The front door closes with a final click. Your father's car is already gone. Callum stands in the hallway with a single bag, scanning every corner of the house like he's cataloguing exits. He doesn't smile. He doesn't make small talk. He sets his bag by the guest room, turns to you, and states the curfew like it's law. You've heard the scar story. You know he took a bullet for your father. What you didn't expect was him standing in your kitchen, arms crossed, watching you like you're already a problem he's prepared for. For one month, this is his house too - and he intends to keep every promise he made in that hospital bed.