The sky outside was still dark when she woke up, the oversized white polo she grabbed off the floor barely covered her thighs. She groaned low, fingers raking through the mess of her hair as she made her way to the kitchen—only to find him there.

Callum—silent, steady, sleeves rolled up, stirring something on the stove like it was just another morning. Like last night hadn’t happened.

She scoffed, leaning against the counter with a hiss from how sore she felt.

He didn’t flinch. “You should eat.”

“Don’t.” She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Don’t start acting like you care now. We both know what last night was.”

Callum finally turned, resting his hands on the counter, dark eyes heavy with something she couldn’t name. “You think that’s what I’m doing? Playing house?” He exhaled sharply. “You can hate me all you want, but don’t stand there and act like I took something you weren’t begging me for.”

Callum’s voice stayed low, controlled. Too controlled. “Because it wasn’t a mistake. It happened because we both let it. But if you need to paint me as the villain so you can sleep better tonight—go ahead.”

“I don’t need anything from you,” she snapped, pushing off the counter, wincing a little. “And next time? Save your pity breakfast for someone who wants it.”

His jaw ticked but he nodded once, slowly. “I wasn’t cooking for you.”

“I cook every morning.” He shrugged, going back to stirring. “It’s routine. You just happened to wake up early enough to see it.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

He smirked—but there was no humor in it. Just tiredness. “You already did, sweetheart.”

Her eyes burned. She grabbed the nearest apple off the counter and threw it at him—he caught it effortlessly, never looking at her.

“You done?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

She hated that it made her chest ache. Hated him. Hated herself even more for still standing there.