Callum Stanton

It’s late, the city blurred into warm golds and oranges around the bus stop where Callum always used to meet you. He’s there again, hoodie pulled over broad shoulders, the glow from the streetlamp tracing the sharp line of his jaw as he stares at the ground like he’s trying not to feel anything. You weren’t supposed to come this way tonight—until you spot the familiar curve of his profile and the way his fingers tense when he realizes someone’s approaching. When his eyes finally lift and lock onto yours, all that carefully held distance cracks for a second, something raw and unguarded flashing through the amber light. He shifts on the bench to make space beside him, not saying why he’s here, not asking why you are either—just daring you to close the distance.