The air felt heavier now. Like every shadow in the apartment was watching him.
Callum moved through the space with mechanical precision, pulling every curtain shut. One by one. The living room. The kitchen. The little sliver of a window near the bathroom. No slivers. No cracks.
He paused at her bedroom window, peeking through the edge of the curtain before drawing it completely. He squinted, trying to spot anything—a glint of a camera lens, a figure standing too still in the dark.
Nothing.
His heart beat faster anyway.
He stepped back from the window and turned to Lara's door, pressing his eye to the peephole.
Nothing again.
But he didn't feel better.
He felt worse.
"I need to get out of here," he said tightly.
Lara, curled on the couch with her knees drawn to her chest, looked up quickly. "You can't."
Her voice was quiet but firm.
"What?"
"You can't leave. They're out there. Whoever's watching—they're probably still watching. What happens if they get a picture of you leaving my apartment in the middle of the night?"
He groaned, dragging both hands down his face. "Jesus, Lara—"
"I'm serious." She stood now, walking toward him slowly. "One more photo, and we're both done. Do you want that?"
"No," he snapped. "Of course I don't. But I also can't stay here. This is... insane."
"You can stay in my room," she said softly. "I'll sleep on the couch. My mom locked hers." She pointed at a locked bedroom door.
"No," he said instantly. "That's not happening."
Lara stepped closer. "Then what? You want to go back out there? Let whoever it is snap a photo of you walking out of here? Callum..."
He froze.
It was the first time in a long time she said his name like that. Not Mr. Hayes. Not sir.
Callum.
"I don't feel safe," she whispered. "And I know you don't either. So please. Just stay. Just tonight. We won't talk. I won't bother you. You can lock the door to my room if you want. I just... I just don't want to be alone tonight."
Her eyes were wide. Vulnerable. Wet.
He didn't know what was real anymore.
Only that the fear in his chest was choking him.
He looked toward the front door, then back to her.
And said nothing.
His mind was spiraling. He couldn't stay near her. He knew that. Every instinct, every moral fiber, every law and rule screamed at him not to. But the image of some stranger outside with a camera, waiting for him to step into the hallway, sent a fresh wave of nausea curling in his stomach.
He couldn't risk it.
Not tonight.
Not with everything already dangling over the edge.
"I'll take the couch," he said abruptly, his voice lower now, more resigned.
Lara opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. "No buts. I'm staying on the couch. End of discussion."
She hesitated, then disappeared into the hallway for a moment. When she came back, she was holding folded clothes in her arms. A soft gray T-shirt and a pair of black joggers.
Men's size. His size.
Callum stared at them.
She smiled faintly and handed them over. "You can change into these."
He took them, fingers brushing over the clean fabric. "Whose are these?"
"They're my dad's," she said simply. "He left them here a few months ago. Said he might crash here sometime but... he never did."
Her smile dipped into something more bitter, and quieter. A strange vulnerability. Like she was offering him more than clothes.
He gave her a stiff nod, then slipped into the bathroom without another word.
The moment he stepped inside, the scent hit him.
Faint, but familiar. Floral with a powdery edge. The same perfume that clung to her school uniform. The same scent that lingered whenever she leaned too close.
He exhaled shakily.
The bathroom was warm. Steam still clung to the mirror. She'd just been here. Minutes ago.
His cock stirred the second he locked the door.
"Fuck," he whispered.
He stripped down, trying not to think about the heat still trapped in the room, the damp towel on the rack, the open bottle of body wash by the sink.
He turned to place his clothes in the laundry hamper and froze.
There it was.
A pair of underwear.
Delicate. Lace-trimmed. Pale pink.
He looked away immediately, brushing a hand through his hair, heart pounding. "Don't," he muttered to himself. "Don't go there."
But it was too late.
His brain betrayed him. The memory of her clinging to him earlier. Their kiss. Her voice. Her trembling body pressed close.
His cock throbbed.
Just existing in the same room she had occupied—just breathing in the air she left behind—was enough to undo him.
He stepped into the shower and twisted the water to cold. Icy. As if that would help.
It didn't.
The soap on the rack was hers. The same floral-laced bottle. As he lathered it on his skin, his mind conjured the image of her doing the same, her hands gliding over her curves, that same scent wrapped around her thighs.
He bit down on a groan, slamming one hand on the tiled wall.
"Get it together," he hissed.
But the cold water was useless. His cock was still rock-hard when he turned the faucet off.
He dried off with the towel she left, tugged on the clothes she gave him—and cursed.
The joggers clung to his hips, soft cotton stretching over his obvious erection. No hiding it. No ignoring it.
He ran both hands down his face and stared at himself in the fogged-up mirror.
This was a bad idea.
All of it.
His erection hadn't gone down. The tension in his body was unbearable now, and the last thing he wanted was to step out of the bathroom and have Lara see him like this.
He leaned against the counter, jaw clenched, fingers twitching with restraint.
No. He couldn't. He shouldn't.
But the ache in him was searing. The frustration, the confusion, the scent still clinging to his skin like temptation incarnate. His eyes kept flicking back to the hamper.
To the pale pink lace.
She'd worn it. She'd moved through this space in it. Cried in it.
His hand moved before his brain caught up.
He reached into the hamper, lifted the fabric—warm still from the room—and pressed it to his face.
His breath hitched, loud in the silence.
It smelled like her.
He shuddered. Then gave in.
Hand wrapped around his cock, he let his body take over. Quietly. Desperately.
He swallowed his groans, biting down on the inside of his cheek as his strokes grew faster, tighter. The lace bunched in his fist, pressed to his nose, the scent pushing him over the edge.
He came hard.
Body trembling.
Breath wrecked.
He dropped to his knees on the bathroom tile, panting.
The underwear fell to the floor.
He stared at it, horrified. Ashamed.
What the fuck am I doing?
His entire life—his career, his name, his future—everything was hanging by a thread. And here he was. Jerking off in her bathroom like a goddamn pervert.
He stood slowly. Rinsed his hand in silence. Picked up the lace, folded it carefully, and dropped it back into the hamper.
Then he stared at himself in the mirror again.
And hated the man staring back.