something unstoppable.

Every touch feels like a question he’s answering with his body: Are you sure?

Are you here? Do you want this as much as I do? And I am. I do.

When his forehead rests against mine, both of us breathing hard, he whispers, “Tell me to stop.”

I shake my head, fingers tracing his jaw. “Never.”

He exhales. Then he kisses me again, slower, every movement threaded with emotion. His hands trail up my back, over my ribs, drawing soft gasps from me that he swallows. The room fades away. There’s only the warmth of him and the slow steady beat of his heart against mine.

He lifts me effortlessly, carries me through the dim apartment to his bedroom, his lips never leaving mine.

I catch a glimpse of the city lights through the window before he sets me down.

The shedding of clothes happens fast and I drag him down on top of me.

The need to feel his skin on mine is intense.

He reaches over to the drawer and pulls out a condom.

Once he’s sheathed, he looks to me for permission to carry on and, with a brief nod, it’s granted.

The rest blurs into heat and motion as he slides inside me on a whisper of my name.

It’s a moment that feels endless.

When it’s over, he stays wrapped around me, chest rising and falling against my back, his hand tracing lazy circles on my hip. His breath steadies, slows. Sleep tugs at him fast.

I lie there in the dark, wide awake, my body still humming, my heart still racing.

And when I finally reach for my phone, the screen’s glow feels almost violent against the silence.

I shift carefully, easing my phone from the nightstand so I don’t wake him.

I scroll mindlessly until a notification stops me cold.

Talia.

Her name floods the screen in a dozen reposts and tags. A photo of her and Callum, which is months old, back when she still had her claws in him, flashes across my feed. She’s laughing in the picture, hand on his chest, his head tilted toward hers. The caption makes my stomach drop.

Some people forget where they came from. Don’t worry, I don’t.

The comments are worse. Some assuming she’s fighting for him. Others saying I’m the reason they broke up. Of course they have no idea who I am, just that they’ve seen a new face at the rink who’s been following him around like a puppy, taking photos of him and the other guys.

My fingers go numb around the phone. Then I get another notification from Instagram.

Funny how fast some people move on. Some girls don’t mind being a rebound.

The photo attached is of the rink. And in the background, barely visible, is me. My chest tightens. I don’t know how she got it, or who she paid, but I can feel the threat beneath the caption like a blade glinting under soft light. The fairy tale’s not done with the villain yet.

I swallow hard and lock my phone, heart pounding. He doesn’t deserve this. Not after everything. I could wake him, tell him what she’s doing, but the thought makes something twist in my chest. He’s finally resting, after weeks of tension, and all the confrontation and noise.

So, I lie there instead, staring into the dark, listening to the rain tapping against the window.

His arm tightens around me unconsciously, as if his body knows not to let go.

I should tell him. Tomorrow, maybe. When it’s not so raw.

When I can say it without my voice shaking.

But for now, I stay still, his heartbeat against my back, the storm building quietly beyond the walls.

Talia isn’t finished.

And I have a feeling this peace won’t last.