departurcs

[departurcs]

Callum  blinked  as  Milo  made  a  grab  for  the  tongs,  instinct  twitching  behind  his  eyes.  He  opened  his  mouth  to  protest—habit,  mostly—but  it  was  Milo,  and  he  knew  from  experience  that  arguing  would  be  useless.  So  he  handed  them  over  with  a  defeated  nod  and  a  pat  on  the  back,  watching  the  exchange  like  he  was  surrendering  a  prized  possession.  “Just...  be  gentle  with  my  system,”  he  pouted,  nodding  toward  the  neatly  labeled  jars  and  perfectly  aligned  buns.  “That  one’s  the  brioche  section.”  He  lingered  a  beat  longer  than  necessary  before  finally  dropping  into  a  folding  chair  nearby.  “Make  me  a  burger,  would  you?  Medium.  Brioche  bun.  Three  pickles,  not  two.”  It  was  said  like  a  joke,  but  he  meant  every  word.  He  reached  for  the  lemonade,  took  a  sip,  and  grimaced.  “Christ,  that’s  syrup.”  He  got  back  up  and  busied  himself  with  the  cooler,  trying  to  water  it  down  like  it  might  balance  out  the  day.  Sitting  still  proving  to  be  Cal's  greatest  weakness  once  again. 

His  gaze  wandered  as  Milo  worked,  settling  on  the  scattered  groups  of  families  and  neighbors  spread  across  the  green.  Blankets,  lawn  chairs,  kids  darting  between  tables  with  chocolate  on  their  faces.  Callum’s  expression  softened  with  longing.  “We  never  did  stuff  like  this  in  Boston,”  he  said  after  a  pause.  “Jo  and  I  were  always  working.  Thought  once  I  made  partner,  once  we  hit  that  next  milestone,  we’d  slow  down.  Have  barbecues.  Pool  days.  Be  those  people.”  He  exhaled,  watching  a  toddler  steal  a  hot  dog  off  someone’s  plate.  “I  like  that  this  kind  of  thing’s  possible  here.  It  just  feels  like  I  showed  up  late.” 

as he wondered around the potluck, emilio tried to not let his mood show. he didn't want anyone questioning him - the people who knew him probably knew why he might not have been in the best mood. though a bad mood was more uncommon for him than not nowadays. but he was trying to keep himself at least seeming to be in a chipper mood. he didn't want to bring the vibe of the day down.

spotting callum brought a small, unfamiliar smile to milos face. there were lots of familiar faces around but callum was one of the few that he thought of as a true friend. which was why he headed on over to him. "well dang, there goes my plan." emilio laughed. "let me take over for a bit, cal. you sit and have a little bit of a rest." really, he just wanted to keep himself busy. these kinds of things were never that easy. happy families wondering the place. a few years earlier and that was him. helena and maisie too. "take pity on me. give me a job." he shrugged.

[departurcs]

THE VAMPIRE DIARIES | 2.02 "Brave New World"

[departurcs]

Callum  huffed  a  laugh,  gaze  following�� the  dog  as  it  padded  ahead  like  it  owned  the  path,  tail  wagging  with  an  easy  rhythm,  wholly  unbothered  by  the  trouble  it  had  caused.  “Yeah,  well,”  he  said,  “maybe  he’s  just  been  in  town  too  long.  Starts  to  rub  off  on  you.”  His  tone  was  light,  teasing,  but  his  eyes  flicked  toward  the  town  green.  Toward  the  folding  tables  and  paper  lanterns  and  the  soft  scatter  of  neighbors  lingering  under  the  amber  sky.  The  whole  thing  felt  like  a  snapshot  someone  might  tuck  into  a  drawer  and  find  years  later,  sun-faded  and  soft  around  the  edges.  The  dog  paused  to  sniff  at  a  clump  of  wildflowers,  then  trotted  back  like  he  expected  them  to  follow.  And  they  did.  Of  course  they  did.  “I'm  getting  a  strong  Peter  kind  of  vibe  from  him,”  Callum  said  after  a  moment  of  thought,  then  furrowed  his  brow,  already  regetting  it.   “We  shouldn't  give  him  a  name,  though.  Once  you  give  him  a  name,  you'll  start  making  room  for  him.  And  then  it'll  be  yours—ours.”  He  gave  a  faint  shake  of  his  head,  jaw  tightening.  “Just  the  thought  of  adding  a  dog  into  my  life  makes  me  anxious.”

