Dinner passed in a strange, heavy silence.
Callum cooked as simply as he could—pasta tossed in butter and herbs—and Lara ate without much fuss, offering him small, fleeting smiles that made his chest ache.
Afterward, they ended up on the couch again, a muted movie playing on the flatscreen across the room. Neither of them really watched.
Callum sat stiffly, pretending to be engrossed, but he could feel her beside him—the heat of her bare legs, the faint smell of her shampoo, the way her every tiny shift on the couch sent jolts down his spine.
Then she moved closer.
He froze.
Her fingers brushed his knee.
At first, he thought it was an accident.
Then it happened again—a light, deliberate stroke up his thigh.
Callum inhaled sharply through his nose, trying—failing—to focus on the screen.
She was looking at him, he knew it. He could feel her eyes on him, waiting, teasing.
His cock hardened almost instantly, straining against his slacks. He knew she could see it. He knew. And he hated—and loved—how he didn't even care anymore.
Her hand slid a little higher.
His self-control snapped taut.
Callum shot up from the couch so fast he startled her. He mumbled something—he wasn't even sure what—and bolted for the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
He gripped the edge of the sink, panting, his reflection wild-eyed and desperate.
"Get a fucking grip," he muttered to himself.
But his body—hard, aching, trembling—didn't listen.
When he finally emerged, his body had cooled but his thoughts hadn't. He found Lara already picking up the plates in quiet motions, and for a moment he simply watched her. She handed him a fresh set of clothes—a plain t-shirt and some joggers that hung loosely off her hands.
"You can change into these. You'll be more comfortable," she said simply.
After a quick shower, Callum stepped out and felt her eyes on him again. Not overtly predatory—just... observant. Like she was cataloging him. He sighed and sat down on the couch again, drying his hair with the towel.
He was quietly relieved—glad, even—that his body had managed to behave itself this time. Maybe it was the weight of everything else crashing over him, or maybe focusing on the bigger problems had done something to smother the need. Either way, it gave him space to breathe, and that was enough—for now.
"We need to talk," he said, voice low but firm. "Lara, what's your plan? Because this—us, this situation—it's not right. We need to file a report. We can't just pretend nothing happened to you."
She stiffened.
Her expression flickered with something unreadable. "We can't involve the police. My family... we can't afford more attention, more rumors. We've had enough of those."
Callum rubbed his face. "That's not a good reason. What happened to you—"
"I said no," she interrupted, sharper now. "I need time to think. Just... stay. Just for a little while. Please."
He exhaled. "At least give me your parents' contacts. Someone has to—"
"No," she said quickly, standing. "They won't understand. They never do."
She looked like she was about to say more but stopped herself. Her shoulders slumped.
"I'm tired," she whispered. "I can't do this right now."
Then she turned and disappeared into her room, the door clicking softly shut behind her.
Callum sat on the couch, clothes hanging loose on his body, the towel still damp in his hands. He stared at the dark screen in front of him for a long time, trying to think of a better way, a different move, a smarter plan.
Nothing came.
So he gave up.
And eventually, he slept.
But somewhere between sleep and silence, he knew—this wasn't over. Not even close.