Chapter 7 #3
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."
"Easier said than done."
"Most worthwhile things are."
He studied me. In the low light, his eyes looked more blue than gray, and I was acutely aware of how close we were. How thin his t-shirt was. How my borrowed clothes carried his scent and I'd been breathing it in all night.
"Will you play for me?" I asked.
"Willow—"
"Just one song. Anything. I promise I won't critique."
"You critique everything."
"I'll make an exception. Temporary amnesty for piano performances at 2 a.m."
He hesitated. I watched the war play out across his face—the wanting and the fear and the years of telling himself this didn't matter.
Then he lifted the cover.
His fingers found the keys, and he started to play.
The melody was unfamiliar—classical, I thought, but I didn't know enough to place it. What I knew was that it was beautiful. Rusty, like he'd said. Imperfect. His fingers stumbled over passages they'd once known by heart. But underneath the rust was skill, and underneath the skill was joy.
He'd missed this. I could see it in the way his shoulders loosened. The way his breathing changed. The way his eyes half-closed as muscle memory took over.
When the last note faded, neither of us spoke.
"That was beautiful," I said.
"That was sloppy."
"Both can be true."
He closed the cover, but his hands stayed on the wood. "I haven't done that in years."
"How did it feel?"
He considered the question. "Like remembering who I used to be."
"Is that a good thing?"
"I'm not sure yet."
We sat there, side by side on the piano bench, the city glittering below us. My shoulder pressed against his arm. His thigh lined up with mine. Every point of contact felt electric.
"Callum," I said.
"Yes?"
"I should go back to bed."
"You should."
"I'm not going to sleep."
"Neither am I."
I turned my head. Found him already looking at me, his face inches away, his eyes searching mine for permission or refusal or answers neither of us had.
"This is a bad idea," I breathed.
"The worst."
"We should—"
"We should."
But neither of us moved. The pull was too strong, the space between us too charged. I could feel the heat radiating off him, could see the pulse jumping in his throat, could—
His phone buzzed.
We jerked apart.
He grabbed it from the coffee table, frowning at the screen. "It's your building super."
"At 2 a.m.? How did he get your number?"
"I pulled some strings. Made some calls." He scanned the message. "Text says the water's been shut off but your apartment will be inaccessible for a week while they do the repairs. 'Sorry for the inconvenience.'" Callum's voice was dry. "He put it in quotes."
The spell was broken. Reality came flooding back—my flooded apartment, my temporary displacement, the careful boundaries we kept almost crossing.
"I'm truly homeless," I said, stricken. "What am I going to do?"
"You're not homeless, Willow. The guest bedroom is yours as long as you need."
He meant it. I could see the genuine offer in his gaze and I didn't know how to feel about it.
Instead, I rose. "I'm going to try and get some sleep." I'd figure things out in a few hours. Current events were messing with my head and I couldn't be trusted to make the right decision right now. "Goodnight, Callum."
"Goodnight, Willow."
Morning came with the smell of coffee and the uncomfortable awareness that I'd agreed to live with Callum Hayes for a week.
I found him in the kitchen, already dressed in one of his immaculate suits, pouring from a French press into two cups. He slid one across the island as I shuffled in, still wearing his clothes, hair a disaster.
"Sleep okay?" he asked.
"Eventually. You?"
"Eventually."
We didn't mention the piano. Didn't mention how close we'd come to kissing before his phone intervened. Didn't mention the fact that we'd be repeating this strange domestic dance for the next seven days.
"I need to get to stop by my apartment and grab some clothes,” I said. “I can’t go to work in your sweats and t-shirt.”
"I can drop you by your building on my way to the office. You can grab what you need."
“You don’t need to do that. I can drive. I don’t want to disrupt your schedule.”
“If that’s what you want to do,” he said. “But it would be just as easy to ride together seeing as we’re temporary roommates.”
Silence stretched between us, loaded with all the things we weren't saying.
"Willow."
"Yeah?"
He paused, coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “It’s probably a good idea to talk about our new living situation. Ground rules, and such.”
Right. Because we were two adults who'd almost kissed twice and were now sharing living space. Because the lines of our fake relationship kept blurring into territory neither of us had mapped. Because a week was a long time to pretend we didn't want things we'd agreed not to want.
"Okay," I said. "You go."
"No entering each other's bedrooms without knocking."
"Obviously."
"Bathroom schedules. I shower at six. You can have it after."
"I'm at the shop by five-thirty most days. I'll shower before you're up."
"That works." He took a sip of coffee, avoiding my eyes. "And... whatever almost happened last night. At the piano."
"Nothing happened."
"Almost happened," he corrected. "We should probably not let it almost happen again."
"Agreed." The word tasted like a cracker without salt. "Platonic."
"Exactly."
I nodded, gripping my coffee cup too hard. This was sensible. This was smart. This was absolutely the right call for two people who had an expiration date built into their arrangement.
So why did it feel like disappointment?
"Great," I said, too brightly. "Boundaries established. No bedroom-entering, no bathroom conflicts, no almost-kissing. Should be a breeze."
He shot me a look that suggested he heard the sarcasm I wasn't quite hiding. "Ready to go?"
"Let me put on pants that actually fit first."
I retreated to the guest room, dug through my bag of salvaged clothes, and found jeans that were only slightly damp. Good enough. I changed, finger-combed my hair into something resembling presentable, and rejoined Callum by the door.
The elevator ride down was silent. The drive to my building was silent. The walk through my waterlogged apartment—grabbing clothes, toiletries, the charger I'd forgotten—was silent except for the squelch of carpet under our feet.
"This is worse than I thought," Callum said, surveying the damage.
"Yeah, well. Welcome to vintage charm." I stuffed another handful of clothes into my bag. "The structural integrity is questionable and the ceiling leaks, but at least the rent is... also questionable, actually."
"You could find somewhere better."
"With what money?"
He didn't answer. Just watched me with that unreadable expression, catching details I probably didn't want him noticing.
"I'm fine," I said. "This is temporary. Everything's temporary."
I didn't mean for it to sound loaded. But his jaw tightened, and I knew he'd heard the double meaning.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Ready."
He dropped me at Brew & Bean ten minutes later, idling at the curb.
"I'll get you a key today,” he said. "If you need anything—"
"I'll figure it out. I'm very resourceful."
"I know you are." A pause. "Willow."
I turned back, one foot already on the sidewalk. "Yeah?"
"Thank you. For last night. The piano." He wasn't looking at me, eyes fixed on the steering wheel. "It's been a long time since anyone asked me to play."
My chest did something complicated. "Anytime."
I shut the door before I could say something stupid. Watched him pull away, his car disappearing into morning traffic, and tried to remember what my life had looked like before Callum Hayes started showing up in every corner of it.
Seven days. Seven days of sharing his space, eating his cooking, pretending we were just business partners with an expiration date.
Seven days of not almost-kissing him at 2 a.m.
I was so screwed.