Chapter 55: Domestic Distractions
The loft was a cathedral of cardboard.
Golden afternoon light, thick with dust motes, poured through the massive windows and pooled on the wide-plank floors. Boxes stood in haphazard congregations, some gaping open, others still sealed with thick strips of tape. The air smelled of sawdust, fresh paint, and the peculiar mustiness of old paper.
Aurora sat in a small cleared circle, surrounded by a fortress of books. She was pulling them from a cardboard box labeled ‘FICTION A-L’ in her neat, looping script, stacking them into precarious towers on the floor. Her glasses had slid down her nose, and she absently pushed them back with a knuckle, leaving a smudge of dust on the lens.
From across the vast space came the rhythmic, metallic snick of a ratchet wrench.
Callum was a study in focused motion, kneeling amidst a debris field of plywood, screws, and ominous-looking brackets. The instructions for the ‘Självständig’ writing desk were spread out before him, a hieroglyphic puzzle of diagrams. A lock of dark hair fell over his forehead as he frowned at a piece of wood, his biceps straining slightly as he tested the fit of a joint. He’d discarded his jersey hours ago, working now in a simple grey t-shirt that was darkened with sweat across the shoulders.
“This thing is a menace,” he declared, his voice echoing in the empty space. He held up a curiously shaped cam lock. “What even is this? It looks like a tiny torture device.”
“It’s a cam lock,” Aurora said without looking up, carefully slotting a weathered copy of The Secret History onto her ‘keep’ pile. “You turn it with an Allen key. It’s in the bag with the little wooden pegs.”
“I know what it is,” he grumbled, though he was already digging through the small plastic pouch. “I’m questioning its moral character. And the moral character of whoever designed this deathtrap.”
She smiled, a private little curve of her lips. She loved him like this—not the superstar on the pitch, but the man wrestling with flat-pack furniture, his competency so at odds with the triviality of the task. He attacked it with the same intensity he did a training drill.
For a while, the only sounds were the rustle of pages, the clink of metal, and Callum’s occasional muttered curses in Danish. It was a comfortable, productive silence. This was the promise of the space, she thought. Not grand passion every moment, but this: parallel existence, shared purpose.Building something.
Her gaze drifted from her books to him. The late light gilded the sweat on the column of his throat, caught the fierce concentration in his green eyes. His hands, so often wrapped around a ball or waving to a crowd, were now delicate and precise, aligning dowels. She watched the play of muscles in his forearms, the shift of his shoulders as he leaned into the work. A warm, idle fascination stole over her, slowing her unpacking to a stop.
She was just watching. Memorizing.
“You’re staring,” he said, his voice low. He didn’t look up from the desk leg he was attaching.
“I’m not.”
“You are. You’ve been holding that same book for five minutes. The pages aren’t that interesting.”
“Maybe they are,” she countered, feeling a blush creep up her neck. “It’s Moby-Dick. It’s epic.”
He finally looked up, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. It was the smile that sold a million jerseys, all cocky charm and perfect teeth, but here, now, it was just for her. “You’re on page one of the introduction. I can see the big ‘I’ from here.” He set the wrench down with a definitive click. “You’re distracting the help, sweetheart.”
“I’m a passive observer. You’re supposed to ignore me.”
“Impossible.” He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, wiping his hands on his jeans. He crossed the space between them, his shadow falling over her fortress of books. Before she could protest, he hooked his hands under her arms and hauled her up, pulling her against his chest. Sawdust and sweat and his own clean, warm scent surrounded her.“Callum! The books!”
“The books are fine.” He walked her backwards, her socks slipping on the smooth wood, until the backs of her thighs hit the solid edge of the partially assembled desk. “This,” he said, his voice a rough growl by her ear, “needs a stress test. Quality assurance.”
He hoisted her up to sit on the desk. The wood was cool and solid beneath her. “It’s not finished!” she laughed, bracing her hands on his shoulders.
“The legs are on. That’s the important part.” His hands settled on her waist, large and sure. His gaze was intent, playful but edged with something hotter. “You were studying the help. Seems only fair the help gets to study you back.”
He kissed her then, not gently. It was a claiming, grateful thing, all the pent-up focus from the frustrating furniture channeling into this. She kissed him back, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, her earlier academic detachment going up in flames. The desk held firm, not even a creak.
When they broke apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against hers. “See? Sturdy.”
“A ringing endorsement for the Självständig,” she breathed, her heart hammering.
He laughed, the sound rich and happy in the empty loft. He kept her perched on the desk, standing between her knees, his hands roaming from her waist to cup her face. “This is good,” he said, quieter now, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. “This chaos. Building it with you.”
The sincerity in his voice melted her. She leaned into his touch. “It is.”
His eyes drifted past her, over her shoulder to the boxes. “What’s in that one?” He nodded towards a plastic storage tub, distinct from the cardboard.
