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The morning air is crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and the lingering warmth of yesterday's sun. I tightens my coat around myself as I walk, my mind a tangled mess of thoughts. I didn't sleep much last night—not because of nightmares, but because of him. Because of the way Callum held me, steady and warm, like he wasn't afraid of closeness the way I was. Like it was easy. Like it was nothing.
But it wasn't nothing. It couldn't have been.
I exhales sharply as I near the museum, steeling myself. Maybe Im imagining things. Maybe Callum woke up today without a single thought about their moment under the oak tree. The idea makes my stomach twist in a way I don't like.
Pushing through the museum's side entrance, I balance a small package in my arms—another delivery, another excuse to be here. Not that I had needed one anymore. Callum had all but invited me into his space like it was inevitable. Was it?
The halls are quieter than usual. It's early, before opening hours, and the emptiness makes every sound feel heavier. I spot him before he sees me, standing near one of the glass displays, his back turned. His posture is rigid, hands resting on the edge of the pedestal like he needs the support.
"Hey," I say, careful. Testing.
He straightens but doesn't turn right away. "You're early."
"So are you." I step closer, watching him. He finally faces me, and something is different. His eyes aren't as sharp, his usual confidence dulled at the edges. It makes my chest tighten. "Didn't sleep?" I guess.
A muscle in his jaw jumps. "Not much."
I don't press, even though I want to. Instead, I lift the package slightly. "Delivery for you."
His gaze flicks to it, and something strange passes over his face—something cautious. "From who?"
I glance at the label. "No name, just an address. London."
I expects him to take it from me, but he hesitates before finally reaching out. The second his fingers brush the cardboard, I see it—
The flicker of recognition.
The way his entire body tenses, like something just clicked into place.
I watch as he carefully sets the package down on a nearby table. His movements are too controlled, too deliberate. He doesn't want me to see how much this affects him. But I do.
"What is it?" I asks quietly.
Callum doesn't answer right away. Instead, he pulls a pocketknife from his coat, flicking it open with practiced ease, and slices through the tape. I watch, unease curling inside me as he peels back the flaps, revealing an envelope atop a bundle of folded papers.
For a long moment, he just stares at it.
Then, slowly, he picks up the envelope. It's thick, the paper old but sturdy. His name is scrawled across the front in bold, slanted handwriting.