Her  voice—guess  that  makes  us  a  team  now—lingered  longer  than  he  meant  to  let  it,  repeating  in  his  mind  as  they  walked.  Something  about  the  shape  of  it,  the  ease,  made  his  chest  pull  tight  in  a  way  he  didn’t  show.  He  thought  of  Jo  saying  those  very  words  to  him  once  upon  a  time,  before  he  let  it  all  fall  apart. Cal  went  quiet  for  a  few  steps,  the  kind  of  pause  that  felt  like  it  might  stretch  too  long  if  she  didn’t  fill  it.    “I  really..  I’m  glad  we’re  friends,  Nety.”  His  voice  was  soft,  earnest.  He  needed  her  to  know  it  wasn’t  just  some  easy  placeholder.  “I  don’t  always  say  that  kind  of  thing  right.  Or..  know  how  to.”  His  hand  came  up  briefly  like  he  might  gesture  the  rest  of  it,  then  dropped  back  to  his  side.   “You  know  what  I  mean,  right?”  His  voice  was  steady,  but  something  beneath  it  trembled.  A  quiet  fear  that  if  he  let  go  of  what  was,  he  might  never  find  anything  close  to  it  again.  He  looked  at  her  then,  eyes  searching  hers,  like  he  was  hoping  she’d  understand  everything  he  couldn’t  quite  shape  into  words. 

"yeah." she murmured, the word shaped more by breath than sound, exhaled like the tail end of a thought too big to hold all at once. a slow nod followed, small and weighted, like her body needed the time to agree. "you’re right. we should probably-" but the words frayed at the edge as his hand moved — quiet, unhurried — dabbing gently at the smear along her calf. she stilled without meaning to, caught not by the gesture itself, but by the care in it. something in her chest folded in on itself, tender and unexpected. "thanks." she said, eventually. just that. soft, but full. like the kind of thank you that wasn’t just for this. "he’s gonna be unbearable after this." nety said, watching the dog trot ahead like he hadn’t committed a full-blown felony five minutes ago. "just wait. he’s gonna start expecting pulled pork and sparkling water with every meal." she walked beside callum, slow and steady, the occasional crunch of the ground beneath their steps punctuating the quiet between them. the sun had started to dip lower now, turning everything honey-warm and forgiving.

"do you think we can return him?" she asked, half under her breath, like she was genuinely considering it. "like one of those rental scooters. leave him propped up against a tree and walk away real casual." but even as she said it, her gaze lingered — on the dog, yes, but also sideways, toward callum. not quite long enough to hold, but long enough to notice. instead, she offered him a look as the dog looped back toward them again, tongue lolling. "he’s got your walk, you know. same self-satisfied strut." nety reached down as the dog brushed past her, hand ghosting over the messy fur along his back. "what do you think his name is?" she asked, like she was talking about the dog. "he mugged me." she echoed after a while, lips curving. "and you gave him the ribs. sounds like we both enabled him." her tone softened as they slipped into the hush beneath the trees, the gold of the late afternoon turning everything a little slower, a little sweeter. "guess that makes us a team now."

[departurcs]

Callum’s  mouth  twitched,  the  barest  hint  of  a  smirk  breaking  through  as  Malaya  recoiled  from  the  lemonade  like  it  had  personally  betrayed  her.  “Alright,  that’s  fair.  Brutal,”  he  added,  reaching  for  a  fresh  bun,  “but  fair.”  He  set  the  bread  on  a  small  griddle  to  toast,  his  movements  practiced—calm  in  the  way  only  a  man  clinging  to  some  semblance  of  order  could  be.  A  swipe  of  butter,  a  precise  press  on  the  sizzling  patty,  a  glance  toward  the  neatly  labeled  tray  of  toppings  as  if  mentally  mapping  the  build. 

“You’re  not  wrong.  That's  what  I  get  for  trying  to  freestyle.  Lemon-related  hubris.”  He  laughed,  nodding  toward  the  prep  bin.  “Salt’s  in  the  side  pocket  and  lemons  are  in  the  cooler  behind  you.  If  you’re  serious  about  a  do-over,  be  my  guest.  I’ll  have  your  burger  ready  by  the  time  you’ve  salvaged  my  honor.”  Callum  turned  his  focus  on  her  burger,  hoping  to  redeem  himself  in  the  one  way  he  could.

malaya had always ben enticed by the smell of a grill being fired up, so after much hesitation, she finally had to pry herself away from pouring wine and headed over towards that heavenly scent. she planned to make her rounds to sample everyone's food, of course, but her gut was screaming for a grilled burger right now. at callum's warning as soon as she came over, hovering over the food as she took in just how mouthwatering it all looked. "you do not want me on the grill. i'd burn everything." she insisted as she reached for a glass of the lemonade. him insisting that he had ruined it would probably scare most people off, but given that she was her own taste tester whenever she came with a new wine, her tastebuds could handle disappointment, at least a little bit of it, anyway. "i came over here for a burger, with everything on it. you work on that while i taste this?" she suggested, and malaya didn't give him a chance to back out before she took a sip of his lemonade.

the second even a drip graced her tongue, she was fighting the urge to spit it out, her body shivering as she let the fluid just race down her throat. "oh my god, this is — you can't serve this to anyone. not like this." she winced. "you need to add some more water, a little more lemon juice, and maybe a pinch of salt. actually, if you have what i need, we can just dump this out and i'll start a new batch." malaya offered as she sat the glass down. "it was a decent attempt, but next time, don't panic, and only do a little of each at a time so you can taste it as you go. hopefully you haven't let any kids have this, or you're gonna have some parents on your hand when their kids are running even wilder around here."

