Page 11 of The Ache That Stayed

I smiled. “Hi, Callum. Missed you on site today.”

His shoulders stiffened a fraction before he relaxed, rubbing the back of his neck. “That one’s on me,” he said. “Got pulled into a meeting with the contractors.”

Amelia laughed, looping an arm through his. “Translation: I stole him.”

Callum gave me that crooked smile I’d seen a hundred times across scaffolding and blueprints, the reluctant grin of a man turning theory into structure. He was our point of contact in Ireland—the architect coordinating with local contractors, translating my impossible requests into something the contractors could actually build.

Callum was tall, lean, and quietly intense, deliberate in the way he moved, like every gesture had been measured before release. His jaw was sharp, nose pointed, brown hair cropped short on the sides and curling messily on top. A small cross earring hung from his left ear, catching the light when he shifted.

“I love your work,” Amelia said, turning to me. “Our apartment is basically a shrine to brutalist lighting because of you.”

A tight coil loosened in my chest, flooding me with warmth. “That’s… flattering.”

She grinned. Amelia was all sparkle—sharp eyes, blunt bangs, the kind of confidence that took up space without apology. Her laughter spilled like champagne bubbles, sharp and unapologetic.

“I know you two argue like it’s a competitive sport on site,” she continued, “so I’m just hoping tonight doesn’t end in murder.”

Callum shrugged, a quick, crooked smile flashing across his face. “She likes impossible structural changes.”

“They’re not impossible,” I countered mildly. “They’re just inconvenient.”

Amelia leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“That’s his defence mechanism, by the way. He snaps back when he’s intimidated.”

I glanced at Callum. “I don’t think he’s intimidated. I think I’ve made his life hell.”

“And I gave you hell back.” He met my eyes, surprisingly steady now. “You’ve made the structure better.”

I blinked, caught off guard.

“Well,” I said lightly. “That’s what makes work play. You need someone to challenge your authority every now and then.” I winked.

His smile deepened, almost reluctant. “Touché.”

“That’s enough,” Amelia cut in, pointing between us. “No work talk. Not tonight.” She shot Callum a look.

He immediately raised his hands in surrender.

Ritu looped her arm through Jonah’s as we headed inside. Jonah had the kind of careless charm—easy grin, boyish mischief, the type who could trip over his own feet and somehow make it look intentional.

The doors swung open, music rolling out to meet us. The bass thudded through the floor, through my ribs, until my heartbeat surrendered and followed its rhythm. Heat pressed in from every direction—bodies, breath, perfume, sweat. The air tasted like sin pretending to be celebration.

We ordered ourselves a round of shots before heading to the dance floor. The music pulsed as bodies pressed together, finding their own sync with others. We found a pocket of space near the centre of the floor. Music rolled through us like stormy weather.

I danced. Not to be seen or desired. But to feel present inside myself again—and for a few blessed minutes, I belonged only to the music.

My hips moved without thought, arms loose, head tipping back as light fractured everything into gold and shadow. I was just a body in motion, heat and rhythm. For once, I wasn’t a mother, a wife, a survivor—I was just a body in rhythm, a pulse in the storm.

The music swallowed the questions I’d been carrying for weeks. Therapy words. Breathing exercises. Grounding exercises that worked—until they didn’t. The careful way I monitored my own happiness, as though it was temporary.

The guilt of leaving the kids behind. The fear that even peace could vanish if I relaxed too much.

For months I had treated joy like glass, as it were fragile—something that needed protection. But here, under strobe lights and bass that rattled my bones, I didn’t have to guard anything.

Here, movement was enough.

Being alive was enough.