SIXTY-FOUR
JORDIE
The kitchen’s clean.
The diffuser’s on.
The lights are low.
Steam curls against the glass as I shower, misting the room in a kind of calm I haven’t felt in weeks. I close my eyes and tilt my face into the water. The ache in my shoulders begins to loosen, and I breathe easier.
It’s quiet in that way only water can make things quiet—like nothing else exists. Just the hiss of the spray. My breath. And his voice, still lodged somewhere under my ribs.
I’m staying.
Not a declaration.
It was something gentler. Just his presence. Willingness.
He’s staying. He’s choosing this place, this life, this me . . . with all its flaws and small-town mundanity.
And the thought that his happiness is here, in Townsville, so close to me, knots something delicate in my chest.
Because Callum didn’t just come back.
He came home.
I sigh, shut off the water. Step onto the mat, towel my hair with slow, distracted motions. Dry off. Pull on my nightie, still blinking at the quiet, impossible wonder of it.
Then I hear a knock. Another. Three more. Quick, uneven.
I throw on a robe and rush to the door, peering through the peephole.
My heart stumbles.
I open the door.
“Callum?” My voice barely clears the air. “What are you—”
He lifts the book between us, eyes locked on mine.
“Do you still want to walk away?” His voice is steady, but I can feel the fight it took to get it there.
My mouth is dry, but the answer is easy. “No.” My fingers tighten around the edge of the door. “Never.”
He breathes once. Then again. Nods like something inside him just gave way.
His next words are quieter. “Is the rest still true?”
I could laugh. Could dodge. Could fall back into old habits.
But I don’t.
“Yes,” I say.
And then again, because he needs to hear it. Because I need to say it.
“Yes . . . I love you.”
And one more time, like a vow. Certain. Unshakable.
“I love you, Callum Han.”