Chapter 34
Dinner was already in motion when I realized how normal everything felt, which was strange considering how long normal had been unavailable to me.
The kitchen was filled with low, domestic sounds, the steady chop of vegetables against the cutting board, the gentle hiss from the pan on the stove, the clink of utensils being set out without urgency.
Nothing dramatic was happening, it was just in our domestic bliss.
Callum stood at the counter across from me, sleeves rolled up, focused on slicing mushrooms with the kind of concentration that suggested he took this task personally. I was washing greens at the sink, letting cool water run over my hands.
“You are glaring at those mushrooms,” I said, glancing over at him.
“They deserve it,” he replied, not looking up. “They know what they did.”
I snorted quietly and shook the water from my hands before reaching for a towel. “You know they are innocent, right.”
“That is what they want you to think,” he said, finally looking at me, eyes serious for half a second before the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
I smiled, then caught myself doing it, and did not stop.
We moved around each other easily, not brushing, not crowding, but close enough that there was awareness without tension. He handed me the bowl when I reached for it, our fingers almost touching, and I felt the echo of the near-contact linger longer than it should have.
“How is your energy?” He asked, casual and careful, as he stirred the pan.
“Good,” I said, checking in with myself honestly before answering. “Steady.”
“Okay, good. I’m glad,” he said, nodding, and adjusted the heat without commentary.
We worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, broken only by small exchanges.
“Did you already salt this?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “But not aggressively.”
“I appreciate the restraint.”
“I am a man of balance.” He said, giving me a smile.
Dinner came together without incident, which felt like its own quiet success. We plated the food and sat at the table across from each other. The light above us was soft, casting familiar shadows.
“This is good,” I said after the first bite.
He nodded. “We make a good team.”
I stopped for a moment to study his face. “Yeah, I think we do.”
We ate slowly, talking about nothing that mattered much, a show he had half-watched at work, a story Thalia had texted me earlier, some small debate about which board game we should try next.
When we finished, he stood to clear the plates before I could offer.
“I can help,” I said, out of habit.
“I know,” he replied. “But you helped already.”
When he came back to the living room, I was already on the couch, tucking my legs under myself and flipping idly through the streaming menu.
“Are you looking for something?” He asked.
“Kind of,” I said, pretending to study the television menu instead of him. “Do you want to watch something with me?”
The question barely left my mouth before his face lit up.
“Yeah,” he said immediately, already moving toward the couch. “I would love to.”
That ease did something to my chest, loosened it, and I smiled as he settled beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him without it being overwhelming.
I scrolled until I found something familiar and unapologetically ridiculous, something that asked nothing of us except attention, and pressed play. The room filled with sound, dialogue spilling out and wrapping around the quiet we had been sharing all evening.
For a few minutes, we watched without talking, our shoulders nearly brushing, the space between us narrow enough to feel intentional. I shifted slightly, getting more comfortable, and noticed how naturally his knee angled toward mine.
“This show is absolutely unhinged,” he said after a particularly absurd moment.
“That is why it is perfect,” I replied. “Low stakes, high nonsense.”
He laughed, a real one, and leaned back into the couch. “I can commit to that.”
I laughed too, and then, without overthinking it, I scooted closer, letting my shoulder rest lightly against his. The contact felt easy, like something we had both been waiting to allow.
He glanced down at me, eyes warm and unmistakably pleased. “Hi,” he said softly, like the closeness itself deserved acknowledgment.
“Hi,” I replied, equally soft, and stayed right where I was.
We settled like that, the show continuing in the background while my awareness stayed firmly rooted in the feel of him beside me, solid and calm and entirely real. His arm rested along the back of the couch, not wrapped around me yet, but close enough that I could feel the promise of it.
“This is nice,” I said, the words slipping out before I could second-guess them.
“It really is,” he said, and there was no hesitation in his voice.
A few moments later, he shifted slightly, angling himself just enough that our sides fit together more comfortably, and when his arm finally curved around my shoulders, it felt natural, like it had always known where it belonged.
I leaned into him and rested my head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath the noise of the show.
He pressed a light kiss into my hair, brief and gentle, and I smiled.
We stayed like that through the rest of the episode, occasionally exchanging quiet commentary, laughing at the same moments, sharing glances that lingered a little longer than necessary. When the credits rolled, neither of us moved, both of us clearly content to stay exactly where we were.
“Another one,” he said, already reaching for the remote.
“Definitely,” I replied, tilting my head up to look at him. “You’re stuck now.”
His smile widened, unmistakably happy. “I can live with that.”
He pressed play, pulled me a little closer, and I settled in, warm and comfortable and quietly certain that whatever we were rebuilding, it was doing exactly what it was supposed to do.
I stayed tucked against him, comfortable enough that my body stopped checking for exits, and the show kept playing without either of us really watching it anymore.
The laughter from the screen faded into background noise, replaced by the quieter awareness of his arm around me, and the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek.
