Callum should have walked away.
He should have ignored the tears, let the bell drag her back to reality, and moved on with his plan from a distance. But curiosity was a dangerous thing. And for Callum, curiosity always came dressed in strategy.
He approached the bench with calculated ease, lowering himself beside Eira without a word. She didn't react. Her gaze remained fixed somewhere far beyond the sky—like she wasn't really there at all.
Callum tilted his head slightly. "Hey."
No answer.
His voice dropped, softer. "If you need someone... I'm here."
Still nothing.
He hesitated, then reached into the inner pocket of his blazer and pulled out a pristine handkerchief—silk, custom-made, embroidered with his initials in fine gold thread: C. V.
He placed it gently beside her. "You don't have to say anything."
Eira didn't even glance at him. Her shoulders barely moved with her breathing, as if the weight she carried was too heavy for her lungs.
It was... unsettling.
For a moment, Callum forgot about the twisted plan in his head. Forgot about revenge. Instead, he found himself studying her face—the tension in her brows, the quiet way her lips pressed together to stop from trembling, the shine of unshed tears clinging to her lashes.
Something flickered in his chest. He hated it. Whatever it was, it didn't belong.
He stood up, a little too quickly.
"I mean it," he said, a little sharper now, annoyed with himself. "You can lean on me."
That did it.
Eira's hand shot up and grabbed his wrist—tight. Her touch was ice against his skin. She looked at him for the first time, her eyes stormy and sharp. The sadness was still there, but now it was wrapped in suspicion.
"Who are you?" she asked, voice low and rough.
Callum blinked.
For someone so quiet, her presence hit like a freight train.
"It's Callum," he replied, slightly stunned. "Callum Vance. We—uh—share a few classes."
Eira's eyes narrowed. She let go of him abruptly and stood, brushing off her dress like she wanted to erase the moment from her skin.
She turned to leave. But instinct—stupid, irrational instinct—made Callum reach out and grab her wrist.
"Wait," he said. "I wasn't trying to—"
He didn't get to finish.
Her knee shot up into his groin.
Pain exploded through him, white-hot and paralyzing. He crumpled to the ground with a strangled groan, barely able to breathe.
"Oh my god," he gasped. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
But she wasn't done.
Eira stepped forward and shoved him backward, her movements fast, trained—like this wasn't the first time she'd had to defend herself. She didn't speak, didn't scream. Her silence was louder than any insult.
And then she was gone.
The handkerchief lay crumpled on the pavement beside him.
Callum groaned, still curled on the ground, trying to recover from both the physical impact and the emotional whiplash. As he sat up slowly, he caught a glimpse of her figure turning the corner—calm, composed, like nothing happened.
By the time he looked back at the ground...
The handkerchief was gone.
Eira slipped the handkerchief into her pocket as she walked. She hadn't planned to take it—but something about it stuck with her. The fabric was soft, the embroidery striking: C. V.
She hated what happened. Hated even more that it felt necessary.
Why had he approached her? Why now? And why did something about his presence make her feel like she was losing control?
She pulled the handkerchief out again, letting her fingers trace the golden thread. In the corner, a small stitched symbol caught her eye—something she hadn't noticed before.
A dragon with butterfly wings, bound by a red string.
Her breath hitched.
She didn't know what it meant, but it unsettled her.
It felt intentional.
She turned it over. A part of her wanted to toss it in the nearest trash can. Another part—the quieter, more stubborn one—wanted to keep it.
Not because it belonged to him.
But because it had questions sewn into it.
When the bell rang, Eira slipped it back into her pocket.
This wasn't over.
Not even close.