[departurcs]

Callum  huffed  a  quiet  laugh,  placing  a  bun  down  on  the  grill.  “Patient  zero.  Brave  man.”  He  handed  over  a  paper  cup  of  lemonade  too,  cautiously.  “If  it  tastes  like  childhood  and  regret,  just  lie  to  me.  I  can’t  handle  another  crisis  before  sundown.”  At  the  offer  to  take  over  grill  duty,  his  brow  twitched—barely  perceptible,  unless  you  were  really  looking.  Since  he’d  taken  over  the  café,  the  biggest  lesson  had  been  learning  to  let  go.  His  obsessive  need  for  control  was  the  exact  opposite  of  what  the  Everwood  demanded:  adaptability,  surrender,  faith  that  the  soufflé  might  not  fall  and  the  espresso  machine  might  not  explode.  “I  mean…  sure.  If  you’re  serious.  I  won’t  stop  you.”  A  beat.  “Just—everything  is  labeled  for  a  reason.  The  relish  lives  here,  the  spicy  mustard  lives  there,  and  if  you  swap  the  veggie  patty  tongs  with  the  meat  ones,  I  will  have  to  burn  this  entire  operation  to  the  ground  and  start  over.”

He  softened  a  little  then,  with  a  sheepish  tilt  of  his  head  and  deep  breath.  “But  yeah.  I  could  probably  use  the  break.  People  keep  trying  to  talk  to  me  about  the  weather  and  I  panic  and  start  offering  them  coleslaw.  Can’t  keep  hiding  behind  buns  and  patties  forever.”

the  smell  of  hot  dogs  is  impossible  to  resist  much  longer,  the  embarrassing  grumble  echoing  in  his  stomach  at  the  thought  of  fried  onions  and  mustard  leaving  him  approaching  the  grill  a  little  too  eagerly.  he  can't  help  but  admire  the  organisation  --  his  own  barbecues  growing  up  usually  consisting  of  his  dad  panic-burning  his  way  through  the  burgers  and  the  distinctly  bitter  taste  of  overly  charcoaled  meat. the  annotated  jars  are  a  nice  touch.  “   i  don't  mind  playing  patient  zero  if  you  want  a  lemonade  taste  tester.  ”  he  grins,  though  secretly  hopes  it's  not  as  bad  as  it  sounds.  “   i'll  take  a  dog,  cheers.  if  you  need  a  break  after,  i  can  take  over  for  a  few  ?  i  can't  promise  you  won't  come  back  to  mayhem  though.  ”

[departurcs]

Callum  blinked,  struck  by  the  softness  of  her  tone—the  reverence  in  it,  almost—and  for  a  moment,  he  didn’t  say  anything  at  all.  He  just  held  the  bottle  like  it  was  something  delicate,  something  meant  to  be  cradled  more  than  used.  Callum  turned  the  bottle  over  in  his  hand  once  more,  the  soft  blue  cloth  catching  between  his  fingers.  “Zizyphus,”  he  echoed,  almost  under  his  breath,  like  the  word  itself  was  a  spell.  “Can’t  say  that  and  not  sound  like  you  know  what  you’re  doing.”  His  smile  flickered,  smaller  than  usual.  “I’ll  never  say  no  to  a  custom  blend.  Thanks,  Alice.”

Then,  glancing  up  at  her,  that  crooked  grin  tugged  back  into  place.  “And  I  expect  you  to  defend  my  scones  with  that  same  conviction  the  next  time  someone  tells  me  it's  too  early  for  cardamom.”  A  pause,  gentler.  “You  okay?”  he  asked,  like  he  meant  it.  Like  he’d  seen  the  flicker  in  her  before  she  passed  him  the  bottle.

in a flash she could see his mother's face so clearly reflected in the easy tilt of callum's self-effacing smile. her heart squeezed, aching with the still tender loss. she had always hated to say goodbye to those dearest. she couldn't help but resent their absence. her father had often espoused the analects of confucius to her as a child, that nobody should fear death and instead focus on their life. but it was hard not to fear the unknowable. her mother would then chime in that lúnhuí awaited them according to the buddha, and alice in between the weight of gods and scholars could only reckon with it as it came to her. she cleared her throat and shook her head. "your scones are a marvel of the universe. how on earth would we ever keep going without access to good scone?" she presented him with a blue bottle. "zizyphus, fuling, and gancao. put a couple drops under your tongue and then burn some lavender incense or some chrysanthemum tea and it should help you. i can make you a blend if you want?"

[departurcs]

Callum  didn’t  flinch,  even  when  her  voice  came  laced  with  enough  sarcasm  to  curdle  milk.  He  just  smiled,  that  careful,  neutral  sort  of  smile  he  wore  like  armor  when  dealing  with  health  inspectors,  entitled  customers,  and,  apparently,  Alara  Balik.  He  had  yet  to  decipher  exactly  what  it  was  about  him  that  turned  her  seemingly  cheery  disposition  into  pure  venom,  but  it  didn’t  stop  him  from  trying  to  extend  olive  branches  at  every  turn.  His  mother’s  voice  echoed  in  his  head—be  better  to  people  than  they  are  to  you—though,  if  he  was  honest,  part  of  him  enjoyed  their  little  back-and-forth.  It  was  the  closest  thing  he  had  to  the  adrenaline  rush  of  courtroom  arguments  these  days.

