Chapter 4
I woke to a soft brightness against my eyelids and the faintest flutter in my chest, light, quick, barely there. The kind of thing anyone else would’ve dismissed as nothing.
I’d learned not to dismiss anything.
Still, I didn’t move at first. I stayed on my side of the bed, fingers curled lightly against the sheets, breathing slow until the tightened feeling faded into the background. Not gone, just quiet.
Callum lay beside me, face half-buried in the pillow, hair a complete disaster. Peaceful. Warm. Unbothered. The sight alone made my shoulders drop a little.
I let myself sit up carefully, grounding my feet on the floor, counting the breaths the doctor had told me might help on days I felt “even the smallest twinge.” I could practically hear her voice saying it. Calm, but firm. Like she knew I’d try to ignore things.
I always did.
A soft rustle behind me broke my thoughts.
“Morning already?” Callum’s voice came out warm and gravelly, the way it always did before he fully woke up. He slid a hand across my lower back and tugged me gently until I was leaning into his chest. “You’re up before me. That should be illegal.”
“You were snoring,” I said, which was a lie. He never snored.
“Wow. Slander. Before breakfast.” He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to my shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, and it felt true enough.
He didn’t push, he never did in the first breath of morning. Instead, he wrapped his arms around me for a long, sleepy hug, the kind that made the day feel softer before it even began.
Eventually he got up, stretching like a cat, muttering about needing coffee to survive another meeting-filled day. He dressed, kissed me goodbye twice, once at the door, once when he came back because he “didn’t like the first one”, and disappeared down the hall with a soft, crooked grin.
Then the house quieted.
I moved slowly through the morning sluggishly, but despite taking a break from work I tried to be productive in small ways.
I watered the little potted herbs lined along the kitchen window, our tiny, stubborn attempt at pretending we were adults who could keep plants alive.
I scribbled notes for an idea I’d been mulling over for weeks, a project that hovered between hobby and maybe-someday.
A few times, the tightness in my chest flickered again. Annoying. Sharp for a second, then fading just as quickly. I exhaled, waited it out, and kept going, refusing to let myself spiral or panic.
Just noticing.
Just moving.
By early afternoon, the light had shifted into a softer, warmer shade when the doorbell rang.
I wasn’t expecting anyone.
When I opened the door, his parents stood there, bright smiles, warm eyes, bundled in coats despite the mild weather. His mother held a linen-wrapped basket, her hands cradling it like something precious.
“Ginny, sweetheart,” she said, stepping inside before I could even invite her. She pulled me into her arms immediately, her cheek brushing mine, her perfume familiar and comforting. “We heard you had a checkup recently, so I made you something.”
She handed me the basket. Inside, neatly arranged and impossibly thoughtful, were a variety of herbal teas, a soft throw blanket in pale cream, a lavender heat pack tied with ribbon, and a handwritten note tucked gently between them.
Because we love you. Please take care of yourself. - Mom
My throat tightened.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I said, but she was already cupping my face, kissing my forehead like she had every right to.
“That’s why we did,” she said simply.
His father chimed in from behind her. “If she overworks herself, it’s your fault, son.”
Callum, who’d just stepped inside behind them, held up his hands. “Hey, I literally just got home. Don’t blame me yet!”
“Exactly,” his father teased.
They stayed for a little while, drifting easily around the living room, filling the space with their warm, familiar chatter.
It never felt like hosting with them, not in the exhausting way.
More like being wrapped in a family you didn’t realize you’d been missing until they refused to leave you out.
I sat curled on the edge of the couch with the new throw blanket draped over my lap, listening to them all talk. My chest felt warm. Full. Held.
Eventually, his parents hugged us both goodbye and slipped back out into the afternoon.
The door had barely closed before Callum’s arms slid around my waist from behind, his chin coming to rest on my shoulder.
“You okay?” he murmured.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I leaned into him.
He kissed my temple, slow and sweet, and I melted easily into him.
The house felt calm around us, sunlight drifting through the windows, the new blanket warm in my hands.
