Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Callum
I wake with my face tucked against the side of Angus’s neck, his arm draped across my waist like it was always meant to be there.
The room is warm and dim, still smelling faintly of cedar, laundry soap, and something distinctly Angus.
His breathing is slow, steady, and his hold on me doesn’t slacken even as I start to stir.
I don’t need to see a clock. My body knows. It’s nearly seven. I should move. But God, I don’t want to.
My thighs ache in the best kind of way, still tingling from where his beard scraped and teased—every flick of his tongue, every soft growl against my skin etched into memory.
We’d kissed like it meant something, like we were starved for it.
And in the middle of the night, half asleep and still wrapped around each other, we’d fumbled our way into more—hands sliding, mouths finding each other in the dark, soft grunts and laughter and whispered “God, you feel so good,” until we both went still again.
It was, in a word, perfect.
But my chest’s already buzzing with that familiar tension. That itch. I have to run. Not because I want to leave—not even close—but because not running feels like forgetting something. Ignoring a promise.
I shift gently, trying not to wake him. Of course I fail.
His voice is soft and scratchy behind me. “You okay?”
I hesitate. “Yeah,” I whisper. “Just… I need to go.”
There’s a pause. His arm slips away. “Go? You’re leaving?” The disappointment in his voice is quiet but unmistakable.
I sit up slowly, rubbing a hand over my face. “I just…. It’s Saturday. I don’t work today, but I always run at seven.”
Angus props himself up on one elbow, blanket slipping low across his hips. He’s rumpled and warm-looking, beard tousled, a crease across his cheek from the pillow. The picture of contentment. I hate the way his expression shifts. Not angry. Just confused. Maybe a little hurt.
“Can’t you skip it? Just this once?”
I shake my head, tugging my shirt over my head.
“I wish I could. It’s not just a habit.” I glance over my shoulder at him, suddenly needing to explain.
Not for justification, but because I really think this could be the start of something important.
“My uncle got me into it,” I say quietly.
“He used to live down here before he passed. When I was a kid, we’d run together every morning.
Same route. Didn’t matter the weather. We didn’t even talk that much while we did it—it was just… our thing. His way of being present.”
Angus sits up more fully, listening.
“I came out to him first. Before anyone. He made it feel okay to be who I was. Safe. He was… everything. And now, when I run, I feel closer to him. Like he’s still here.
” My throat tightens. I breathe through it.
“He died nine years ago. Cancer. It was fast. Cruel. But I still run. I still show up at seven.”
Angus doesn’t say anything right away. Just nods slowly, like he’s letting every word settle. “That makes sense,” he says finally, his voice softer than before. “I’m glad you told me.”
I blow out a slow breath, guilt still coiled in my gut.
“It’s not that I want to leave you, Angus.
God, last night was… everything. But not running?
It would feel like losing him all over again.
” I hold my breath, waiting for his response.
Sure, he said he understood, but when I’ve shared this much in the past, I’ve been left to feel like I’m being dramatic and over the top with my level of dedication.
He reaches out and takes my hand. “Then go,” he says gently. “Run. I’ll still be here when you get back. If you want to come back here?”
He phrases it like a question, and my chest cracks open a little. I lean in, pressing a lingering kiss to his mouth—slow and grounding. “Thank you,” I murmur. “I definitely want to come back. How about I pick up breakfast, and then we can take the dogs out after?”
He smiles against my lips. “Sounds good.” He kisses me again. “And don’t trip. That’d really ruin the vibe.”
I laugh, squeezing his hand once before I dress, slip out of the room, then head home to change.
Once I’m in my running gear, I step outside.
The sun’s just starting to rise as I hit the pavement, the air cool against my skin, the streets still quiet except for the distant hum of traffic and a few early risers walking dogs or unlocking storefronts.
My strides are steady, familiar. This route’s like an old friend—each sidewalk crack, each turn, each stretch of trail committed to muscle memory. I don’t run for speed. Never have. I run to feel.
It’s a ritual. A way to remember my uncle, sure, but also the one thing that’s always brought me back to myself. The rhythm of my breath, the pounding of my feet, the burn in my calves—it strips everything else away. Helps the clutter in my head go quiet.
This morning, though, the silence doesn’t last long.
Because every time my mind stills, he’s there.
Angus. Sleep-ruffled. Warm and sprawled in bed.