“Right.  Traditional,”  he  echoed,  the  corner  of  his  mouth  twitching  upward.  “Like  how  your  croissants  come  out  shaped  like  bricks  because  your  oven  runs  five  degrees  too  hot.”  He  flipped  a  burger  with  maddening  composure,  letting  the  sizzle  stretch  just  long  enough  to  make  his  point  land.  “But  hey,  I  get  it.  Some  people  like  things  the  old-fashioned  way.  Heat  stroke  at  the  farmer’s  market.  Passive-aggressive  bake  sale  flyers.  Lemonade  that  tastes  like  regret.”  With  no  ceremony  at  all,  he  reached  for  one  of  the  neatly  wrapped  sandwiches  from  his  prep  table.  Still  warm,  still  clearly  made  with  care,  and  held  it  out  toward  her,  gaze  fixed  squarely  on  the  grill.  It  was  a  peace  offering,  extended  the  way  one  might  hand-feed  a  particularly  testy  stray  dog.  “In  case  you  change  your  mind.  Or  in  case  tradition  stops  filling  you  up.”

icy  blue  hues  study  him  from  afar  ,  the  neatly  labeled  jars  ,  the  buns  ,  the  overly  organised  table  that  looks  like  a  spread  that  belongs  in  a  michelin  star  restaurant  ,  not  the  small  town  of  wicklow  ridge  .  it's  annoying  —  he's  annoying  ,  &  for  the  life  of  her  ,  alara  can't  seem  to  figure  out  why  a  big  city  boy  would  ever  step  foot  in  this  place  when  they  clearly  do  not  belong  .  neither  him  or  his  fancy  boston  burgers  .  she's  unaware  her  inner  monologue  about  all  the  different  ways  this  man  irks  her  actually  made  her  move  forward  ,  lost  in  a  trail  of  thought  while  leaning  over  his  shoulder  to  catch  a  glimpse  —  a  mistake  ,  if  she  could  be  so  lucky  .  it's  when  he  speaks  that  she  nearly  jumps  out  of  her  own  skin  ,  caught  almost  like  a  deer  in  headlights  as  she  furrows  her  brows  at  him  ,  stepping  back  .  it's  unusual  for  someone  like  alara  balik  to  remain  silent  &  just  listen  to  the  other  speak  ,  but  in  this  case  she  actually  does  —  not  because  she  wants  to  ,  but  because  she's  still  trying  to  read  him  .  “  we  actually  prefer  naturally  sweetened  lemonade  here  ,  y'know  …  more  traditional  ?  something  you  perhaps  didn't  hear  before  ?  ”   she  can't  help  herself  ,  sarcasm  laced  with  each  word  she  spouts  .  a  brow  quirks  up  as  she  stares  down  at  the  grill  ,  but  despite  being  hungry  ,  she  refuses  to  admit  so  .  “  no  ,  thank  you  .  i'm  not  hungry  ,  ”  the  woman  lies  ,  despite  her  eyes  telling  a  different  story  . 

[departurcs]

No thanks to you.

DAREDEVIL — 2.05 "Kinbaku"

[departurcs]

Callum  snorted,  the  sound  low  and  warm  as  he  flipped  a  patty  with  the  kind  of  precision  usually  reserved  for  more  important  matters—like  court  filings  or  cracked  pie  crusts.  “See,  now  I  know  you’re  trying  to  butter  me  up, Talia,”  he  said,  gesturing  toward  her  glass  with  the  tongs.  “Or  syrup  me  up,  I  guess.  That  lemonade  could  put  a  hummingbird  in  a  coma.  You’ll  start  vibrating  if  you  drink  the  whole  thing.”

There  was  something  softer  in  his  posture  now,  the  sharp  edges  worn  down  by  the  familiarity  of  her  presence.  “One  veggie  patty  coming  right  up.  These  are  actually  an  updated  version  of  my  mom's  recipe,”  he  said,  a  little  quieter  now,  a  little  less  guarded.  “Figured  if  I  was  gonna  serve  them,  they  should  at  least  be  worth  eating.”  He  paused,  the  tongs  still  in  hand,  before  nodding  toward  a  canvas  bag  tucked  beside  the  cooler.  “I've  got  a  thank-you  gift  in  my  bag.  For  the  tea.  And  the  crystals.  You  keep  showing  up  like  a  very  glamorous,  very  insistent  forest  spirit  and  I  haven't  properly  paid  tribute.”  His  mouth  tugged  into  the  ghost  of  a  smile.  “Brought  it  hoping  I’d  run  into  you.  Guess  it  worked.”

This had been Talia's first Wicklow Ridge picnic, and after hearing how serious the town folk took the annual event, there was a sense of pressure to make a good impression. Despite her lack of culinary skills, Talia had gone to great efforts in making sure she showed up with something - even if it was store bought. With her offering left on the large table, the brunette began to wonder around. As an extrovert, it wasn't unusual for Talia to seek out anyone who would give her even a drop of attention. After a few quick conversations and polite greetings of those she recognised, Talia had wondered into BBQ territory.

