Callum chuckled. “I was just offering a hand. But if you’d rather struggle, I can absolutely stand by and enjoy the show, if it comes to that.”
Alejandra pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. “If it comes to that, huh?”
Callum leaned in slightly, his eyes drifting to her mouth before he caught himself. “Not like I’ve thought about breaking the no contact rule every damn day for the past seven months or anything.”
“You kinda did.”
“And... did you enjoy the books?” he asked, pulling back just enough to keep his hands to himself.
“Yes.” Her face is lit up. “Cleo’s book was amazing, and both the Mabinogion and Maia’s one were really good too. I devoured them in days. There wasn’t much else to do.” Her tone softened. “And thank you. You didn’t have to. It must have cost a lot.”
“When I shattered my knee, I would’ve killed for a care package,” he said, bending down to grab a stack of boxes. “So I figured... maybe you’d like one too.”
“How’d that happen?” she asked, leaning on the counter with her good arm. Her black hair was pushed back with a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses, revealing ears full of small, mismatched earrings.
“A car accident when I lived in the States.”
Alejandra studied him. “Do you want to talk about it? Or should I stop asking questions?”
He set the box down and ran a hand through his cropped hair—reflex. He’d been so used to having longer hair that the habit stuck.
Her eyes followed the motion.
“I can talk about it. It’s been a long time.”
He returned to the counter, leaning beside her, forearms resting against the cool surface as if grounding himself there.
“I got a scholarship from Harvard University. Swim team. I was good, really good. The goal was the Olympics that year. I’d already won a few World Championships. I’ve always been a better swimmer than accountant, that’s for sure.”
A faint, almost self-deprecating smile crossed his face, but it didn’t last.
“But then a drunk driver hit my car and shattered my knee.” He said it evenly, he had repeated the sentence enough times for it to lose its sharpest edges. “Multiple fractures. Ligaments gone. Surgeries. Months of rehab.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“I should have been glad I was alive. Everyone kept telling me that. My parents. The doctors. My ex.” He let out a small breath through his nose. “But at the beginning, all I could see was that I wasn’t going to the Olympics anymore. That was it. My sole purpose was gone. Done. No more competitions if I wanted to keep walking properly.”
He paused, eyes unfocused, replaying all those moments in his head for a brief moment.
“They told me I could go back to swimming recreationally. Light training. Nothing competitive. Not at that level. Not if I wanted to avoid destroying what was left of my knee.”
His fingers tapped once against the counter.
“I finished school. I wasn’t going to throw that away too. But after that, I moved back to the UK for my master’s. Figured if I couldn’t use my body the way I’d planned, I’d better use my brain.”
He looked at her then. She was trying not to show how much it affected her. She kept her posture straight, chin lifted, but he saw it, that flicker in her eyes. Recognition. Grief that wasn’t hers and yet somehow was. The quiet heartbreak that mirrored something inside him.
“I… I didn’t know that,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. That must’ve been really hard.”
“It was.”
“I pitied myself for a long time. Longer than I like to admit. I couldn’t even watch those Olympics. I was supposed to be there. I knew the pool. I knew the lanes. I knew exactly what it felt like to dive in.” His voice lowered. “And I was on my couch instead, with ice on my knee.”
Silence lingered between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.
“But eventually…” He shifted his weight slightly. “I found purpose again. Lamina helped. Building something from scratch. Competing in a different way. It’s not the same—it will never be the same—but I’ve made peace with that part of my life.”
She studied him carefully. “How long did it take?” Almost a whisper, as if afraid the answer might be fragile.
