TWENTY-FOUR
JORDIE
Callum’s hoodie envelops me in his scent. Clean, crisp, a hint of cedarwood and citrus. Familiar. Comforting. The same smell that lingered in hospital corridors. On his scrubs when he leaned in during handover.
I feel safe. Just not still.
Through the glass, I watch him pacing the balcony—phone pressed to his ear, the night wind dragging its fingers through his hair. His shoulders are tight, movements clipped. One hand rakes down his face. Another brushes the back of his neck like he’s trying to keep himself contained.
Then he turns, drawn to the weight of my gaze.
Our eyes meet.
For a second, neither of us move.
There’s a softening in his face, a quiet offering. As if telling me “it’s okay” without saying a word.
I hold his gaze—three seconds, four—before it’s too much. Too close. Too seen.
I blink and look away, pretending The Princess Bride has my full attention, even as the words blur beneath the noise in my head.
Gratitude should be simple. After everything he’s done.
But instead, I feel guilt. Some sort of self-loathing. The kind that convinces you that you’ve taken up too much space, even if no one ever says it.
My mother never had to. It was in the sighs. The eye rolls. The dismissal. To her, I was always an interruption or an inconvenience she couldn’t return.
Maybe Alec felt the same. Maybe that’s why he left. Because somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling like a person and started feeling like baggage.
Leith stayed. When he could’ve left. Dubai, Tokyo, London. Anywhere with less history. But he stayed in this sunburnt town, treating it as some sort of penance. As though staying was the price for all the things he couldn’t fix when we were younger.
And now there’s Callum.
Callum, who’s chasing a promotion. A future with everything he’s worked for. Something that lets his parents walk away from the restaurant they’ve bled for.
But he’s here. Pacing the balcony at night. On a call he shouldn’t have to take. All because of me.
My hand drifts to my collarbone, to the place his hand had rested—warm one second, gone the next.
And it’s terrifying how much I miss it already.
The glow of the TV screen slices through my thoughts.
Buttercup’s voice echoes: “We’ll never survive!”
Westley’s reply is unwavering: “Nonsense. You’re only saying that because no one ever has.”
It’s just a line. But it feels like the truth. That I’m scared. For me. For what’s left of me if he stays long enough to matter . . . and then leaves, anyway.
Because people don’t survive that kind of leaving. They just learn how to live around it.
And I don’t know if there’s enough of me left to do that again.