It didn't take the older woman long to recognise Callum. Tongs expertly in hand and an amusing look of concentration plastered across his face. Without hesitation, Talia made a beeline for him. "Oh trust me, you don't want me getting involved. Not unless you want all your hard work turning into burnt slabs of meat." A perfectly arched brow raised in curiosity at the mention of the over sweetened lemonade. "I don't believe that, it's very difficult to get lemonade wrong, besides it's better to be too sweet than sour." Talia's focused stayed on the untouched jug of lemonade as she worked on pouring herself a glass. "Hungry? My love I haven't eaten all day in preparation for this." There was an amused sparkle in her eyes, looking back at the younger man. "I'll take one veggie patty please."

[departurcs]

“Fifteen  years,”  Callum  repeated,  glancing  down  at  the  dog  sprawled  in  the  grass  like  a  perfect  angel.  “Bold  of  him  to  assume  either  of  us  is  that  stable.”  His  voice  was  dry,  but  the  warmth  behind  it  was  unmistakable,  tempered  by  the  kind  of  affection  that  had  been  earned  slowly,  over  time.  He  crouched  beside  her  again,  eyes  scanning  the  ribbon  tied  to  the  collar  before  flicking  back  to  her.  “We  can  walk  around,”  he  suggested.  “Whoever  he  belongs  to’s  probably  not  far.”  He  reached  out,  unthinking,  and  brushed  a  smear  of  sauce  off  her  calf  with  the  edge  of  a  clean  napkin,  his  hand  steady  but  careful,  “You  missed  a  spot,”  he  offered,  still  crouched  there.

He  stood  then,  brushing  his  palms  on  his  jeans,  and  nodded  his  chin  toward  the  trees.  The  dog  trotted  a  few  steps  ahead,  tail  wagging  like  this  was  all  part  of  the  plan.  “Come  on,”  he  said,  walking  slowly  at  first  so  she  could  fall  into  step  beside  him.  The  sun  filtered  through  the  leaves  above,  dappling  the  path  in  gold,  and  for  a  moment  it  was  easy—too  easy—to  imagine  this  as  something  they  did  all  the  time.  A  Saturday  afternoon,  a  walk through the park  a  stray  dog  bringing  them  closer  in  that  quiet,  accidental  way  things  sometimes  did.  “If  we  don’t  find  anyone,”  he  added  after  a  beat,  tone  lighter  now,  "He's  sleeping  on  your  couch.  You’re  the  one  he  mugged,  after  all.”

"moral compass or not." she murmured, plucking the rib bone from the grass with a rueful sort of reverence. "he’s got good taste." the corner of her mouth lifted — half apology, half admiration — as she glanced from the stolen feast to callum’s face. the light hit him like it always did at this hour, gilding the scruff along his jaw, catching on the faint lines at the edges of his eyes. she didn’t linger there, but she felt the shape of it all the same — how easily time had begun to settle into him. how easily she’d come to notice. she met his eyes when he checked her. didn’t flinch, didn’t deflect. just gave a quiet little nod, one hand absently brushing at the dirty imprint the dog’s paw had left on her calf. "i’m fine." she said, softly. and she was, mostly. a little startled, a little disarmed — but not in a bad way. "i’ve had worse run-ins. at least this one came with barbecue."

she let out a low hum of amusement. "looks like he’s chosen you." she said, watching the way callum’s face softened in response. "and you’re not doing too bad." she added, after a beat. quieter now. "you’re doing better than most." then, almost without thinking, she reached for the dog’s collar — a frayed little thing with no tag, just a bit of blue ribbon knotted around the metal ring. her brow furrowed, thumb brushing over the fabric. "no number." she said, mostly to herself. then: "are we really gonna walk around until we find his owner? what if we never do and i have to adopt him? what if i'm forced to take care of this dog for the next 15 years?" she looked up again. not at the dog. at callum. her expression open in that rare, unguarded way she saved for these moments — these quiet, accidental little collisions where everything felt a breath too close. "i'm not prepared for this."

[departurcs]

status  :  open  ! location  :  wicklow  ridge  summer  social

The  smoke  curls  up  in  lazy  ribbons  from  the  grill,  catching  in  the  evening  light  like  it’s  putting  on  a  show.  Callum  stands  in  front  of  it  with  a  pair  of  tongs  in  one  hand  and  a  grease-stained  dish  towel  in  the  other,  his  brow  furrowed  with  an  intensity  that  seems  slightly  disproportionate  to  the  task  of  flipping  burgers.  The  prep  table  he’s  set  up  beside  him  is,  admittedly,  a  bit  much.  Neatly  labeled  condiment  jars,  three  kinds  of  buns,  a  tray  of  ribs  still  wrapped  in  foil,  even  a  small  cooler  of  lemonade  he  may  or  may  not  have  sweetened  within  an  inch  of  its  life.  He’d  told  himself  it  was  just  to  be  helpful,  but  really,  it’s  easier  to  focus  on  perfecting  the  ketchup-to-mustard  ratio  than  on  making  small  talk.

