Page 6 of Flat Out
I stayedwith Callum until his breathing evened out. One hand curled around mine, his face half buried in my thigh. Occasionally, his fingers twitched like they were still reaching for me, even in sleep.
I sat there for a long time, stroking his hair and whispering in French. Just soft things, nonsense, really. But my voice soothed him, and maybe, selfishly, it soothed me too.
Tu me manques. Tu es mon cœur. Tu n’es pas seul.
You’re missing from me. You are my heart. You are not alone.
When I was sure he was asleep, I gently pried myself away, setting his hand on the blanket and brushing a kiss to his temple.
And then I got to work.
His flat was a fucking mess. Not the endearing kind, and certainly not the man cave disaster you ignore because the sex is good. This was full blown post-crash wreckage.
Laundry was on the bathroom floor, a half-eaten protein bar on the counter. His bags were open with clothes strewn across his room. Medical papers were stacked on the kitchen table along with prescription bottles and ice packs. One of his hoodies was stained with blood, still sitting by the front door.
It gutted me.
I started with the small things. I tossed the towels in the washer, picked up his clothes, folded the ones that were clean. Repacked the things he wouldn’t need until Austria, even if he wasn't cleared to travel by next week. Then I set his suitcase and duffel bag in his massive walk-in closet that I was insanely envious of. I prepped some meals for him using ingredients I was surprised he had that were actually fresh. Threw out the takeout containers, wiped down the counters, organized his tea collection alphabetically—for no real reason on that last one other than its state of disarray stressed me out.
My phone buzzed the entire time.
Every few seconds, there was another ping, another name, another reminder that I had interviews to prep for, a press team losing their shit, and a full schedule back in Paris that I had no business ignoring.
Ivy was going to kill me if I didn't answer her texts soon.
Still, I silenced it, set it down on the couch, and kept folding. It helped calm the part of myself that was screaming for time to stop, because this wasn’t a forever gesture. This was triage. I wasn’t building a life here; I was trying to keep the person I loved from falling apart when I walked out that door.
I washed the bloodstains off his clothes as if it would cleanse the memory of the crash, as though I could scrub hard enough to forget how I thought he was dead. But I couldn’t launder away the truth—I had one foot out the door already. Not because I wanted to leave, but because I had no choice.
I moved through his kitchen like a woman on borrowed time. I split the soup I’d made earlier into containers. Made a light pasta with lemon oil and put a smoothie in the door of the fridge. I grabbed a pen and a sticky note from the drawer and scribbled quickly:
Eat & Rest
– Chicken & rice soup: 2 minutes, stir, 30 seconds more
– Pasta with lemon & parsley oil: Cold is fine, warm is better
– Protein smoothie is in the door. Drink it. No arguments.
PS: Drink water. Even if you're not thirsty. Especially then. Don't be an idiot.
Je t'aime.
– A
I stuck it to the fridge and then I showered in his guest bathroom. Finally I got to rinse the travel, the tears, the fucking race off my skin. I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time. After a while I wrapped my hair in one of his towels, trying to figure out how I could feel so heavy and weightless at once.
I crept back into the bedroom with an armful of freshly folded laundry. His t-shirts, his sweats, his lucky hoodie. My favorite jeans of his that hugged his thighs and sat just right over the dress boots he liked to wear.
I blinked, wondering when I'd noticed that about him.
I placed his lucky hoodie gently on the chair by his bed, praying that some semblance of luck would speed up his recovery time. Then I turned to look at the man I loved.
Callum hadn’t moved much. One hand was still resting on his chest, the other reaching across the mattress to where I’d sat earlier, as if he was reaching for me even in sleep. I sat on the edge of the bed and reached to tidy up the stack of compression wraps on the nightstand. But then his phone lit up on the charger beside it.
Mum – Calling...
I froze. She was probably worried. I wondered what that was like. My parents had never seemed too concerned when I crashed. So I answered, because I hoped I could lend some semblance of comfort to her.
