Page 84 of Your Place or Mine

Or was it a peace offering…quiet, subtle, and so veryhim?

I stepped out of the utility room and back into the garden, the sun catching the fresh glint of the glass bulb as I shut the door behind me.

And then I heard it.

The back door to the bar creaked open.

Footsteps. Familiar. Measured.

My pulse jumped like a startled deer.

Callum stepped out, toolbox in hand, zippered hoodie pushed back from his face.

He froze when he saw me.

Just for a second.

Then his jaw tightened, and he gave me a nod like we were just two neighbors passing on the sidewalk and not two people who’d kissed like the world was ending and then imploded over it.

“Morning,” he said, voice low.

“Morning,” I echoed, just as quietly.

We stared at each other.

Neither of us moved.

The silence stretched, full of things we weren’t saying.

I could’ve asked him why he fixed the light.

He could’ve asked why I looked like I’d seen a ghost.

But neither of us did.

Instead, I said, “I was thinking about turning this patio into a real garden space. Something people could use. Maybe a spring gathering out here. flowers. BBQ. A table or two.”

He looked around. Nodded once.

“Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

And just like that, something between us cracked open again.

Not fixed.

Not even close.

But no longer broken beyond repair.

When I stepped outside with a bag of potting soil, the last thing I expected was for Callum Benedict to still be standing there.

But he was.

Leaning against the back railing of the bar, arms crossed, the early morning sun caught the edges of his dark hair and lit up the faint stubble on his jaw.

He wasn’t doing anything in particular. Just watching me.

And that made my pulse do a whole lot of things it had no business doing.

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