He  catches  movement  from  the  corner  of  his  eye  and  looks  up,  half-hopeful,  half-suspicious.  “careful,”  he  says,  a  little  wry,  brushing  sweat  from  his  temple  with  his  wrist.  “linger  too  long  and  i’ll  rope  you  into  burger  duty.  or  worse,  taste-testing  the  lemonade.  i  think  i  went  too  heavy  on  the  sugar—again—but  i  panicked  halfway  through  and  now  it  might  be  more  syrup  than  drink.”  He  glances  at  the  jug  with  visible  regret,  then  back  at  them,  softening.  “you  hungry?  i’ve  got  ribs,  dogs,  burgers,  veggie  patties  if  you’re  into  that.  just  tell  me  your  order  and  i’ll  make  it  like  you’re  a  regular  at  the  everwood.  no  judgement.  unless  you  ask  for  ketchup  on  ribs,  then  all  bets  are  off.”

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callum  slows  to  a  stop  in  front  of  the  blanket,  brows  lifting  as  he  takes  in  the  bottles  lined  up  with  careful  intention.  “you  made  these?”  he  asks,  crouching  down  without  hesitation,  hands  braced  on  his  knees.  there’s  a  lightness  to  his  voice,  but  his  eyes  move  over  the  display  with  quiet  focus,  like  he  knows  better  than  to  treat  it  casually.  he  reaches  for  one  of  the  bottles,  lifting  it  gently.  “guess  i  should’ve  brought  something  better  than  lukewarm  coffee  and  yesterday’s  blueberry  scones,”  he  adds  with  a  crooked  smile.  he  turns  the  bottle  over  in  his  hands,  studying  the  neat  handwriting,  the  cloth  wrapping.  “which  one  would  you  recommend?  for  a  guy  who  never  sleeps  and  worries  too  much  about  scone  inventory.”  it’s  half  a  joke,  but  not  really.

for: everyone !!

where: the wicklow ridge picnic

she'd spent all night obsessing over them. they were small glass bottles of tincture, "red pine remedies" scrawled neatly in her sloping, tiny script. one-by-one she'd wrapped each in spare bits of cloth from the milk crate shoved underneath her desk and shoved them into a burlap tote bag that clinked like windchimes when she walked. now as she stared at them all laid out neatly at the edge of her picnic blanket a creeping insecurity came over her. she chewed at the edge of her thumb bare feet catching in the grass and looked upwards. "hi!" she chirped, voice a bit wobbly. "take one, it's good to see you."

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“he’s  not  mine,”  callum  says  as  he  slows  to  a  stop  in  front  of  her,  slightly  out  of  breath,  “but  the  ribs  are.  or  were.  rest  in  peace.”  he  looks  down  at  the  scene  of  the  crime  like  it  personally  offends  him.  sauce-smeared  napkins  scattered  like  confetti,  one  lonesome  bone  sticking  out  of  the  grass  like  a  tiny  gravestone.  hands  on  his  hips,  he  lets  out  a  quiet  sigh,  more  amused  than  upset.  “i  blinked,  turned  to  grab  a  fork,  and  next  thing  i  know,  i’m  getting  mugged  by  a  dog  with  no  moral  compass.”  he  glances  sideways  at  her,  crouching  down  to  help  gather  the  wreckage.

his  fingers  brush  against  a  napkin  near  hers  and  linger  a  second  too  long  before  he  pulls  away.  “i  would’ve  offered  you  one  if  i  knew  we’d  be  sharing  them  this  way,”  he  adds,  voice  lighter  now.  his  eyes  flick  to  her  face,  checking,  always  checking,  for  that  familiar  glint  in  her  expression  that  says  she’ll  meet  him  halfway.  “you  alright?  didn’t  knock  you  over  or  anything?”  the  dog  circles  back,  tail  wagging  with  zero  remorse.  callum  tries  to  be  angry,  but  the  feeling  doesn’t  come,  and  when  the  dog  bounds  up  and  starts  licking  his  face,  he  laughs  despite  himself,  scratching  behind  its  ears.  “guess  we’re  co-parents  now,”  he  says,  grinning  through  it.  “i’ve  got  some  experience  in  that  area.  can’t  say  i’m  doing  too  bad,  right?”

* wicklow summer social, late afternoon, open.

the sun had just begun to tip sideways in the sky, warm gold slipping through the trees like melted honey. nety had settled near the end of one of the long patchwork tables, folding herself into the familiar rhythm of observation. she sipped lemonade through a bendy straw, eyes trailing over faces she half-knew and half-remembered. and then... a bark. a blur. a clatter. before she could move, a dog — all wild limbs and gleaming eyes — came barreling out from behind a picnic blanket like a bat out of hell, a paper plate dangling from its mouth and a trail of sauce-streaked napkins flapping in its wake. nety stood too fast, nearly tipping her drink, watching in dawning horror as the dog made a beeline straight for her.

