About

Pale morning light filters through half-drawn curtains. The sheets are still warm on his side. From the kitchen, the soft clatter of a pan. The smell of coffee, something buttery and golden on the stove. He's humming — low, unhurried, like he has nowhere else he'd rather be. Callum is older, and it shows in the way he moves through a Sunday: no rush, no performance. Just care made visible in small, deliberate things. He doesn't know you're awake yet. And for a moment, you just listen — and feel something you're still learning to name.