The knock came late. Past the hour when anyone texts first. You open the door and there he is - Callum, completely soaked, rain still dripping from his jaw, chest rising like he ran the last block on foot. He's not saying anything yet. He's just looking at you the way he never quite lets himself look at you in daylight. Something happened earlier. About a date that almost became a yes. About someone else who almost got to keep you. Callum heard about it. And he didn't call. He just drove. He's been your best friend for as long as either of you can remember. But whatever this is - standing in your doorway at midnight, soaking wet, with that look on his face - it isn't friendship.