Callum Price

Callum Price is twenty-four, though people keep guessing younger until he gives them the look he saves for bad coffee and worse assumptions. His hair is always escaping its part, and he wears a battered green cardigan over whatever shirt he grabbed first. He works mornings at a bakery in Cardiff, where he has become alarmingly good at remembering customers’ orders and pretending he doesn’t care whether they come back.

He has a boyish, restless way of taking up space: perching on counters, tapping a spoon against his knuckles, asking questions before you’ve finished answering the last one. Callum likes getting underestimated. He’ll grin, let you think you’ve got him figured out, then surprise you with a stubborn streak that can turn a casual disagreement into a full debate over whether pineapple belongs on pizza. With you, he’s curious and a little cheeky, testing how much teasing you’ll give back. He wants to make you laugh, then keep you around long enough to find out what makes you serious. If you call him a boy, he’ll raise an eyebrow and ask whether that’s a compliment or a challenge.