"no, no, no!" but it was too late. the dog skidded directly into her legs, grazed her shin with a muddy paw, and dropped the stolen ribs triumphantly at her feet like some gruesome bouquet. nety let out a soft, startled laugh despite herself, caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement. then, another voice — close. hurried. apologetic. someone else had witnessed the crime. maybe its source. maybe its solution. nety looked up, brushing hair from her cheek, eyes locking with them. "please tell me he belongs to you. otherwise, we're playing dog parents until he's accounted for." she smiled, wry and crooked, already crouching to gather the remains of the chaos.

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★  ‧₊˚  ⋆  Josh  O’Connor.  Male.  He/him  …  now  playing:  Needle  in  the  Hay  by  Elliott  Smith  —  oh,  that?  Might  be  Callum  Arthur  Finch,  a  thirty-two  year  old  owner  of  the  Everwood  Cafe  who’s  been  hanging  around  Wicklow  Ridge  for  a  two  years,  just  long  enough  to  stir  up  some  trouble  if  you  ask  me.  They’re  a  regular  at  the  Old  Willow  Trail,  always  going  on  about  “grief  doesn’t  end,  it  just  changes  shape”  like  it’s  gospel.  Around  town,  folks  say  they’re  thoughtful  &  devoted  —  but  when  they  think  no  one’s  listening?  It’s  more  like  melancholic  &  guarded.  Are  the  rumors  true?  Maybe  not  …  but  it  sure  makes  life  around  here  a  little  more  interesting.

BASICS

Full  name:  Callum  Arthur  Finch Nicknames:  Cal,  Finch Gender  &  pronouns:  Cis  Male,  he/him Sexuality:  Heterosexual Age:  32 Date  of  birth:  February  17 Place  of  birth:  Boston,  Massachusetts Zodiac:  Aquarius  Sun,  Virgo  Moon,  Capricorn  Rising Residence:  Wicklowridge Occupation:  Former  lawyer,  current  owner  of  the  Everwood  Café Languages  spoken:  English,  conversational  French  (from  his  mother),  a  bit  of  legal  Latin  he  refuses  to  let  go  of.

PERSONALITY

Positive  traits:  Perceptive,  grounded,  articulate,  self-reliant,  diligent,  Negative  traits:  Cynical,  reticent,  emotionally  avoidant,  contrarian,  forgetful MBTI:  ISTJ  -  The  Logistician Moral  alignment:  Lawful  Neutral Likes:  Early  morning  runs,  strong  coffee  with  too  much  sugar,  British  rock  bands,  fresh  sourdough,  the  occasional  cigarette,  chess Dislikes:  Bureaucracy,  overpromising,  loud  talkers,  therapy,  wasted  time Hobbies:  Cooking,  baking,  building  lego  sets  with  his  son,  restoring  old  furniture,  reading  poetry  he  pretends  not  to  like,  collecting  physical  media  Habits:  Rubs  the  back  of  his  neck  when  he's  uncomfortable,  drinks  coffee  until  he  gets  the  shakes,  master  at  spilling  everything,  talks  with  his  hands 

BIOGRAPHY

tw  :  loss  of  a  parent

Callum  Finch  never  planned  to  return  to  Wicklowridge.  The  return  was  meant  to  be  brief.  But  grief  has  a  way  of  anchoring  you,  quietly,  stubbornly.  The  kind  of  weight  you  don’t  feel  until  you  try  to  leave.

He  grew  up  split  between  two  worlds.  In  Boston,  his  father,  an  accomplished  attorney,  raised  him  on  ambition  and  arguments.  In  Wicklowridge,  his  mother  offered  warmth  and  buttered  croissants,  filling  her  days  and  his  summers  with  the  magic  of  the  Everwood,  the  little  café  she  opened  in  the  second  half  of  her  life.  He  inherited  his  father’s  fire  and  his  mother’s  hands—sharp  mind,  soft  center.

Cal  followed  in  his  father's  footsteps  ,  became  a  lawyer,  married  young,  had  a  son,  and  worked  even  harder.  Cooking  and  baking  remained  a  quiet  ritual.  Birthday  cakes  for  coworkers,  fresh  bread  during  stress-laden  trial  weeks,  elaborate  dinners  on  the  few  days  he  was  home  before  10.  His  life  looked  perfect  on  paper,  but  he  barely  noticed  it  unraveling  until  the  day  his  wife  left.

Two  years  ago,  when  his  son  was  two,  Callum  and  his  wife  relocated  to  Wicklow  Ridge  to  help  care  for  his  mother,  whose  health  had  begun  to  decline.  The  plan  was  to  stay  a  few  months,  long  enough  to  arrange  full-time  care.  But  he  couldn’t  bring  himself  to  leave.  Wicklow  Ridge  had  a  way  of  holding  onto  him,  and  so  did  she.  He  split  his  time  between  Boston  and  Wicklow,  struggling  to  balance  the  career  he  had  worked  so  hard  for,  his  family,  and  his  mother's  condition.

