Page 72 of Love Me Stalk Me
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 somethingI 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 hiseyes, 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."
