Page 14 of Wild Thorns

Obsession

Over the next week, I conducted an informal study of Callum Voss.

It wasn't intentional, at first. I was simply aware of him in a way I couldn't seem to control. My body tracked his presence the way a compass tracked north, orienting toward him without my permission, cataloguing his movements even when I was trying to focus on something else entirely.

Day one: I passed him on the stairs, coming down while he was coming up. The staircase was narrow, the morning light slanting through the railing in golden bars, and there was a moment where we had to navigate around each other, bodies close enough that I caught his scent. Cedar. Something earthy, warm and animal, nothing like cologne.

"Good morning," I said.

"Morning," he said.

And then nothing. He continued up. I continued down. The entire interaction lasted maybe four seconds.

But I noticed the way his eyes tracked me. Not just looking, but watching, the same way I'd seen him watch the treeline from the yard. Taking inventory. Assessing. The way his nostrils flared slightly when I passed, like he was breathing me in. The way his whole body seemed to orient toward mine, a subtle shift in posture, shoulders squaring, weight settling differently on his feet.

I wanted to write it off as imagination. The certainty in my bones wouldn't allow it.

Day two: I was on my porch with coffee, watching the morning happen, when movement in the yard below caught my attention.

Callum was in the backyard, shirtless now, chopping wood.

The morning sun turned his skin golden, highlighting every ridge of muscle across his back, every flex of his arms as he swung the axe. His body was a sculpture of controlled power: broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, abs that looked like they'd been carved from stone, obliques cutting sharp lines toward his hips. A line of dark hair trailed down from his navel and disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

I watched the axe rise. Watched the controlled explosion of force as it came down. Watched the wood split clean, falling away in two perfect halves.

He paused, sensing something. Looked up.

Our eyes met across thirty feet of yard. I waved, feeling caught, feeling stupid for waving like this was a normal thing, like I hadn't been staring at him for the past ten minutes.

He nodded. One sharp dip of his chin. Then turned back to his work.

Words exchanged: zero. But his gaze had lingered on me for a long moment before he looked away, and I could have sworn I saw his jaw tighten. Could have sworn something flickered in those dark eyes, something that looked almost like frustration.

I stayed on the porch longer than I needed to. Told myself it was the coffee. The morning air. The way the light played through the magnolia leaves, turning everything soft and golden.

It was none of those things.

I watched him work until he finished the pile. Watched the economy of his movements, the way he never wasted effort. Every swing was precise. Every motion had purpose. There was something almost hypnotic about it: the rhythm of the axe, the crack of splitting wood, the way his body moved like it had been designed for exactly this kind of work.

When he finally set the axe down and stretched, rolling his shoulders, I looked away too fast. My coffee was cold. I'd been sitting there for forty-five minutes.

This was becoming a problem.

Day three: We ended up at The Daily Grind at the same time.

I was in line, studying the chalkboard menu I'd already memorized, when the bell above the door jangled. The shift in the air told me before I turned.

Callum.

He took his place in line behind me. Not quite beside me, not quite behind me, but somewhere in between. Close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off his body. Close enough that when I shifted my weight, I almost brushed against him.

He went still when that happened. Completely, perfectly still, like a man forcing himself not to move.

"Hi," I said, because the silence was becoming unbearable.

"Hi," he said.

His voice was low, rough, like he didn't use it often enough to keep it smooth. Two words. Two syllables. It shouldn't have affected me the way it did.