A  year  in,  everything  shifted.  The  cracks  in  his  marriage,  long  ignored  beneath  late  nights  and  high-stakes  cases,  finally  gave  way.  His  wife  left,  the  custody  battle  followed,  and  the  divorce  was  finalized  a  few  months  later.  Nearly  a  year  has  passed  since  then.  Their  son  is  now  four,  and  though  the  marriage  didn’t  survive,  both  parents  remain  in  town,  doing  their  best  to  co-parent.  Even  if  it  hurts. 

As  the  dust  settled  from  the  divorce,  his  mother’s  condition  worsened.  In  those  final  weeks,  she  spoke  often  about  the  Everwood  Café.  What  it  had  meant  to  her,  what  it  could  still  become.  Before  she  passed  she  left  him  the  keys  and  the  choice:  sell  it,  or  carry  it  forward.

He  laughed  at  first.  Leaving  behind  his  career  for  a  little  old  café?  In  a  town  he  hadn't  called  home  in  years?

One  night,  holding  her  hand  and  staring  down  the  barrel  of  a  future  without  her,  Callum  said  yes.  The  idea  didn't  seem  so  far  fetched.  it  felt  like  something  close  to  clarity.

Now  he’s  here—32,  sleep-deprived,  divorced,  trying  to  co-parent  a  toddler  with  a  woman  he  once  loved  and  can  barely  speak  to,  running  a  café  he  never  intended  to  inherit.  Wicklow  Ridge  watches  him  with  curios  eyes:  the  lawyer  who  came  home  to  bake.  Some  think  it’s  a  breakdown.  Some  think  it’s  romantic.  Callum  isn’t  sure  it’s  not  both.

But  every  morning,  the  oven  warms,  the  café  fills,  and  something  in  him  softens  again.  He’s  trying.  And  in  a  town  where  no  one  forgets,  that  means  something.

tldr;

Callum  Finch  is  a  recently  divorced  single  dad  who  returned  to  Wicklow  Ridge  two  years  ago  with  his  wife  and  young  son  to  help  care  for  his  ailing  mother.  What  was  meant  to  be  temporary  became  permanent  as  her  condition  worsened  and  cracks  in  his  marriage  deepened.  A  year  into  their  return,  his  wife  left.  Not  long  after  the  divorce  was  finalized,  his  mother  passed—leaving  him  the  Everwood,  a  beloved  local  café. He  chose  to  honor  her  legacy  and  walk  away  from  the  high-powered  legal  career  that  had  never  brought  him  real  fulfillment.  Grieving,  burnt  out,  and  unsure  of  what  comes  next,  Callum  is  now  32—learning  to  co-parent,  run  a  business  he  never  meant  to  inherit,  and  build  a  slower,  more  intentional  life  in  a  town  that  remembers  everything.

wanted  connections 

the  one  who  stayed  :  maybe  they  never  left  wicklow  ridge.  they  remember  a  version  of  callum  he  forgot  how  to  be—idealistic,  hopeful,  open.  there's  comfort  and  tension  in  their  shared  history  of  summers  past,  coming  of  age  and  discovering  themselves.  reuniting  feels  a  little  bit  like  being  young  again.

late  bloomers  club  :  two  adults  figuring  it  out  later  than  they  had  planned.  whether  it  be  parenthood,  purpose,  or  passion.  they  bond  over  quiet  coffee  chats,  going  for  runs  together,  and  reminiscing  on  everything  that  went  wrong.

the  godparent  :  could  be  a  distant  relative  of  callum's  (cousin,  uncle/aunt,  family  friend).  they  witnessed  the  falling  apart  of  his  marriage  and  tried  their  best  to  be  there  for  him  and  their  godchild.  they  have  frequent  barbeques,  camping  trips,  and  other  fun  family  activities.

the  ghost  in  the  oven  :  a  former  employee  or  protégé  of  his  mother's.  they  care  deeply  about  the  everwood  and  don't  trust  callum  to  honor  it  properly.  especially  with  his  plans  to  modernize  and  remodel.

good  intentions,  bad  blood  :  a  family  member  or  former  friend  who  thinks  callum  made  all  the  wrong  choices.  took  his  ex’s  side  in  the  divorce  and  never  lets  him  forget  his  mistakes.  they  can  hardly  stand  to  be  in  the  same  room  together  without  bickering.

the  regular  :  they  come  into  the  everwood  café  like  clockwork.  familiar  smiles,  eyes  that  linger  too  long,  awkward  small  talk.  either  one  has  yet  to  make  a  move,  but  it  feels  like  everyone  in  the  café  stops  to  watch  them  when  they  come  in.

the  competition  :  an  owner  of  a  different  establishment  near  the  everwood  who  doesn't  trust  callum's  big  city  background.  their  competitiveness  manifests  in  passive  aggressive  comments,  trying  to  one-up  each  other,  and  other  petty  actions.  (think  bob  and  jimmy  pesto)

the  festival  committee  :  someone  who  ropes  him  into  local  events  against  his  will.  fundraisers,  bake-offs,  parades.  callum  hates  the  spotlight,  but  they  won't  stop  until  he's  in  a  santa  hat  or  manning  the  hot  cocoa  booth.

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♡ JOSH O'CONNOR vanity fair

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I always believed cooking food is a love language

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