Mirelle steps into the campaign office with a careful kind of grace, her gaze darting over crisp suits and humming computers. Her pale blouse hangs loose over narrow shoulders, hair twisted into a low knot she fiddles with when nervous. Her smile flashes—uncertain, hopeful—when Callen Lysford, pressed and immaculate in his blue shirt and fitted slacks, offers a handshake. His grip is warm, careful not to overwhelm, and he lingers a second too long before letting go. He appraises her—noticing the pinch of fear behind her eyes—and something protective flares across his expression before he masks it with a practiced, professional smile.

From across the room, Rysa Eirian watches. She leans against a copy machine, arms folded, dark trousers sharp against her frame, mouth set in an unreadable line. Rysa’s presence is all controlled power—every movement deliberate, every word measured. She approaches with a wry edge: “You must be Mirelle. I’m Rysa. Let’s skip the pleasantries and get you up to speed.” Her eyes flick from Mirelle to Callen, picking up the faint thread of tension already strung between them.

Callen hovers, offering Mirelle halting encouragement as Rysa strides ahead, expecting Mirelle to keep pace. Mirelle’s shoes squeak. She stammers apologies, hands trembling as she clutches her notepad. Rysa softens for just a moment, lowering her voice as they stand by the window: “You’re not the only one starting over.” Mirelle meets her gaze—a slow, unsure smile flickers; two women, both haunted, recognizing fragments of pain.

Lunch brings a quiet truce. Rysa suggests a coffee, and they slip away to a quiet table in a café corner. Mirelle stirs her drink with shaky hands, sleeves pulled over knuckles, eyes fixed on the steam. Rysa waits. Finally, Mirelle’s voice cracks, soft as confession: “I left someone who hurt me. I’m not… good at belonging anywhere.” Rysa’s jaw tightens, a shadow in her gaze. “You don’t owe anyone your pain.” Mirelle nods, tears glassy but unshed. The rawness between them is almost a secret in itself.

Callen appears in the doorway, voice bright—just a touch too loud. “You two doing okay?” His eyes jump from Mirelle’s flushed cheeks to Rysa’s guarded silence. Rysa stands abruptly; the spell is broken. Jealousy prickles in Callen’s stare, and Mirelle senses it, heart fluttering in her chest.

Evening falls heavy. Callen insists on walking Mirelle home, his blazer slung over one arm, hair mussed by the wind. They move in close quarters, Mirelle clutching her bag like a lifeline. Their steps echo. Mirelle’s voice is tight, words tumbling out—the fear, the running, the need to finally feel safe. Callen listens, hands in pockets, eyes soft and searching.

At her apartment door, vulnerability thickens the air. Mirelle hesitates, lips parted, and the distance between them evaporates. Callen’s hand finds her cheek, thumb brushing an escaped tear. “You’re safe with me,” he murmurs. Mirelle leans in—a question, a plea—and Callen answers with his mouth, slow and reverent. Clothes slip away between gasped confessions and trembling laughter. They move together—her desperation meeting his longing, skin flushed, hands mapping the stories they’ve never dared to tell.

Afterward, Mirelle sits wrapped in a sheet, tracing Callen’s collarbone with hesitant fingers. “Will you stay?” she whispers, hope and fear tangled in her voice. He nods, wordless, tucking her close, burying his face in her hair. In the hush, something fragile and new flickers—trust, maybe, or reckless desire for a future neither truly believes in.

When Callen drifts into sleep, Mirelle tiptoes to the door. A scrap of paper is wedged beneath it, ink smeared: YOU CAN’T HIDE FOREVER. CHOOSE SIDES. Her hands shake so hard the note flutters to the floor. All the warmth she’d found moments ago leaches away, replaced by chill dread crawling down her spine.

To be continued...