The scent of cedar still clinging to his sheets.
The way his fingers threaded through mine without hesitation.
The sound he made when I kissed the hollow of his throat.
The way he looked at me like I wasn’t just wanted but also safe.
God.
My body pushes forward, muscle and instinct carrying me along the familiar curve of the trail, but my thoughts drift back to his arms around me in the middle of the night.
To the softness of his voice when I told him about my uncle.
The fact that he got it—didn’t question it, didn’t push me. Just… held space for it.
Held space for me.
I smile to myself, slowing just a little as I hit the halfway point.
Normally, I’d keep going. Push the full loop.
Let the run wring me out until I feel centered again.
But this morning? I already feel balanced.
So instead of looping back around, I cut it short.
Slow to a walk as I reach the street again, then double back toward the small burrito spot on the corner.
It’s a hole-in-the-wall, open early, and always smells like heaven.
A few minutes later, I’m standing at the counter, sweat still cooling on the back of my neck, watching the woman behind the register wrap two burritos in foil like they’re precious artifacts.
“Extra hot sauce?” she asks.
“Absolutely,” I say.
By the time I’m walking up to Angus’s sister’s house, the sun’s climbed higher, casting soft gold over the sidewalk.
The house is quiet from the outside, but I can already picture it inside—Mopey howling at a shadow, Cookie stealing a sock, and Angus blinking blearily in the kitchen, probably shirtless, hair sticking up like he lost a fight with a pillow.
And suddenly, I can’t wait to see him. Not just because of last night, but because there’s something about him—something honest and solid and good—that makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, I could stop running so hard. Or at least start sharing the trail.
I knock gently, burritos in hand, heart beating steadily.
Let’s see what the morning brings.
It’s been two weeks. Fourteen days of daily walks with Angus and his beagle battalion. Seven shared dinners—sometimes takeout, sometimes something cobbled together in Ally’s cheerful too-many-tea-towels kitchen. A few slow mornings. A lot of kisses.
It’s… a lot. To an outsider, maybe even too much. But somehow, it doesn’t feel rushed. It just feels right.
We talk about everything and nothing. He’s funny, thoughtful, always game to try my weird smoothie experiments, and he’s surprisingly soft about the dogs—even Cranky, though he’ll never admit it.
Spending time with him has become the best part of my day.
A rhythm I didn’t know I’d been craving until I experienced it.
Still, I don’t stay over every night. As tempting as it is to fall asleep beside him every time, it’s not his house.
It feels wrong to turn Ally’s space into ours when it’s not meant to be that. So I’ve been pacing myself.
Letting it build.
Letting us become something.
This morning, I’m sitting at an outside table at a coffee shop with Tom, who is possibly the only person alive who can see straight through me in under five seconds. He’s sipping a cortado and watching me over the rim of the cup like I’m a new species.
“You’ve been off the grid,” he says. “I was starting to think you got abducted by aliens. Or joined a cult.”
I smirk. “You’re not entirely wrong.”
“Oh?”
“Not aliens. Dogs.”
His eyebrows rise. “Go on.”
I tell him everything. The dog-sitting. The chaotic beagles. The big, bearded mountain of a man who showed up in my life like some kind of cinnamon-scented lumberjack fantasy. The burritos. The hand-holding. The sleep-mussed kisses and mornings that feel far too easy.
Tom listens, then grins. “So… you’re into him.”
“I’m so into him,” I admit, the words slipping out easier than expected.
He leans back with a pleased sigh. “God, finally. I was worried you’d get buried in spreadsheets and die alone surrounded by twelve senior dachshunds.”
I smile, thinking about the numerous foster dogs I’ve cared for over the years. “Honestly, I’d still consider that a decent backup plan.”
He laughs, nudging my ankle with his foot under the table. “You’re glowing, Callum. It looks good on you.”
I shrug, but I’m smiling. I don’t bother denying it.
Tom stirs the last of his coffee and squints at me. “So… where’s your head at with all this?”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he says, pointing his spoon at me like a weapon of truth, “this sounds great. Too great. Like, dangerously stable. And you—no offense—don’t usually do stable. Not like this.”
I laugh even though the truth of it stings a little. “That’s fair.”
“So?” he presses. “Is this just a fling? Or are you actually—God forbid—catching feelings?”