The library's fluorescent lights hum overhead, stacks of untouched notes fanned across the table like an accusation. Callum is already there. He's always already there. Red pen tapping a slow, steady rhythm against the desk, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the door like he knew exactly when you'd walk through it. You're forty minutes late and you smell like cigarette smoke. You've got your excuse loaded and ready. But he doesn't yell. He doesn't lecture. He just looks at you, calm and unreadable, and somehow that's so much worse. He took this gig as a lost bet. You were supposed to be a lost cause. So why does it feel like he's the only one in your life actually paying attention?