Callum Hayes ꫂ ၴႅၴ Unworthy

The flat was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint clatter of cutlery that Callum tried—and failed—to keep silent. He had woken early—earlier than necessary, really. Old habits had a way of clinging; years of work had trained his body to rise before the sun, even on mornings like this, when there was nowhere to be but here.

Still, he had things to do.

The kitchen counter was scattered with pastel wrappers, ribbons, and half-opened packets he had picked up a few evenings prior, after enduring the relentless teasing of his workmates, who had not let him forget April Fool’s for even a second. Someone had switched his tools; another had sent him to the wrong site entirely. He had taken it all in stride, brushing it off with a quiet laugh, though the thought that followed him home had been singular and persistent—

She’d like this. Easter. Something soft. Something... hers.

So he had prepared.

Breakfast came first—simple, but done properly. Eggs, just the way he knew she preferred, toast lightly crisped, and a small bowl of fruit he had cut more carefully than necessary, as though presentation held any real weight in a home where no one was judging him. Still, he found himself adjusting it once, then twice, before finally leaving it be.

Then came the basket.

It sat at the centre of the table now, slightly uneven, the ribbon tied a touch too tight, but filled generously all the same. Chocolate eggs wrapped in foil, pastel sweets, and a few of those family-sized packets he knew she liked. He had hesitated before taking those, lingering far too long in the aisle, turning the decision over in his mind—whether it was excessive, whether it was foolish.

In the end, he had taken them anyway.

Because it was for her.

Callum exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting across the apartment as though checking for flaws only he could see. Everything was in place. More or less.

There was just one last thing.

Moving quietly through the living room, he crouched to tuck away smaller surprises—behind cushions, along shelves, near the window where the morning light would catch just right. It was a simple, almost childish activity, and he could not quite say what had compelled him to do it. Perhaps it was the season itself. Spring had always carried something with it—a quiet sort of hope, the kind that crept in unnoticed. The softening air, the return of colour, the sense that things could begin again.

That things could stay good.

That she might stay.

The thought settled heavier than he liked, and he straightened quickly, brushing his hands against his jeans as though to rid himself of it. A glance at the clock told him it was already late morning.

She was still asleep.

Of course she was.

A faint smile tugged at his mouth as he made his way back to the bedroom, his steps instinctively quieter now, as though the moment itself required gentleness. The sight of her stilled him, if only for a moment. There was something about it—about her, resting so easily, untouched by the weight he carried so habitually—that made his chest ache in a way he never quite knew how to name.

Carefully, he slipped back under the covers, the mattress dipping slightly beneath his weight. His arm found its place around her without thought, drawing her gently closer, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Baby,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and something softer beneath it, “wake up... it’s nearly noon.”

He nudged his face into the crook of her neck, breathing her in, grounding himself in something warm, something real. A quiet huff of amusement followed, low and fond.

“If you don’t,” he added, “I’m hiding all your treats for a year.”

He didn’t mean it. He never did.

He would give in within minutes, same as always.

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By the time Callum arrived, the evening was already in full swing.

He had come straight from work. There had been no time to go home, no chance to wash properly or change into something that did not carry the faint scent of dust, metal, and sweat. He had tried, at least—a quick rinse at the site, a clean shirt pulled on in the cramped space of a locker, sleeves rolled in a way that looked more deliberate than it truly was.

It wasn’t enough.

He knew that the moment he stepped inside.

The room felt... different. Polished in a way he could not replicate, refined in a way that seemed effortless to everyone else. Conversations were low and measured, laughter softer, controlled. People spoke with a kind of quiet assurance, as though their lives were already set on clear, upward paths—degrees, careers, futures that made sense.

Callum kept his posture easy, shoulders relaxed, though the instinct to retreat lingered just beneath the surface. His hands slipped briefly into his pockets before he forced them out again, grounding himself. He wasn’t here for them.

He was here for her.

That alone steadied him, even if only slightly.

Still, he found himself lingering at the edges of conversations more often than not, listening more than he spoke. When addressed, he answered politely, careful with his words, never quite certain how much was too much—or too little. It was a balance he had never fully learned, not in rooms like these.

His gaze drifted, almost unconsciously.

And then it found her.

It always did.

She stood among them as though she belonged there—effortless, composed, her presence fitting seamlessly into a world that felt, to him, just out of reach. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine it—to picture standing beside her without that quiet sense of displacement, speaking as easily as the others did, belonging as naturally as they seemed to.

The image did not hold.

Not for long.

A voice nearby drew his attention—someone speaking about studying abroad, about medical school, about opportunities waiting just beyond the horizon. Callum did not catch every word, but he caught enough. Enough to understand. Enough to see the way she smiled, engaged, present in a way that made something in his chest tighten.

And, without meaning to, he imagined it.

Her, in that life. Beside someone like that.

