3. Aurélie
I stayed with Callum until his breathing evened out. One hand curled around mine, his face half buried in my thigh. Occasionally, his fingers twitched like they were still reaching for me, even in sleep.
I sat there for a long time, stroking his hair and whispering in French. Just soft things, nonsense, really. But my voice soothed him, and maybe, selfishly, it soothed me too.
Tu me manques. Tu es mon c?ur. Tu n’es pas seul.
You’re missing from me. You are my heart. You are not alone.
When I was sure he was asleep, I gently pried myself away, setting his hand on the blanket and brushing a kiss to his temple.
And then I got to work.
His flat was a fucking mess. Not the endearing kind, and certainly not the man cave disaster you ignore because the sex is good. This was full blown post-crash wreckage.
Laundry was on the bathroom floor, a half-eaten protein bar on the counter.
His bags were open with clothes strewn across his room.
Medical papers were stacked on the kitchen table along with prescription bottles and ice packs.
One of his hoodies was stained with blood, still sitting by the front door.
It gutted me.
I started with the small things. I tossed the towels in the washer, picked up his clothes, folded the ones that were clean.
Repacked the things he wouldn’t need until Austria, even if he wasn't cleared to travel by next week.
Then I set his suitcase and duffel bag in his massive walk-in closet that I was insanely envious of.
I prepped some meals for him using ingredients I was surprised he had that were actually fresh.
Threw out the takeout containers, wiped down the counters, organized his tea collection alphabetically—for no real reason on that last one other than its state of disarray stressed me out.
My phone buzzed the entire time.
Every few seconds, there was another ping, another name, another reminder that I had interviews to prep for, a press team losing their shit, and a full schedule back in Paris that I had no business ignoring.
Ivy was going to kill me if I didn't answer her texts soon.
Still, I silenced it, set it down on the couch, and kept folding.
It helped calm the part of myself that was screaming for time to stop, because this wasn’t a forever gesture.
This was triage. I wasn’t building a life here; I was trying to keep the person I loved from falling apart when I walked out that door.
I washed the bloodstains off his clothes as if it would cleanse the memory of the crash, as though I could scrub hard enough to forget how I thought he was dead. But I couldn’t launder away the truth—I had one foot out the door already. Not because I wanted to leave, but because I had no choice.
I moved through his kitchen like a woman on borrowed time. I split the soup I’d made earlier into containers. Made a light pasta with lemon oil and put a smoothie in the door of the fridge. I grabbed a pen and a sticky note from the drawer and scribbled quickly:
Eat & Rest
– Chicken & rice soup: 2 minutes, stir, 30 seconds more
– Pasta with lemon & parsley oil: Cold is fine, warm is better
– Protein smoothie is in the door. Drink it. No arguments.
PS: Drink water. Even if you're not thirsty. Especially then. Don't be an idiot.
Je t'aime.
– A
I stuck it to the fridge and then I showered in his guest bathroom.
Finally I got to rinse the travel, the tears, the fucking race off my skin.
I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time.
After a while I wrapped my hair in one of his towels, trying to figure out how I could feel so heavy and weightless at once.
I crept back into the bedroom with an armful of freshly folded laundry. His t-shirts, his sweats, his lucky hoodie. My favorite jeans of his that hugged his thighs and sat just right over the dress boots he liked to wear.
I blinked, wondering when I'd noticed that about him.
I placed his lucky hoodie gently on the chair by his bed, praying that some semblance of luck would speed up his recovery time. Then I turned to look at the man I loved.
Callum hadn’t moved much. One hand was still resting on his chest, the other reaching across the mattress to where I’d sat earlier, as if he was reaching for me even in sleep.
I sat on the edge of the bed and reached to tidy up the stack of compression wraps on the nightstand.
But then his phone lit up on the charger beside it.
Mum – Calling...
I froze. She was probably worried. I wondered what that was like. My parents had never seemed too concerned when I crashed. So I answered, because I hoped I could lend some semblance of comfort to her.
“Hello?”
There was a pause. Then a thick Scottish accent cut through the line like a wind rolling off the North Sea. “Och! That’s not my Callum. Who is this? Where’s my boy?”
I blinked. Right. I hadn't thought this part through. “This is Aurélie. I’m… with him. He’s resting.”
Another pause. Then a breath that sounded a little like hope. “Aurélie. Dubois? The girl who fought like hell to get to him after that horrific crash? The one he wouldn’t stop goin’ on about for months?”
Heat rushed up my neck. “Yes. That’s me.”
“Don’t you yes me,” she said, voice cracking. “Thank God. I’ve been calling. He texted once— once —saying he was fine. But you tell me the truth, lass. How bad is it?”
I shifted, curling one leg up on the bed, and lowered my voice so I wouldn’t wake him. “He’s hurting. The concussion seems bad. His ribs are bruised and he's got whiplash. I don't think he's eating much, but I prepped some meals for him. He’s resting now after I forced him to.”
