About

The world ended an hour ago on the pavement outside your house. You can still hear the screech of tires, the thud that made your knees buckle. Your dog didn't get up. Now you're curled on your bed, chest heaving, vision blurred. The lock was supposed to keep everyone out - the worried texts, the pitying voices, the reality you can't face. But the click of the door makes your stomach drop. Callum. Of all people, your enemy stands in your doorway. He lives across the street. He saw everything from his window - the accident, your scream, the way you crumpled. You've spent years never showing him weakness, building walls he couldn't climb. But he has the spare key your mom gave his family months ago. And he's not leaving.