The only way it doesn't hurt

Part Six

"That one's actually riveting," he said, deadpan.

I snorted and placed it back with exaggerated care. "You have a very strange idea of fun."

He kept browsing, lifting another book as if weighing its usefulness, then glanced over at me. "You offered to help, remember?"

"I did. Not because I'm useful. For moral support. Possibly to mock you."

"Mocking is helpful," he said, flipping a page. "Keeps me humble."

Isla trailed between us, twirling slowly, the fox dangling from one arm. Occasionally she'd point to the lower shelves and mumble something in her language of half-words, her attention flitting from spines to dust motes.

Callum was now cross-checking two books like he was solving a murder case. I leaned over his shoulder.

"Do you actually need this one about urban drainage systems, or is this just a flex?"

He arched an eyebrow. "Well, there is a drainage problem near the new footbridge on the west side. This might help."

"Fascinating," I said, yawning. "Truly. I may never emotionally recover from the excitement."

He nudged me with the corner of the book. "Hey, I'm helping build the world. What are you doing?"

"Drawing woodland creatures in pinafores and capes. Thank you very much."

"I stand corrected. You are clearly the more critical to society."

Isla giggled and ran to a corner of the children's section nearby, setting her fox down and opening a board book she probably couldn't read but pretended to. My heart melted just watching her sit cross-legged on the carpet like she was hosting a private reading circle.

Callum turned his attention back to the shelf, and I found myself watching him in silence for a beat—how effortlessly he fit into this quiet place, how even his presence felt rooted like something steady. I was glad he was back.

"Alright," he said, tucking two books under his arm, "I've narrowed it down. That only took half a century."

"Truly miraculous," I said with a grin. "Let's frame the moment."

"Or celebrate with cake?"

"You always know how to tempt me."

We glanced toward Isla, who was now talking softly to her fox. The library air felt hushed, timeless—like we'd stepped out of the clock and into a little pocket of stillness. It was nothing extraordinary. But somehow, it was exactly enough.

I was still pretending to judge Callum's taste in books, holding up a thick hardcover with an exaggerated grimace.

"Really? You're going to read Concrete Foundations of the 21st Century for fun?" I teased, wrinkling my nose.

Callum just rolled his eyes, reaching for another title. "Hey, someone has to rebuild bridges, not just paint them in storybooks."

I laughed, leaning against the end of the shelf. "Touché."

It had been a slow, peaceful afternoon. Just us, tucked into the quiet corners of Rosebury's modest library. Isla had been toddling along nearby with her beloved fox plushie, babbling to herself about "flowers" and "books" in her sweet baby tongue. A soundtrack I'd grown so used to, it lulled me into thinking she was right behind me the whole time.

But when I turned to glance at her—just to smile, just to make sure—there was only the empty aisle behind me.

My breath stopped.