Chapter Forty Five.

TW: This chapter contains brief mention/implications of sexual child abuse. If this is something that you find triggering or overwhelming please take care of yourself, do whats right for you and simply know our Callum is slowly coming back to us and the story will progress/lighten back up a bit from here.❤️

The tension lingers long after the conversation ends. Micah finishes cooking, though none of us move to set the table. Theo taps his fingers against the wood in a steady rhythm, while Elias stares at the floor, lost in thought.

I glance up toward the stairs, where Callum’s door remains firmly shut. He hasn’t come out, hasn’t said a word. It’s not like him. Even when he’s tired, even when he’s stressed, he always shows up. He makes tea, he hums while cooking, he fusses over Micah’s posture when he’s working too long.

Now? Nothing.

I hate it.

I push back from the counter, ignoring the way Theo’s gaze flicks to me in warning. “I’m going to spend more time with him.”

Elias doesn’t stop me, but his voice is low when he says, “Give him space, Ivy.”

I pause at the doorway, my hands curling into fists. “He’s had space.” My voice is sharper than I intend. “And it’s not helping.”

Micah sighs, rubbing his temples. “Just… be careful with what you say.”

I nod, then make my way up the stairs.

I knock lightly on Callum’s door. No answer.

I push it open.

The room is dim, curtains drawn tight. Callum is curled up on the bed, facing the wall. He doesn’t move when I step inside.

“Callum?” I keep my voice soft.

Nothing.

I hesitate, then sit on the edge of the bed, close enough to feel his warmth but not enough to crowd him. “Dinner’s ready.”

Still no response.

I watch the slow rise and fall of his breathing. From this close, I can see the way his fingers twitch against the sheets. The tension in his shoulders. He’s awake. He just… doesn’t want to talk.

My chest tightens. “Callum, please.”

A long silence. Then, barely above a whisper—

“I can’t stop seeing it.”

I inhale sharply. “Seeing what?”

His breath shudders. “Them.”

I swallow. “The ones who attacked you?”

A pause. Then, slowly, he shakes his head.

Dread coils in my stomach.

“It’s not just them,” he murmurs. His voice is hoarse, like it hurts to speak. “It’s—it’s before.” His fingers curl tighter into the sheets. “I don’t know why it’s back. It just is.”

I don’t know what to say.

I reach for him slowly, carefully, pressing my hand over his. His skin is cold. “Callum…”

He finally turns his head toward me. His eyes are red-rimmed, distant.

“I thought I was past it,” he whispers. “I thought—I thought it didn’t matter anymore.” His throat bobs. “But it does. It always did.”

My heart aches.

I squeeze his hand. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

He closes his eyes. “Then why does it feel like I do?”

I don’t have an answer.

I just hold his hand tighter and hope it’s enough to keep him here with me.

I stay beside him, my fingers curled around his, grounding him in the way I wish I could do more. The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy, but I don’t push. I just wait.

Minutes pass. His breathing evens out, but his grip on my hand stays tight, like he’s afraid to let go.

Then, so quietly I almost don’t hear it—

“I was seven.”

I freeze.

Callum stares at the ceiling now, his expression unreadable, but his hand trembles in mine.

I don’t breathe. I just listen.

“There was a pack we lived next door too,” he continues, voice detached. “My parents didn’t trust them, but they did business together, so we had to be polite.” His lip curls slightly, like the word tastes foul.

My heart is already sinking.

Callum swallows hard. “One of their Alphas took an interest in me.”

My grip on his hand tightens.

“I don’t remember much about him. Just that he smelled wrong. He used to—” He stops, jaw tightening. A shaky breath. “I never told anyone, not really. My parents knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t explain it.” His voice wavers. “I didn’t have the words.”

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment.

“I thought it was over. I went to therapy, told our pack. When we left, when I got older, I thought—I thought it didn’t matter anymore.” He lets out a short, bitter laugh. “And then they grabbed me the other day, and suddenly I was seven again.”

Tears burn at the back of my eyes.

I hate this. I hate that he went through this. I hate that he thought he had to go through it alone.

I shift closer, wrapping my arms around him carefully, giving him time to pull away if he wants to. He doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales shakily and leans into me.

“I don’t want to be afraid,” he whispers.

I press my forehead against his, my own breath unsteady. “You’re not alone,” I murmur. “We’re going to figure this out. Together.”

His fingers dig into my sleeve.

I hold him tighter.

And in the quiet, I promise myself—I won’t let him go through this alone. Not ever again.

I don’t know how long we stay like that, wrapped up in each other in the quiet of his room. Callum’s body is still tense, but he’s here. Not completely shut down. Not lost in his own mind. Just here.

It’s a start.

I rub slow circles against his back. “Come eat with us.”

His breath catches. “I—”

“Just for a little while,” I say softly. “You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to do anything. Just sit with us.”

His fingers twitch against my sleeve. “I don’t know if I can.”

My heart aches. I lean back enough to meet his eyes. “Then let us take care of you.”

He hesitates. I see the conflict in his expression, the part of him that wants to say no, to retreat back into himself. But there’s also a flicker of something else—something exhausted but willing.

“…Okay.”

Relief floods through me. I smile, trying not to let it show just how much I needed him to say yes. “Come on. Before Elias starts pacing again and Theo gets that scary overprotective look.”

That gets me a tiny, breathy laugh. It’s small, but it’s something.

I help him sit up, making sure he doesn’t feel rushed. He moves slowly, stiffly, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t pull away.

Progress.

When we step into the dining room, the conversation halts instantly.

Three pairs of eyes snap to us.

Elias, standing at the head of the table, goes completely still. Theo, who had been drumming his fingers against the wood, straightens immediately. Micah, halfway through setting down a bowl, nearly drops it.

Callum fidgets beside me. I tighten my grip on his wrist before letting go, giving him space.

“…Hey,” he says quietly.

No one moves for a second. Then—

“Hey,” Micah says, tone gentle but full of warmth. He pulls out Callum’s chair like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Callum hesitates, then sits.

Elias doesn’t say anything. He just exhales softly and places a bowl in front of him, like this was always the plan. Theo slides a cup of tea within reach without a word.

It’s care, not suffocating attention. Just quiet, steady presence.

And for the first time in days, Callum stays.

He doesn’t eat much, doesn’t say much, but he stays.

And for now, that’s enough.