THIRTY-SEVEN
CALLUM
Iwake to the sound of Dancing in the Moonlight floating down the hallway, bright and slightly off-key.
Okay.
A lot off-key.
Still, I lie here, letting it wrap around me like warmth. The light outside has shifted—burnished gold through my blinds, and I realize we’ve slept through the day.
I get up, pull on some sweats, grab my phone, and follow the sound.
In the kitchen, Jordie’s barefoot. She’s wearing one of my shirts, unbuttoned halfway with the sleeves rolled up, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs like it’s been tailored for this exact level of distraction.
Her hair’s a mess of tangles and her face is bare.
And still, somehow, looks absolutely gorgeous.
She’s swaying as she stirs a pot of soup, hips moving to the beat. A plate of grilled cheese sandwiches rests nearby.
When she spins and spots me, her eyes widen—brief, surprised—but it fades fast, melting into this lazy, slow-blooming smile that hits me square in the chest.
“You’re up,” she says.
I lean against the fridge, my arms crossed. “Hard not to be with my phone buzzing nonstop. Why is Leith texting me for Margaret updates and not you?”
She rolls her eyes and reaches for the salt. “Because you write him novels with footnotes. I just say ‘fine’ and hope he takes the hint.”
I scroll through the texts. “He asked if Medusa—I’m assuming that’s Margaret—has turned anyone to stone yet.”
Jordie snorts, “What else did he say?”
I read aloud: “No reply. I’m assuming she ate you both. Blink twice if you need extraction.”
“He’s so dramatic.”
I read the final message. “Are you two having sex? You and Jordie. Not you and Medusa.”
Jordie’s laugh is startled, the kind that ends in a cough. Her cheeks flush instantly. “Oh God.”
“Relax,” I tease. “He followed it up with, ‘Are you guys a thing now? Want to know which tab to open: champagne or cautionary tale.’”
That last one sits there for a beat too long.
I meet her eyes. She shrugs, smiley and breezy as she taps the wooden spoon against the pot. “Tell him we’re nothing worth opening tabs for.”
It’s said lightly, almost amused, in a way like she’s ordering coffee, not drawing a line. Just another throwaway sentence in the story of us-that-isn’t.
And I laugh. Because what else do you do when someone erects a wall with a smile?
I nod, pretending it doesn’t sting. Pretending it doesn’t confirm the truth I’ve been avoiding. That we’re standing on opposite ledges of the same cliff.
And maybe I’ve already jumped.
I clear my throat, shifting the weight in the air. “Hey, I wanted to tell you—I’m heading to Sydney next week for five days.”
“Work stuff?”
“Yeah. I’m the keynote speaker at the Anesthetists’ Congress. Figured I’d see my parents while I’m there too.”
For a split second, her face goes still.
Then she goes full cheerleader, waving metaphorical pom-poms. “Wow!” she says, all excited. “Way to go, Hotshot! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
She sounds genuinely impressed. And she is. I can hear it. But she sets the bowl down on the island with a little more force than necessary, hands unsteady.
“It’s no big deal,” I say.
I grab the glasses from the cupboard. She stacks the sandwiches onto plates and slides them my way.
“It is a big deal, Callum!” she beams with pride. Then, more sure, more grounded: “Guess all roads lead back to Sydney, huh?”
She just hums and moves around me—in this kitchen, in my shirt, us in sync.
It feels so easy it hurts.
“It’s just less than a week,” I say, setting the glasses down. “I’ll be back before you miss me.”
She nods once, quickly. “Of course.”
The silence that follows feels a little too loud, and I get the sense she’s already pulling away—retreating behind that wall I never seem fast enough to scale.
“Come with me.”
She freezes.
Turns.
“To Sydney,” I say before I lose my nerve. “Even just for my keynote. Pick up some CPD points. Maybe drop by and say hi to Mā and Bà.”
For a breathless second, I think she’ll say no.
Then she lights up, a grin spreading across her face as she rushes around the counter. “Yes!”
She launches herself into my arms. I catch her easily, laughing as her legs lift off the floor. She laughs, and it feels like holding sunshine.
And maybe I let myself believe for a second that this could be something real.
The moment her feet touch the ground again, I feel it shift. The quick step back. The careful tuck of her hair.
“Callum,” she says, voice cautious. “This doesn’t make us anything.”
I just kiss her—because if I don’t, I’ll ask why. And I won’t like the answer.
Her hands fist in my shirt. Uncertainty ripples through her in one long, trembling current.
“We’re still what we are, Callum,” she murmurs, a warning wrapped in softness. “Just friends. With benefits.”
I nod, because it’s all she’s offering. Because pretending this doesn’t matter is easier than hearing her say it doesn’t.
And when she kisses me again—hungry, wild, almost defiant—I kiss her back, already knowing what it’ll cost me.