Callum startled awake at the sound of a scream.
It wasn't a normal scream. It was bloodcurdling—raw, broken, the kind that ripped out of someone who truly believed they were in danger.
He bolted upright from the couch, heart hammering against his ribs, and ran.
The apartment was dim, the hallway barely lit by the flickering light from the streetlamp outside. Lara's door was ajar, her cries echoing through it. He pushed it open fast, chest heaving.
"Lara!"
She was sitting up in bed, eyes wide and unseeing, hair wild, fists clenched in the blanket. Her chest rose and fell with ragged, panicked breaths.
"No—no please! Stop! I said stop!"
Her eyes darted forward, blank, caught in some invisible nightmare.
Callum crossed the room fast, crouched by the side of the bed.
"Lara, hey—hey, it's me. It's Mr. Hayes. You're okay. You're safe."
He touched her shoulder gently, shaking her.
She blinked once. Then again.
Clarity returned slowly, her body going from rigid to trembling. Her lower lip quivered. Tears spilled fast down her cheeks.
"Mr. Hayes…?"
Callum wrapped his arms around her without hesitation, pulling her into his chest.
"You're okay," he whispered. "You were dreaming. No one is here. It was just a nightmare."
She sobbed softly, curling into him, her hands gripping the back of his shirt.
"It felt so real," she whispered against his chest.
"I know. But you're here. I'm here. No one's going to hurt you."
He held her like that until her sobs dulled, until her breathing slowed, until her fingers loosened in the fabric of his clothes.
He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her. Her eyes were heavy, lids fluttering with exhaustion, her face flushed and tear-stained.
"Try to sleep," he said gently, beginning to rise. "I'll be just outside if you need anything."
But her hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his wrist.
"Please don't go. Stay with me. Just until I fall asleep."
Callum froze.
She looked up at him with those wide, pleading eyes. She looked so small again. So breakable.
And that broke him.
He opened his mouth to say no.
He should have said no.
But his body betrayed him before his voice could. He was already hard, just from holding her, from smelling her hair, from the warmth of her in his arms. The thought of lying beside her only made it worse.
His stomach turned in disgust. At himself. At his lack of control.
What the hell was wrong with him?
But then he looked at her again.
Tears still drying on her cheeks. Fingers curled around his wrist like he was the only thing keeping her from sinking.
God.
He let out a slow, quiet breath. "Okay," he said, barely above a whisper.
He walked around to the far side of the bed and sat down, stiff and still.
"Sleep," he said. "I'll stay right here. I'll watch over you."
She nodded slowly, curling beneath the blanket.
Callum kept his back turned to her, his eyes fixed on the wall. Every muscle in his body remained tense. He sat there, unmoving, like some kind of stone sentinel.
Time crawled.
Minutes passed.
Maybe longer.
Eventually, her breathing evened out. Her body relaxed into sleep.
He glanced over his shoulder once, just to make sure. Her lips were parted slightly, face peaceful now, lashes dark against her cheeks.
He leaned back slowly, easing down against the mattress with the same caution he used around exposed wires.
Just rest his eyes, he told himself. Just a minute.
He didn't realize when sleep took him.
But it did.
The first thing Callum noticed was the soft glow behind his eyelids. The lamp was still on. He hadn't meant to sleep. His body felt heavy, stiff—and warm.
Then he felt it.
A hand.
Resting gently on his chest.
His heart thudded, eyes still shut. He stayed still, hoping it would go away. Hoping she was still asleep.
But the hand moved.
His breath caught as her fingers lightly grazed over the thin fabric of his shirt, trailing down the line of his sternum. He shifted slightly, trying to discourage her—or at the very least, to hide the growing erection between his legs. The shame of it curled in his stomach, tightening like a fist.
Then her fingers shifted again, slipping toward the exposed part of his forearm where his sleeves had ridden up. Her touch was slow, tracing the line of muscle, raising goosebumps as she went.
Callum's entire body was tight, braced, heart pounding so loudly he was sure she could hear it.
Then her fingers wandered again.
Lower.
From his forearm down to the waistband of his joggers.
And then lower still.
His entire body locked as her hand grazed the hard outline of him beneath the fabric, and his lungs stuttered, caught between a gasp and a groan. He wanted to tell her to stop. Wanted to sit up, move away, say something—anything that would make this less wrong.
But the words jammed in his throat. Because she knew. She could feel it. The way he pulsed under her palm, the way the fabric did nothing to hide how aroused he was. And she didn't pull back.
He clenched his jaw, eyes still shut, his hands digging into the sheet. This was a line. This was a boundary.
This was not how things were supposed to go.
But her touch was soft. Deliberate. Not naive, not confused.
And that terrified him more than anything else.
His mind scrambled for a way out. A way to stop this gently, quietly, without shattering whatever fragile thing existed between them. He almost groaned when her fingers began to slowly move along his length through his joggers—a teasing pump, cautious, but unmistakably intentional.
He was getting harder. His hips tensed in betrayal, the ache unbearable now. He could feel the damp patch of pre-cum spreading at the tip, sticking to the inside of his pants.
He nearly sat up.
But then she paused.
Her hand stilled, hovering like she feared he might stir. He felt the hesitation in her touch, the stillness of someone unsure.
So he stayed still.
Just a few more seconds. She'd think he was asleep. That it was just a reaction—a biological accident. She wouldn't know.
She wouldn't know how close he was to breaking.
It was just curiosity, he told himself.
Just curiosity.
He was safe.
He repeated it like a prayer.