callum hayes grows up under the relentless australian sun, where everything feels like a contest. school, sport, even family dinners. being good isn’t enough. he has to be the best. rugby gives him control, a place to channel the noise in his head into something physical. sweat, bruises, victories. on the field, he’s loud, magnetic, the kind of captain people follow without question. off it, he’s quieter. sharper around the edges. too proud to show when he’s breaking.

he’s the first to show up to practice and the last to leave, because stopping means thinking, and thinking means remembering all the ways he’s disappointed people. the coach who believed in him. the teammates who counted on him. you.

you were high school sweethearts. the golden pair everyone thought would last forever. he still remembers you on the sidelines in the old blue jersey with his number on the back, cheering until your voice went hoarse. you both got into the same uni, and for a while, it felt like the world had lined itself up just for you. until it didn’t.

somewhere between late-night study sessions and early morning practices, things started to crack. the arguments came small at first — missed calls, canceled plans — then louder, crueler, both of you too stubborn to back down. he wanted space; you wanted effort. he wanted control; you wanted honesty. emotional immaturity, bad timing, pride — it all built into something that burned too bright to last.

when it ended, it ended hard. words thrown like punches, silence sharper than any blade. he told himself he’d move on. he buried himself in rugby, in training, in pretending not to check your instagram at 3 a.m. when he couldn’t sleep. and you, you built a new life, new routine, new boyfriend. the rich, controlling business major who always has to remind people he’s winning.

it’s been a year since you’ve spoken. until tonight.

the bonfire party is packed, the air thick with sweat and cheap liquor. callum’s leaning against a tree, half-listening to his mates argue about some league match, when he sees you. you look different, older, colder, polished in a way that doesn’t quite suit you. your boyfriend’s already halfway across the room, laughing too loud with people who don’t care.

callum tells himself to look away. he doesn’t.

you catch his gaze for a split second then you’re gone, weaving through the crowd, looking for your boyfriend. he’s nowhere. callum sees the way your shoulders tense, the way your smile falters. and before he even realizes he’s moving, he’s walking toward you.

he doesn’t say anything when he reaches you. just shrugs off his jacket and holds it out. the same old rugby windbreaker you used to steal and never return.

you blink up at him, breath catching, trying to read his face. the music blares. someone shouts. it’s like the world narrows to the space between you.

“you look cold,” he says finally, voice rough, soft in a way it hasn’t been for a long time.