It was one of those simple, perfect moments that didn’t need anything more.
He nuzzled the side of my head and said, “How about a movie tonight? Your pick.”
The suggestion settled warmly between us, the kind of small ritual we never seemed to outgrow.
I nodded, and he brushed one last kiss against my cheek before heading toward the kitchen.
“Popcorn?” he called over his shoulder.
“Obviously,” I said, already smiling.
I curled up on the couch with the blanket his parents brought, tucking myself into the corner while he rummaged around for the popcorn bowl.
The scent of butter drifted through the house a few minutes later, and then Callum padded back into the room, popcorn bowl in hand, wearing that easy, familiar smile that always made the space feel fuller.
I grinned back. “Hand it over before I perish.”
He laughed, handed me the popcorn, and flopped down beside me with an exaggerated groan like sitting was a full-body experience. Our knees brushed as he snuggled up beside me and pulled part of the blanket over his lap, his thigh brushing mine.
“What have you picked?” He asked, nudging me lightly.
I scrolled and clicked Erin Brockovich.
“A classic, of course.” I announced.
“Mm,” he said, “you and your courtroom women.”
“Strong female leads,” I corrected.
He held up a hand. “Naturally.”
We settled back together, sharing the blanket. He slung an arm casually behind me, fingers brushing my shoulder now and then, absentminded, familiar, warm.
The opening credits had barely faded when his phone buzzed on the table.
He ignored it.
Buzz.
Still not even a glance.
Buzz.
This time he inhaled, quiet but noticeable, and stood.
“I should… take this,” he said, too casually.
I blinked, surprised but not worried. “Sure.”
He slipped out of the room. His voice drifted faintly from the hallway, too low to understand.
A faint tightness pressed through my chest then, small but insistent. I pressed a hand there, breathing slow until it eased. It always eased. So it couldn’t be anything serious.
By the time he returned, my hand was still resting over my sternum, though the pressure had faded.
The moment he saw me, something sharp flickered through his expression.
“You okay?” he asked, sitting quickly beside me.
“Yeah,” I said. “Just a weird… blip.”
His fingers traced over my wrist, gentle, searching.
“You sure?”
“I promise.”
He didn’t look convinced, but he kissed the top of my head anyway and pulled me closer.
We tried to sink back into the movie, yet something in him kept shifting just beneath the surface.
He adjusted his posture, then did it again.
He sat forward for a breath, then leaned back.
His hand drifted to his phone, thumb brushing the screen before he set it down again.
A quiet sweep of fingers through his hair followed, like his thoughts were tugging at him from somewhere far away.
None of it loud or obvious, just enough to make the space around us feel slightly altered, like a note held a beat too long.
“Hey,” I said lightly, nudging his foot with mine. “You good?”
“Yeah,” he answered. Too quick to sound natural. “I’m good.”
I let it go. For now.
He curled his arm around me again, but there was a thin tension thrumming under his skin, like a wire pulled a little too tight. I leaned into him anyway, resting my head on his shoulder, letting the shape of him calm me the way it always did.
Outside, the sky softened into evening, shadows stretching long across the living room floor.
We stayed like that for a while, tangled together under the blanket. His thumb brushed small circles on my upper arm, familiar and grounding, but every now and then the motion stalled, mid-circle, mid-thought, before he picked it back up again.
The tightness in my chest flickered once more, brief but noticeable. I breathed in and out slowly until it dissolved.
“It’s been a long week,” I murmured, more to myself than him.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It has.”
The tone in his voice made me look up, but he kept his eyes on the movie. Or at least aimed in that direction.
I pressed closer, sliding my hand into his. He squeezed back, warm and steady, but there was something behind the squeeze, some tension I couldn’t name.
Somewhere under all the softness, something was shifting. I didn’t know what, and I didn’t know why. I just knew I could feel it.
I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the rhythm of his breathing guide mine.
But even with his arm around me, even with the blanket warm and his chest solid under my cheek, a single thought drifted through me with quiet certainty:
Something was different. And neither of us had said it out loud yet.