SIXTY-FIVE
CALLUM
“Ilove you, Callum Han.”
The words echo—like a page turning, or stars settling into place
I don’t think. I just move. Step in. Close the door. Close our distance. Her name is on my lips like a prayer I’ve been too afraid to say. My hands find her face, fingers brushing damp curls from her cheeks.
And then I kiss her.
It’s not careful. Not tentative.
It’s everything I’ve kept inside, every breathless moment I thought I’d lost. And she’s kissing me back like she’s been holding her breath for this too.
When I pull away, it’s only to press my forehead to hers. Our breaths mingle in the hush. Her eyes shimmer with something fierce and fragile.
“I love you too, Jordie Mitchell.”
The words fall between us, soft but anchored in everything I am.
She lets out a shaky laugh, all disbelief and wonder. “You really love me? Even with the endo? Even if . . .” Her voice falters. “Even if we can’t have kids?”
I tilt her chin up so she can see it—feel it from my eyes, my words. “I love you for you. Not for what you think you’re supposed to give me, or what you think I’ll miss out on. You’re everything I need. Always have been.”
She smiles, wobbly and radiant, leaning into my hand.
“Even if I make us line up for cheese fries, or if I sort my bookshelf by color and—”
I kiss her. Just once, soft and amused, my mouth against her smile.
“Especially then.”
Her laugh breaks between us. I slip my arms around her waist and kiss her again, longer this time. She tastes like mint and sugar cookies—like relief. Like home.
I scoop her up, her laughter spilling warm and soft against my neck, her arms looping around my shoulders. She fits against me like a memory made real.
I carry her up the stairs. When we reach the top, I nudge open her bedroom door with my foot, and the world narrows to the way she holds on—firm, sure, hers.
In the soft light, I undress her. With reverence, not haste. Her robe slips from her shoulders, nightie falls to the floor quiet as breath, and when she looks at me—bare, open, beautiful—I can’t breathe for a second.
She’s already pulling at my shirt, the fabric catching at my shoulders before falling away. Her hands trail down my chest, and I swear, I could come undone from just her featherlight touch.
She lies back on the bed, her hair fanning out over the pillows.
I lower myself over her, inch by inch, giving her time, giving myself time to feel it. The press of her bare skin against mine, the way our bodies fall into place like they’ve always known how to find each other.
Her knees slide up to rest against my ribs as she cups my face and kisses me, tugging my bottom lip gently between her teeth.
And then I’m moving with her, against her, into her.
Her hands clutch at my back, her nails dragging, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps that echo mine.
She’s everything—steady and wild, soft and fierce—and I could drown in her forever and still never want to come up for air.
Buried in her, surrounded by her, the rhythm of our bodies syncing with something older than language. Her hands slide up into my hair, her legs tightening around me, drawing me closer.
The world could fall apart around us, and I wouldn’t notice.
Nothing else matters. Not time. Not sound.
Just her. Just me.
Just us.
“Callum,” she breathes.
“I’m here,” I whisper, brushing my lips to hers.
“I love you, Callum.”
I still.
“Say it again,” I murmur, barely more than breath, eyes never leaving hers.
She smiles, radiant, full—the kind of smile that rewrites things, “Wǒ ài nǐ, Hán Wěi.”
My heart stops. Then starts again, harder.
She’s never called me by my Chinese name.
Hán Wěi.
Not Callum. Not the polished, diluted version of myself I’ve offered the world. But me. The name I was born with. The name that carries the weight of my family, my culture, my past.
Hearing it now, from her lips—so perfectly hers—feels like the last missing piece of me slotting into place.
Like she sees me.
And chooses me.
So, I kiss her. Because I choose her too. Always.
Then, my hands frame her face as if she’s made of something holy, and say: “Wǒ ài nǐ, Jordie.”
And the way she looks at me in that moment—eyes shining, lips parted, body wrapped around mine—it feels like the first time I’ve ever truly been known.
We move together again, one last time, a little less careful now. A little more desperate. As if we’re chasing the edge of something infinite.
And when we fall, we fall together.
Breathless.
Shaking.
Home.