A jolt of nerves, sudden and cold, shot through her.“Oh. That’s just… more books. Research stuff.”
His brow furrowed. “For the novel? It looks heavy.” He moved to step around her, curiosity piqued.
“Wait.” The word came out too sharp. She slid off the desk, placing herself between him and the tub. “It’s not for the novel. It’s… it’s personal. Just old things.”
He stopped, his head tilting. He saw it now—the slight panic in her eyes, the protective shift of her body. “Aurora,” he said, his tone softening. “What’s in the box?”
It was the gentle demand that undid her. She’d kept this one secret, a childish, superstitious part of her. But this was the man who’d shared a key to an empty loft because she’d sketched a library next to a pitch. Hiding felt wrong.
She took a shaky breath. “Okay. Just… don’t laugh.”
“I would never.”
“You might.” She knelt down, her fingers fumbling with the latches on the plastic tub. They popped open with a hollow sound. She lifted the lid.
Inside, neatly stacked and ordered, was a history of him. Or rather, a history of his career.
On top lay a vintage jersey from his first professional club in Denmark, the fabric worn soft. Beneath it, a program from his international debut, his young face smiling nervously from the cover. There were ticket stubs—dozens of them—from games spanning years. Press clippings, some laminated, others already yellowing. A few limited edition player cards, still in their protective sleeves. At the very bottom, peeking out, was the deep blue and gold of his current national team kit.
The silence stretched. Aurora couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She stared into the box, feeling utterly exposed. It was one thing to casually watch his games on TV, another to have meticulously curated a physical archive of his ascent.
Callum slowly sank to his knees beside her. He didn’t reach into the box.He just looked. His expression was unreadable.
“You… you said you followed sports. Because of your dad,” he finally said, his voice hushed.
“I do.” She chanced a glance at him. “I just… didn’t specify which team.”
A slow, incredulous smile began to dawn on his face. It wasn’t mocking. It was wonder. “This whole time? All those times I’d complain about a match, or a tough play… you knew. You’d probably already analyzed it.”
She shrugged, the motion tiny. “I might have watched the replays. A few times.”
He reached out, not for the national team jersey, but for a ticket stub from five years ago, a Champions League match in Madrid. The paper was faded. “You were at this one? This was a night match. It went to extra time. It was freezing.”
“I was in the nosebleed seats. Section 512. Row K. I wore two pairs of socks and still lost feeling in my toes.” The memory brought a faint smile to her lips. “You scored the winning penalty. It was the quietest kick I’ve ever heard. The whole stadium just… held its breath.”
He stared at her. The magnitude of it was settling over him. All those anonymous crowds, all that roaring noise, and she had been there, in the quiet corners, watching him. Knowing him before he knew she existed.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” The question was bare, stripped of any accusation, only profound curiosity.
“At first, because you were the famous neighbor. I didn’t want to be a fan. I wanted to be… me. Just Aurora.” She picked at a thread on her sweater. “And then, after… it felt like a secret advantage.My little rebellion. You had the whole world watching you, but I was the one in the cheap seats who actually saw you.” She finally met his eyes. “It was mine.”
Callum looked from her face to the box, this tangible proof of her silent, steadfast witness. A laugh escaped him, short and amazed. He picked up the national team jersey from the bottom. “And this?”
Her blush returned, full force. “That… was a moment of weakness. After the World Cup qualifier last year. You played through a pulled hamstring. They showed you on the bench afterwards, and you looked… so alone in the middle of all that celebration. I bought it online that night. It felt like… I don’t know. A gesture of solidarity. From a fan.”
He held the jersey in his hands, the fabric vibrant against his work-roughened palms. Then, without a word, he pulled it over his head, wrestling it on over his t-shirt. It was a little snug across his shoulders, the name ‘NORDSKOV’ and the number ‘7’ stretching across his back.
He turned to face her, looking utterly absurd and completely sincere. “How do I look?”
A laugh bubbled out of her, part relief, part sheer delight. “Like a very dedicated, slightly unhinged supporter.”
“Good.” He leaned forward, his hands cradling her face again, the synthetic material of the jersey cool against her skin. “My favorite supporter.” He kissed her, softly this time, a sealing of the secret. “Thank you,” he whispered against her lips.
“For what?”
“For being in the cheap seats. For keeping the ticket stubs.” He pulled back, his green eyes shining. “For finally telling me.”
He stood, pulling her up with him, the bright jersey a declaration in the dusty, golden loft. “Now,” he said, steering her back toward the unfinished desk. “I believe we were conducting a structural integrity test. And I think we need a more thorough dataset.”
The box of memories sat open by the wall, no longer a hidden artifact but a part of the foundation. As he lifted her back onto the desk, her back against the unfinished wood, she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer. Outside, the city lights began to wink on in the dusk, but inside their empty cathedral, they were building something far more solid than furniture, piece by secret, shared piece.