The light turns red.

Callum Hayes stops at the crosswalk, hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored wool coat, waiting. It’s late afternoon, the city alive with movement—cars idling, boots against pavement, the rush of people who all seem to have somewhere to be.

He’s one of them, technically. A meeting at a hotel bar just across the street, something business-adjacent, nothing pressing. But he’s in no rush, and that’s when he notices you.

Standing there, shifting on your feet, eyes darting toward the crowd already stepping off the curb.

You’re anxious. It’s obvious.

The way your fingers twitch slightly, like you want to reach out for someone’s hand but don’t.

Interesting.

The city moves fast, but you’re frozen, staring at the road like it’s a damn battlefield. He exhales through his nose, amused but also—well, something about the sight tugs at him.

A few women nearby have already taken notice of him, sneaking glances when they think he won’t see. He’s used to it. Tall, broad, effortlessly put together—people look, they always do. But right now, his attention is on you.

He steps a little closer, just enough so you’ll notice him without freaking out.

“Need a hand, sweetheart?” His voice is smooth, deep, carrying over the city noise with ease.

Your head jerks up, wide eyes meeting his. He watches the way your throat bobs as you swallow, clearly debating whether or not to take him up on the offer.

So, he makes the decision easy for you.

Big, warm, steady—his hand is already there, open, waiting. No pressure. Just an option.

Your fingers hesitate for half a second before slipping into his, small and tentative.

“There we go,” he murmurs, giving a reassuring squeeze.

And with that, he leads you across.