"The stupid thing is," I continue, finding my voice again, steadier now, "I've always been good at things. Really good. Weird things, random things my brothers taught me, yes, but also things that matter. I graduated top of my class in business. I can forecast sales trends better than anyone at corporate. I built a tracking system that's reduced our inventory loss by sixty percent."

I gesture to the spreadsheets on my desk, to the careful notations, the complex calculations that come so naturally to me. The pages are filled with my neat handwriting, numbers and projections organized into a system only I fully understand. "I can tell you exactly which items from the spring collection will sell out first and which ones we'll be marking down. I can spot a counterfeit handbag from across the store. And yet..."

I shake my head, frustration coloring my voice. "And yet somehow none of that matters as much as the fact that I gained thirty pounds over the last three years."

I shake my head again. "But now, I don't know. Something feels different. I feel different. And I don't even know why."

Callahan's jaw is tight, his hands flexing slightly at his sides, like he wants to grab something, hit something, fix something. His body is tense, coiled with a controlled anger that isn't directed at me but at the situation, at Evan, at the world that made me feel this way. The muscles in his forearms stand out as he restrains himself.

And for some reason, that makes me feel better.

Like maybe I'm not crazy for finally realizing something isn't right.

Like maybe it's okay to feel different.

Like maybe I'm allowed to change.

I didn’t realize how close Callahan's standing now.

Not until I turn and suddenly he's right there, only inches away, his presence filling the space around me. I inhale quickly, the sudden proximity sending a jolt through me. The scent of him envelops me. I force a weak, watery laugh, embarrassment washing over me now that I've said so much, revealed so much of myself.

"Oh my gosh," I say, rubbing my hands over my face, trying to erase the tear tracks, to regain some semblance of professionalism. The cool metal of my rings presses against my heated skin. "I don't know why I just told you all that. That's so inappropriate. I⁠—"

I shake my head, mortified. "I am so sorry," I mutter. "You probably don't⁠—"

But he cuts me off.

"It's okay," he says, firm, certain, his deep voice leaving no room for argument.

And something about the way he says it, about the steadiness in how he looks at me, makes me believe him. Makes me think that maybe it is okay, that maybe I haven't completely embarrassed myself, that maybe he doesn't think less of me for falling apart.

I let out a slow, unsteady breath. Then, half-laughing, half-scoffing, I shake my head again.

"I don't mean to be unprofessional," I say, voice still shaky, hands gesturing vaguely, "but honestly, you wouldn't get it. I mean, objectively, look at you. The most beautiful women must throw themselves at you constantly."

His entire posture shifts.

I don't notice it at first.

But his shoulders go rigid, tensing beneath his shirt. His brow furrows and I look into his eyes. His eyes, always intense, darken with something I can't quite read.

And then, in a voice lower than before, rougher, he says, "I was engaged once."

That catches my attention. It's such an unexpected revelation, so personal, so at odds with the controlled, professional demeanor he always maintains. The confession hangs in the air, weighty with unspoken meaning.

He exhales through his nose, crossing his arms over his chest, a gesture that seems more protective than casual.

"So, I do get it," he says. "I've been dumped in probably the worst way possible."

His words tug at my chest, making me ache for him. Because Callahan is so...him.

Confident.

Unshakable.

Intimidating in his competence, his control, and in his sheer physical presence. The idea of someone throwing him away?

It doesn't make sense.

It shouldn't make sense.

And yet, here he is, standing in front of me, saying it like it's just another fact of his life. The vulnerability in the admission takes me by surprise, makes me see him differently.

I swallow, bracing myself for whatever comes next. My heart beats a little faster, waiting.

"What happened?" I ask softly, almost afraid to break the moment, to push too far into territory he might not want to revisit.

He's staring at somewhere else now, some far-off place in his head. His eyes are unfocused, looking past me, past the office, into memories I can't see. The lines around his eyes seem deeper suddenly, etched with old pain.

"I got orders to deploy. We knew it would be hard," he continues, voice measured, controlled, like he's reciting facts rather than sharing something deeply personal. "But we decided we'd try to make it work. I spent my entire savings on a ring. My enlistment bonus, too. Then I left. Went off to war. And while I was out there, she wrote me a letter."

I don't move.

I don't even breathe.

Everything feels suspended, waiting.

He lets out a slow, measured exhale.

"A Dear John letter," he says, the words flat, emotionless.

I frown, not recognizing the term. "What's a Dear John letter?"

He looks back at me, something heavy behind his eyes, something old and painful that's never quite healed. "It's what women used to send their husbands or boyfriends during the war," he says, voice carefully controlled. "A breakup letter. So by the time the guy got home, he already knew she'd moved on."

I swallow hard, a knot forming in my throat. The office suddenly feels too small, too intimate for this conversation.

I don't know what to say.

Tension rolls off him in waves, and when he speaks again, it's quieter, more measured, like he's choosing each word carefully. "Her letter told me she met someone else," he says. "That she was ending things."

Something twists in my chest, an ache of sympathy, of understanding. To be alone in a war zone, facing death daily, and get that news—I can't imagine the pain, the loneliness, the betrayal. The cruelty of it is breathtaking.

"But when I got back," he continues, the control in his voice slipping just slightly, "I found out she was pregnant." He looks at me and his eyes hold something fierce—like the truth still scorches every time he says it. "With his triplets," he finishes.

He gives me a small, sad smile. "Yeah. So obviously, she was with him before we'd actually broken up. The timing didn't match up. She'd already moved on. Already started a life with someone else. Already written me out of her story before I even knew the chapter was ending."

I shake my head, at a loss for words. "Cal, I'm—I'm so sorry."

He just shakes his head, dismissing my sympathy with a slight shrug. The movement is casual but doesn't quite hide the lingering hurt beneath.

"It was a while ago," he says, resignation in his voice. "I just didn't want you to think you were the only one to experience a shitty relationship."

I don't know what to say to that.

Because suddenly, it doesn't feel like venting anymore.

It doesn't feel like colleagues trauma-bonding after a difficult encounter.

It feels like something else. Something deeper, more personal.

Like something too raw, too real, too dangerous.

Like something I'm not ready to face, not when my entire life feels like it's balanced on the edge of a knife, not when I'm still trying to figure out what I want, who I am, what I deserve.