Someone who understood her world without effort. Someone who could match her step for step, without hesitation.

The thought did not spark jealousy.

Only a quiet, persistent ache.

Because if it came down to it—if she were given that choice—he did not think he would blame her.

Not when all he could offer were calloused hands and long hours, a life built on labour rather than promise.

The thought followed him for the rest of the night, settling somewhere deep, somewhere difficult to ignore.

The flat felt smaller when they returned. Quieter. Familiar in a way that loosened something in his chest.

Callum moved through it with ease now, shedding the tension he had not realised he’d been carrying. His shirt was discarded somewhere along the way, replaced with something softer, more worn—something that felt like him again. The bathroom light flicked off, the bedroom dimmed, and for a moment, the world narrowed back down to something manageable.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting against his knees, hands loosely clasped.

He should let it go.

He knew that.

And yet, the thought lingered, persistent in a way that made silence feel heavier than it should.

“If one day you...” His voice came quieter than intended, and he paused, exhaling softly as though reconsidering the words even as they left him.

His gaze dropped briefly to his hands before he continued.

“...find someone better, I won’t make it hard for you.”

The words were steady, almost matter-of-fact, as though he had already turned them over countless times in his mind. There was no anger in it, no accusation—only a quiet acceptance that sat heavier than either.

Callum rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, a faint, self-conscious huff escaping him as he shook his head slightly.

“Not that I want you to,” he added, more quietly.

A brief pause followed.

Then, softer still—

“Just... you deserve the choice.”

The weeks leading up to it had been busy.

Busier than usual, even for him. The project had demanded longer hours, earlier mornings, later nights—days that blurred into one another until time itself felt indistinct. By the time Callum returned home, it was often well past dark, his body heavy with exhaustion, his hands carrying the familiar ache of labour that never quite left him.

Still, he showed up.

In the quiet ways he knew how.

Meals prepared when he could manage it, small things taken care of without mention, his presence lingering even when words were few. It was not that he did not want to give more—only that he had never quite learned how to balance everything without something slipping through the cracks.

And perhaps... something had.

He noticed it, in passing. The subtle shifts. The spaces that seemed to stretch a little wider between them, even within the same walls. Nothing overt. Nothing he could name without feeling as though he were imagining it.

So he said nothing.

Told himself it was temporary. That things would settle once the work did.

That she would still be there.

It did not occur to Callum that she might be joking.

The thought never crossed his mind—not because he lacked imagination, but because somewhere along the way, he had already prepared himself for this exact moment. Not consciously, not in any way he would admit aloud, but in the quiet corners of his mind where doubt had long since taken root.

So when the words came, he did not question them.

He accepted them.

There was no immediate reaction—no sharp inhale, no visible flinch. If anything, he grew still, as though something within him had simply settled into place. His gaze remained where it was, fixed somewhere just past her, unfocused in a way that suggested he was no longer seeing the room at all.

He had always known this was a possibility.

He just had not expected it to feel so quiet.

Callum swallowed once, slow and deliberate, his jaw tightening briefly before easing again. His hands shifted slightly where they rested, rough fingers brushing against calloused skin as though he had momentarily forgotten what to do with them.

A small nod followed, almost absent-minded, as if he were acknowledging something routine rather than something that threatened to unmake him.

“Yeah,” he said at last, his voice steady—too steady. “Yeah, alright.”

There was no anger in it. No desperation. Only acceptance, plain and unembellished.

Because what right did he have to argue?

His gaze dropped, not in avoidance, but in thought—turning it over, fitting it into the shape his mind had already carved out for it.

She deserved more.

The conclusion came easily. It always had.

Someone better suited to her world. Someone who could stand beside her without that constant, quiet sense of being out of place. Someone who did not come home with dirt beneath his nails and exhaustion stitched into his bones. Someone who would not have to try so hard just to feel like enough.

His thumb brushed absently against his palm, catching against the ridges of worn skin there, grounding himself in something familiar.

“That’s... fair,” he added after a moment, quieter now.

It was not, perhaps—but he would not be the one to say so.

A measured breath left him, controlled, though it did little to ease the weight pressing against his chest. He straightened slightly where he stood, as though instinct alone demanded that he hold himself together, even now.

Even like this.

“I won’t make it difficult for you,” he continued, the words coming easier the second time, repetition dulling their edge. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

Because he meant it.

Even now—especially now—he would not be the reason she stayed somewhere she no longer wished to be. That had never been the kind of man he wanted to become.

His gaze lifted then, resting on her for a brief moment longer than necessary. There was something there, buried beneath restraint—something softer, something that threatened to surface if he allowed it.

So he didn’t.

Instead, he gave a small nod, more to himself than to her.

“Just... be happy, yeah?”

The words were simple.

The simplest, perhaps.

And yet, they cost him more than he would ever say aloud.

.