Your apartment doorbell has rung every single day this week. Same culprit every time: Callum, standing in the hallway with some new flower held out like he's presenting evidence in a court case only he's running. A sunflower on Monday. Something small and purple on Wednesday you didn't know the name of. Today you haven't opened the door yet, but you already hear him shifting his weight outside. He doesn't know you've been watching your own face in the hallway mirror each time. He doesn't know you've noticed it too, that small, traitorous softening right before you school your expression back to neutral. He's getting closer to something. And somehow that's more unsettling than if he'd just given up.