Page 1 of Flat Out
Callum stood barefootin the hallway, zip-up hoodie thrown over boxer briefs, hair rumpled as though he’d clawed at it all night. The living room was nearly pitch black—curtains drawn, no sound or movement. Just utter stillness.
His eyes squinted against the entry light, and I realized he hadn’t been avoiding me the whole time. I thought I was ready to face him, to confront the silence, the distance, the ache he left behind.
And yet now, standing in his flat, I realized I wasn’t ready at all. I was tired. Bone-deep, soul-heavy, tired from the emotional roller coaster of the last twenty-four hours. It wasn’t just from missing him, but also from holding everything else together while he vanished.
Meanwhile, he was hurting and probably just as exhausted as me, if not more so. It didn't excuse him for not answering me at the door, though.
He winced, one hand flying up to shield his face. His chest rose unevenly with each breath, his skin was too pale, jaw unshaven, shoulders hunched as though the weight of the world had finally caught up to him.
And all that rage—the fire, the heartbreak, the ache in my chest—shifted to the side to make room for the sudden overwhelming urge to nurture. I had the inexplicable desire to simply take care of him.
“Oh,” I whispered brokenly as I took a tentative step forward. “Concussion?”
He nodded slowly, once, and winced, as if even that movement cost him. I carefully closed the door so it didn't slam shut, but he still flinched at the sound. His eyes pooled—not with tears ready to fall, but the kind you hold back so hard your whole body shakes from the effort.
I was already moving toward him, the invisible string that seemed to tie us together drawing me closer to him, like I was Icarus and he was the sun. Somehow, loving him had become another thing I didn’t know how to do in halves. I was burning myself out trying to hold everyone else accountable while simultaneously giving him everything I had left in me.
“Mon dieu, Callum,” I breathed, wrapping my arms around him gently, afraid he might break. Right now, he might, given how his whole body shuddered.
He didn’t resist my touch or try to act tough. He just let himself fall forward, burying his face in my neck despite our height difference with a low, desperate groan. His arms wrapped around my waist, holding me as if I was the only thing keeping him upright.
“I’ve got you,” I murmured, running my hand down his back. “Come on, mon cœur. Back to bed. Now.”
He swayed slightly, legs buckling. I tightened my grip, and when he felt stable again, I turned so his arm was draped across my shoulders.
“I’m sorry.” His voice cracked halfway through.
“Don’t,” I breathed, fighting tears as I steered him toward the bedroom. “You can apologize when you come back to me like you promised.”
He let out something between a huff and a whimper. “Still bossy.”
“Still breathing,” I whispered, the words barely making it past the lump in my throat. He didn’t argue.
We made it to his bedroom, the only light coming from a sliver of daylight slipping through the curtains. I helped him ease onto the edge of the mattress, every movement excruciatingly slow. He hissed as he lowered himself down, posture stiff, shoulders curling forward just slightly as he cradled his ribs with one arm.
His head tilted—not dropped, not fully turned, just barely angled downward like even the weight of his skull was too much. His hoodie hung open at the chest where the zipper had come loose, revealing the edge of a compression vest beneath.
I sat beside him, my voice soft. “What are the injuries?” I rubbed his back as gently as I could. I didn't know what would make it worse.
“Moderate concussion,” he said. “Neck strain. Whiplash. Bruised ribs. No fractures, just… a lot of pain.” He swallowed. “And you. The guilt.”
I reached up, carefully brushing the hair back from his forehead. He leaned into the touch, even as a slight grimace crossed his face—like he was choosing the comfort over the pain. And my heart broke a little. He needed someone here for him right now.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Or, I don't know, respond to me.”
He didn’t move for a long moment. Just sat there, body rigid, as if shifting even an inch might crack him open. Slowly, his hands unclenched in his lap. His fingers twitched, as though he wanted to hide them again but didn’t have the strength.
“Didn’t want you to see me like this,” he murmured. His voice was rough, but it wasn’t just from the injury. Shame laced his tone.
“Like what?” I asked gently. “Human? Hurt?”
“Like someone who can’t take care of you right now.”
My throat tightened and everything inside me crumbled a little bit more. Always for him—only for him. “I don’t need you to always take care of me, Callum. I needed you to let me be there for you. And you shut me out.”
I’d spent a lifetime pouring myself out for everyone—him, the team, the fans—while pretending I was fine. But I wasn’t. I didn’t even know what fine meant anymore.
“I didn’t mean to.”