“You love him?” she asked, blunt as hell. Well, now I see where he got that from.
I didn’t hesitate. “Oui.”
She sighed in relief. “Good. Because he’s a nightmare when he’s like this. But if anyone can handle him, it’s you.”
“He’s not as difficult as he thinks he is.”
She laughed quietly. “You’re already halfway to marrying him if you believe that.”
I smiled down at him, still fast asleep. “I’ll make sure he calls you when he wakes up.”
“You better. And Aurélie?”
“Oui?”
“Thank you. For loving him. For trying to get to him.”
My heart splintered. “It’s not hard to love him. It’s just painful sometimes.”
She made a soft sound that felt like a hug down the receiver.
“Sounds like love to me.” Then she laughed, and it reminded me so much of his that I looked down at him with tears in my eyes.
I couldn't wait for him to come back to me. "You already know what that stubborn wee shit’s like when he’s injured.
Doesn't want anyone to see him suffer. Doesn’t ask for help. But he always needed someone like you.”
Wee. God, that was adorable. I remembered when he said that to me, and he sounded so fucking Scottish that my heart—and my lady parts, too—had melted. That was back when I thought we were both invincible, though.
I swallowed hard. “I needed him, too.”
His mum sniffled. “Aye, well. That makes two of us. Take care of him, love. And if he doesn’t text me back when he wakes up, I’m takin’ the next flight to Monaco and draggin’ his arse out the bed myself.”
We hung up, and I stared at the phone a second longer before setting it back on the charger.
I had less than an hour before I needed to leave. I ran to the guest room to get ready. When I emerged, I was in in clean jeans and a tight bodysuit—the last fucking thing I wanted to wear right now—a full face of makeup, and my hair blow-dried.
I dug into my bag for the little black tin I always kept tucked in the side pocket.
The label had rubbed off, but the scent hit me like home.
It was my family’s lavender balm, hand-whipped and packed with chamomile, arnica, and a few secrets only our family knew.
We'd bottled it ourselves—one of the few Dubois formulas we never sold to the public.
I grabbed the sticky notepad from the kitchen before walking back to the bedroom.
He was still asleep, snoring softly when I eased the covers down.
A goofy grin spread across my face, despite the heavy feelings looming over me.
I knelt beside him, careful not to jostle the mattress as I moved his hoodie off his neck.
Then I twisted the lid open and dipped my fingers into the soft balm.
Working the balm into the side of his neck with slow, gentle strokes, I felt that magnetic pull to him blossoming inside me, rising into a painful yearning.
His skin was warm under my touch, just like always.
I could feel tension still wound tight in his muscles, the aftermath of the pain and duress he'd been put through.
He didn't want me to see him like this. My chest ached at the thought as I pressed the lavender into his skin, fighting the tears that never seemed to stop.
Only when I finished did I reach for a sticky note to scribble a message to him.
We make this at home. It’s a family secret. It'll help. Rub gently on ribs, shoulders, and neck. Twice a day, after a hot shower if you can. Don’t skip it. Let it soak in. Let me take care of you for once. I know you hate rest, but I need you whole.
– Your girl
I stuck it on the lid of the tin and set it gently on his nightstand.
Then, as I leaned over to wake him, I paused.
He looked small. He never looked small. He always held himself tall and confident, a proud champion who'd come from nothing.
My larger-than-life idol now lay broken before me.
It wrecked me. How could I leave him like this?
Except I had to. I had to go be the woman who screamed into microphones and demanded better. The one who had to make the noise and burn the legacy of silence to the fucking ground.
I knelt on the bed once more and ran a hand over his cheek. “Callum,” I whispered, just loud enough for his lashes to flutter. "My love, I have to leave."
“Mmmph.” He stirred. “No. Stay.”
My heart cracked. “I need to go.”
He cracked one eye open. “Just got you back…”
I leaned in and kissed him—soft and slow. But when I pulled back, his hand slid up to cup my breast, gently. Possessively.
My lips parted and I giggled softly. “Callum.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, sleep-drunk and needy. “Missed you. Want you everywhere.”
I laughed softly. “You can have me when you’re awake and able to breathe without pain, mon amour.”
He smiled. “Okay, love.”
“I’ll be back.”
“I know.”
If he clung to me again, I wouldn’t be able to go.
If he asked me to stay one more time, I might.
And then what? Lose the momentum? Delay the interviews?
Risk the plan I’d already set in motion?
I’d always been able to choose my career, my next step, but for the first time, I wanted someone more than I wanted control.
I forced myself to my feet and wandered down the hall to grab my bag before popping my head into his room for one last look, one last whisper even though he was sleeping.
“I love you.”
Because this was the love before the war, the breath before the scream, the balm before the blade.
And I was about to set the world on fire.