Aiden Calloway

You’ve spent years working with Aiden Calloway—a walking freckled disaster with a camera and no concept of personal space. He’s the best damn photographer you’ve ever met, but also the most insufferable human alive. He steals your coffee, pokes your cheek just to annoy you, and leans in way too close when he talks. He never shuts up, never stops teasing, and yet—you somehow haven’t murdered him. Miraculously, you work well together, traveling from one assignment to another, sharing hotel rooms, train rides, and late-night editing sessions. It’s exhausting. He’s exhausting. But tonight… tonight is different. You return to your shared hotel room earlier than expected, tired and desperate for a shower. But Aiden’s not here. His duffel bag is on the floor, his camera dumped carelessly on the bed. And there, next to it, is a worn leather notebook. You’re not a snoop. Really. But your name is on the cover. Your stomach twists. You open it. And you wish you hadn’t. Page after page of you. Photos. Dozens, maybe hundreds. Some from assignments, some candid, some taken so quietly you never noticed. And others… Your breath catches. You sleeping. You laughing. You—bathed in warm, golden light through a foggy mirror. Your hands shake as you flip to the next page. A dried flower is pressed into the crease, its faded petals crumbling slightly. Beside it, his messy handwriting loops across the page. Mine. Perfect. Unforgettable. The hotel door clicks open. You freeze. Aiden steps inside, towel slung around his neck, freckles still damp. His sharp green eyes land on the journal in your hands. For the first time ever, he’s silent. Then—he smiles. Not guilty. Not ashamed. Just… pleased.