Page 140 of Your Place or Mine

She didn’t move. Didn’t open the door wider. But she didn’t slam it either. Progress.

“Look,” I said, “I don’t know how to do this. I’ve been stuck in the same loop for years, convincing myself that feeling anything too much means I’ll break. But then you walked in like a damn wrecking ball…”

She cracked a smile. Just a little. But it gave me enough air to keep going.

“And instead of breaking me, you started putting pieces back together I forgot existed.”

“Callum…” she said, and it was the softest thing I’d heard all day.

I stepped closer. “I know I’ve been a jackass. And I’m not asking you to forgive that. But I want to try. I want to figure this out with you.”

There was silence.

Then, slowly, she stepped aside and let me in.

I didn’t have a game plan. Didn’t need one.

Because being in her space again, seeing the changes she’d made, the warmth, color, and life, felt like stepping into sunlight after years of clouds.

We sat down across from each other at that little navy-legged table. She studied me, like she was trying to decide if I was real.

“I was scared, too,” she said finally.

I nodded. “Still am.”

“But?”

“But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.”

She stared at me for a beat, then reached across the table and laced her fingers with mine.

And just like that, the world clicked into place.

Still messy.

Still uncertain.

But lighter than it had been in a long time.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Lydia

There was nothing quite like the smell of a fresh coat of paint and lemon cleaner.

Callum went back to the bar for the dinner crowd, and I felt like my life was starting to spin in the right direction.

I stood in the center of my tiny studio apartment, hands on my hips, grinning like a kid who just nailed her school project. After weeks of sanding, painting, cursing at crooked cabinet hinges, and digging through thrift store bins for just the right set of chairs, the place finally looked likeme.

Warm.

Whimsical.

Hopeful.

The kind of space my mom would’ve walked into and said, “Yep. That’s my girl.”

The walls were now a soft ivory with a hint of blush when the sun hit just right. I’d reupholstered the loveseat with a rich teal velvet that was way more luxurious than anything I had a right to own, but I got it secondhand and repaired it myself, so that felt like a victory.

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