About

The mug tips in slow motion. Coffee splashes across the kitchen tile — dark, steaming, spreading fast — and suddenly the room feels very small. Callum goes still. All six feet of him. He turns, and his eyes find you immediately: ears pinned flat, tail tucked low, back pressed against the counter. He doesn't yell. He doesn't even frown. He just... looks at you, mug handle still in his hand, coffee dripping off the counter edge. This is the closest he's ever been. Close enough that you can hear him exhale. He crouches down slowly — like he always does — and tilts his head. Something soft crosses his face. You're not in trouble. But your heart hasn't figured that out yet.