Finally, I hear the door close behind him.

Relief starts to bloom—until I hear the lock turn.

The sound is deliberate. Unmistakable. Metal sliding into place with a finality that makes my breath catch. My heart skips, stutters, then races to catch up.

He's not leaving. He’s staying. On purpose. And suddenly, everything I’ve been holding back starts to shake loose.

The dam breaks. Just like that.

Tears spill over, hot and unrelenting, sliding down my cheeks before I can stop them. I try. God, I try. But it's useless now. The pressure’s too much.

Callahan is still there—standing against the door, arms crossed over his chest, silent and solid and so completely unmovable. The solid oak frames him like some kind of sentry, his presence towering, steady, and impossible to ignore.

He watches me, but not the way most people do—curious, cautious, or pretending not to look at all. No. He watches like he knows. Like he’s already mapped the fracture line running through me and is just waiting for the moment I finally come apart.

I turn away, pressing my fingers to my eyes, as if that’ll somehow stop the flood. As if I can still claw back some kind of dignity. But the tears wet my fingers instantly, smudging what little makeup I put on.

I was always called a crybaby growing up. My brothers teased me for it relentlessly—Matteo with his eyerolls, Luca telling me to suck it up, Nico awkwardly patting my shoulder like he couldn’t wait to escape. My mom said I needed thicker skin. That the world wouldn’t be kind to a girl who wore her heart so openly.

Their voices echo in my head now, reminding me of every reason I should have kept it together.

And Evan?

Evan says I cry too much. That it's manipulative. That it's exhausting to deal with. That I'm using tears to get my way when I don't have a real argument. That no one wants to be around a woman who can't control her emotions.

Maybe he's right.

Maybe I'm pathetic.

Maybe that's why he thinks I need fixing.

And still—here I am. Unraveling in front of Cal. The last person I wanted to see me like this.

And he’s not even looking away.

I sniff hard, trying to hold myself together, wiping frantically at the tears that keep coming despite my best efforts. But then I feel his presence behind me, closer now though I didn't hear him move. He's like that—capable of such stillness, such quiet, despite his size. The air shifts as he approaches, carrying his scent, his warmth.

And then, softly, "You did nothing wrong."

I let out a shaky breath, my hands still covering my face, my shoulders hunched as if trying to make myself smaller, less visible.

I squeeze my eyes shut, fresh tears leaking through despite my efforts. The warmth of them tracks down my cheeks, dripping onto my collar.

Because I know that. Intellectually, rationally, I know that. But hearing him say it? Hearing him sound so sure? It makes my chest ache with a strange mix of relief and pain. Relief that someone else sees it, that I'm not crazy for feeling hurt. Pain because acknowledging what happened means facing truths I've been avoiding for too long. It means admitting that this relationship isn't what I'd convinced myself it was.

I scrub at my cheeks, wiping at the tears as fast as they come, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "I'm fine."

I'm not fine.

And I think he knows it.

But I say it anyway.

Because I have to.

Because it's what I always say.

Because if I pretend hard enough, maybe it'll be true. Maybe I can convince myself as easily as I've been trying to convince everyone else.

His voice is quiet but firm. "They're assholes. Both of them. Men who think they can do whatever they want and never have to answer for it."

I turn to him, eyes still wet, cheeks flushed with emotion, voice still shaky with the effort of controlling it, and say, "One of those assholes is my boyfriend."

His expression doesn't change right away.

But I see it—the moment of recognition. He exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly, like he's disappointed but not surprised. The subtle shift in his posture speaks volumes.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he says, quiet and composed. "You deserve better."

I laugh, a short, bitter sound that catches in my throat. Because what else am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to say to that? Thank you? I know? You're wrong? The words are simple but they pierce through the defenses I've built around my relationship.

And then, suddenly, it all comes out, words spilling from me like water through a broken dam. The floodgates open, and I can't stop the torrent.

"It's just...I know I should leave," I say, voice cracking under the strain of finally saying it out loud. "I know it's bad. I know Evan treats me like shit. I know I should be furious at him for what he did today. But I—" I break off, shaking my head, hands gesturing helplessly in the air. "I don't know what else to do."

Callahan stays quiet. He doesn't try to fix it. Doesn't try to fill the silence with empty words or easy solutions. Doesn't tell me what to do or how to feel.

He just listens.

And for some reason, that makes the words come faster, makes me want to tell him everything, like lancing a wound to release the poison. The relief of finally speaking these thoughts aloud is like sucking down a breath after a lifetime without air.

"He wasn't always like this," I say, voice thick with emotion. "Or maybe he was, and I just ignored it. I don't know anymore. He used to at least... pretend to care about me. Now it's like I'm some—some project. Something he's working on. Something he needs to fix so I'm finally good enough."

I don't realize how close Callahan's standing now.

Or maybe I do.

Maybe that's why I keep talking. Because if I stop, if I let the silence settle, I might have to actually think about what I'm saying. Might have to face the reality of my relationship, of my choices, of the person I've become. The words keep flowing, filling up the space between us.

I lick my lips, exhaling hard, feeling my throat close up with emotion. The taste of salt lingers on my tongue from the tears.

"My mom was...she was really hard on me growing up," I admit, and I can hear how raw it sounds, how vulnerable. "About my weight. About how I looked. She'd pick apart my diet, make comments about how much I was eating or whether my clothes fit differently. I love her a lot, and I know she meant well. But, it always felt like there was this...this expectation, you know?

"I think when I got with Evan, I was still—" I pause, laughing bitterly, wiping at a fresh tear that escapes. "I mean, twenty-five is still young, right? I thought I was grown, but I wasn't. And when he started doing the same things, saying the same stuff about my body, my weight, what I should eat...it wasn't a red flag."

I finally look at him directly, my chest tightening as the full force of his attention settles over me.

"It just...matched."

I swallow, blinking fast, willing the tears to stay put, to stop betraying me. The lump in my throat makes it hard to speak, but I push through.

"It wasn't a shock. It wasn't even new. It was just another person telling me what everyone else always told me."

My attention drifts toward my desk, where a small trophy sits half-hidden behind my monitor—regional archery champion, three years in a row. A relic from when I was fourteen and could outshoot all my brothers, when I was confident and fearless, when I didn't care about being pretty or thin or acceptable. Before I started caring what anyone thought about my body. The gold-plated figure atop the marble base catches the light, a reminder of a different version of myself.