After a few minutes, I spoke without lifting my head. “Can I say something slightly weird?”
He did not tense, and he did not pull back, and that alone felt like an answer before he gave me one. “You usually do,” he said lightly. “So yes.”
I smiled into his shirt, then sighed, the sound longer than it needed to be. “I feel safer lately,” I said, choosing the words carefully and slowly. “And that is really nice, but it is also… unsettling.”
He shifted just enough to look down at me, his hand still resting securely on my shoulder. “Unsettling how?”
“Despite everything that happened, I guess part of me has still been waiting for the other shoe, or maybe a fifth shoe, to drop. Apparently I don’t trust calm yet.” I said, tracing a small, absent shape against his side with my fingers.
“That makes sense,” he said, without hesitation, without trying to fix it. “Life and I certainly haven't been making things easy for you over the last few months.”
“I keep expecting something to come along and prove me right for bracing,” I admitted. “Like if I relax too much, that’s when everything will fall apart.”
“Well,” he said gently, “your brain probably thinks it’s doing a great job protecting you. It just hasn’t realized yet that it can stand down a little. Give yourself a bit more time - you’ve been through a lot, and I am still earning back your trust, brick by brick.”
I huffed a quiet laugh. “I know,” I said, tracing another small shape against his side. “And I see you doing that.”
I paused, then added, a little wryly, “But if we’re being honest, my nervous system has also been running on pure spite for years.”
“That tracks. It has had the odds stacked against it for a while now,” he said dryly.
I tipped my head back slightly to look at him. “You are not offended by that.”
“I am deeply impressed by it,” he replied. “Spite is a powerful motivator.”
That earned a real laugh from me, one that loosened something in my chest. I shifted closer, tucking myself more fully into his side, and he adjusted automatically, his arm tightening just a bit like it was instinct rather than choice.
“It scares me,” I admitted, quieter now. “Feeling this safe. Because it means I have something to lose again.”
He was quiet for a moment, and I could feel him thinking, not withdrawing, just choosing his words with care. “I am scared too,” he said finally. “I am scared of rushing, and of stepping wrong, and of breaking something that is still fragile. I love you, and I can’t bear to screw this up again.”
I nodded, because that landed exactly where it needed to. “Yeah. That.”
“I keep reminding myself,” he continued, his voice warm but honest, “that slow does not mean stalled, and careful does not mean distant. It just means we are paying attention, and that we are taking care of each other.”
I smiled, soft and unguarded, and rested my cheek back against him. “You are very good at paying attention lately.”
“I am trying,” he said. “And I am enjoying it.”
We sat with that for a bit, the quiet stretching comfortably between us, not empty, just full of things that did not need to be said out loud. His thumb moved slowly against my shoulder, not fidgeting, just present, and my breathing synced with his without effort.
“You know,” I said after a while, “your family has been absolutely ruthless.”
He chuckled. “In what sense?”
“In the sense that they have fully and enthusiastically taken my side in everything,” I said. “Your mother texted me last week to remind me that if you mess this up again, she will personally help me pack your things.”
He laughed properly at that, chest shaking under my head. “That sounds like her.”
“And your dad,” I added, warming to the topic, “has been even worse.”
“That sounds like him too.”
“He told me, very calmly, that if you hurt me again, he knows of a very deep lake.”
“I feel betrayed on multiple levels,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“You should,” I replied. “They like me.”
He smiled down at me, eyes bright with affection and something like relief. “I like that they like you.”
“They were very clear,” I continued, “that if you hurt me again, they would not be subtle about their disappointment.”
“That also tracks,” he said. “I have been living under that threat since we met.”
I laughed, then shifted so I could look up at him properly. “Does that bother you?”
“No,” he said honestly. “It actually makes me feel better. Like I am not the only one invested in you being happy.”
Something about that softened me even more, and I reached up to brush my fingers lightly along his jaw, not tentative, just affectionate. “I am okay right now,” I said. “And I like where we are.”
“I do too,” he said immediately. “It feels like we are exactly where we are supposed to be.”
We smiled at each other, and the moment stretched, warm and unpressured. He did not try to escalate it, and I did not feel the need to pull back, and that balance felt like its own kind of intimacy.
“I am glad we are doing this like this,” I said. “Talking, and checking in, and not pretending we are indestructible.”
“I never want to pretend that again,” he said. “I want this to last, not just feel good.”
I nodded, the weight of his words settling comfortably rather than heavily. “Same.”
The show ended without either of us noticing, the credits rolling quietly while we stayed wrapped together, content to let the moment exist without filling it. He rested his chin lightly against the top of my head, and I closed my eyes, listening to the familiar, grounding sound of his breathing.
“This,” I said, barely louder than a whisper, “is enough for me.”
“It is more than enough for me,” he replied.
We stayed like that, snuggled and steady and quietly happy with where we were, not rushing toward anything else, not looking back at what had broken, just choosing to remain right there, together, treating what we had with the care it deserved.