Chapter 7
Cavil
The tires hit packed snow, and I felt it—just a hair too late. The steering wheel jerked in my grip as the van slid toward the shoulder. I clenched my jaw, easing off the gas and trying to guide us back with slow correction.
“C’mon,” I muttered under my breath.
No use.
The tires gave up. We lurched sideways and the whole van tilted with a dull thud into a snowbank, the kind that wrapped around your axle and didn’t let go.
Perfect.
I shifted into reverse and tapped the gas. The engine growled. The wheels spun like they were mocking me. Nothing.
“Are we stuck?” Callie asked, like she was hoping I’d say no.
I didn’t answer right away—just slammed it into park and yanked the door open. “I’ll check.”
The cold bit into my skin the second I stepped out. Snow crunched under my boots as I circled around, squatting low to inspect the tires. No damage. Just snow. Heavy, wet, clingy snow packed tight around the treads.
Great.
“Want me to help?” she called out.
I didn’t even look at her. “No.”
That one word came out too sharp. I heard it. So did she.
She waited a beat. “You sure?”
I glanced over my shoulder. She was half out of her seat, concern drawn across her face like she didn’t know if she should push or not.
“I said I’ve got it.” I waved her off with a flick of my wrist and turned back to the tires.
It wasn’t about the damn snow. It was about control. About not letting her step in like I couldn’t handle basic logistics. Like I was broken. I dug at the snow with the toe of my boot, trying to clear space. Tried rocking the van. Nothing gave.
“Cavil.” Her voice was firmer now. Closer. She’d gotten out, anyway. “You’re going to make it worse.”
I stood upright, breath steaming in the air. “I said I’m fine.”
My tone cracked like a whip between us. Her expression flickered—hurt, maybe. Or just disappointed. Hard to tell.
She crossed her arms and stood her ground beside the van. “Right. Because that’s going so well.”
I looked away, back at the stubborn tire buried in white. The wind gusted, blowing snow sideways, and for a second all I could do was stare at it—this frozen mess, this moment that felt like a metaphor for everything else between us.
She didn’t move. Just stood there. Not smug, not smug at all. Just… present. Steady in a way that made my chest twist.
I leaned against the side of the van, arms crossed, watching the snow fall in thick, lazy flakes. Everything around us was white—blank, silent, untouched. No movement. No sign of help. Just me, her, and the gnawing reminder that I’d failed at something as basic as keeping us moving forward.
“Guess we’re stuck,” I muttered.
Callie pulled out her phone, thumb already swiping through contacts. “I’ll call Sam. He’s the town mechanic. He’ll get us out.”
She sounded upbeat—like this was no big deal. Like this wasn’t my fault. She spoke to him like they were old friends and then hung up with a cheery little hum.
“He’ll be here in about an hour,” she said, smiling like it was just another item on her to-do list. That smile scratched at something inside me.
I climbed back into the cab, the cold biting at my skin as I shut the door behind me. Turned off the engine. No sense wasting gas. The silence inside was immediate and thick, like the world outside had wrapped itself around the van and held its breath.
Callie shifted in her seat. “What do you think about that kid from the last stop? Cute, right?”
I didn’t answer.
She kept going. “And Mrs. Dalrymple? You saw her face when I gave her those romance novels. Pure joy.”
Still nothing from me.
She huffed. “God, you’re a brick wall.”
I shifted slightly, adjusting my posture, not bothering to look at her. “Not everyone likes to narrate every thought.”
“Is this your thing then? Brooding in silence?”
“I’m not brooding.”
She turned toward me, clearly amused now. “Could’ve fooled me.”
My fingers curled into fists on my knees. “Look—”
“No, go on,” she said, leaning in like she was poking a bear just to see what would happen. “Do you wake up with that scowl, or is it just for me?”
I turned my head slowly, met her gaze. There was no judgment in her eyes—just that damn smile and a sparkle of challenge. Like she enjoyed poking holes in my armor.
“I’m not scowling,” I muttered, but even I didn’t believe it.
She laughed. A soft, unexpected sound that filled the van and warmed the air between us in a way I didn’t know I needed.
“Sure,” she said, grinning. “You’re just… resting your face.”
I looked away before she could see the corner of my mouth twitch.
The silence in the van thickened, dense and unmoving. Snow tapped against the windshield like a metronome, steady and indifferent. Callie shifted beside me, her gaze brushing my profile, searching for something I wasn’t ready to give.
“You know,” she said finally, tentative, “you always had this look. Even when I was with Leo. I thought… maybe you didn’t think I was good enough for him.”
I turned toward her slowly, let my eyes settle on her without rushing to speak. The truth pressed against my ribs, but I waited. Let the moment breathe.
“It wasn’t you,” I said at last, my voice quiet but hard-edged.
She exhaled, like she’d been holding that question in for years. “I know that now.”
She leaned back again, arms folded tightly across her chest—retreating, protecting. Her eyes dropped to her lap before she spoke again.
“Still…” she continued, cautiously now, “you never really said what it was like. When you came back.”
That landed heavier than she probably intended. My gut tightened, and my hand flexed against my thigh before I could stop it.
“Don’t.” The word came sharper than I meant, but not sharper than I felt.
Her posture stiffened. She nodded once, slow and quiet, as if I’d closed a door between us.
I turned away and looked out at the snow, watching the flakes spiral in their wild, aimless descent. Just like everything else lately—chaotic, directionless, white noise over familiar roads that no longer felt like home.
She didn’t press again. Didn’t try to fix it or force a confession out of me. And somehow, that made the silence even harder to sit with.
Because the truth was, I didn’t have the words. They were still stuck inside—heavy, snarled, buried under things I’d seen and done and can’t ever explain. Things no one back here would understand.
We sat there like that for a while. Two people inches apart but worlds away, while winter wrapped everything outside in a layer of false peace.
Then she spoke again, voice softer now. Careful. “You’re not as unapproachable as you pretend to be.”
I huffed out something between a scoff and a laugh. “Yeah, okay.”
She didn’t smile. She just looked at me—really looked. “You wear this armor all the time.”
The word hit a little too close.
“Armor,” I repeated flatly, tasting the bitterness of it.
“Yeah.” Her voice was still gentle, but it had an edge of knowing to it. “But even steel can bend.”
Her eyes met mine, holding. There was something there I didn’t want to face. Something warm. Something dangerous.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t look away. I just let her see whatever she saw. Let her hold the thread that trembled in the air between us.
Not quite connection.
Not yet.
But not distance, either.
Just… something.
I kept my eyes on the snow outside, watching it spiral down like ash—cold, quiet, endless. Callie shifted beside me, rubbing her arms. I didn’t need to look to know she was cold. Her breath fogged up the glass in short, uneven puffs.
“It’s freezing,” she muttered, voice tight from the chill as she tucked her hands into her sleeves.
I hesitated—not long, but long enough to notice. Then I pulled off my jacket and tossed it across the console into her lap.
“You’ll whine the whole time if I don’t,” I said, keeping my tone dry.
She looked over, startled. Didn’t say thank you. Just curled into the jacket like she hadn’t expected me to give it but wasn’t about to give it back either. She held it close, breathing it in like the warmth alone might thaw something deeper than the cold.
It was just a jacket. Old. Broken-in. Nothing special.
But watching her wrap herself in it made something shift in my chest—something I didn’t have the words for.
Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, lashes low, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Guess you do have a heart under all that armor.”
“Don’t push it,” I muttered, no heat behind the words.
She laughed—quiet and warm—and somehow; it filled the cab like light cracking through storm clouds. Just for a second, I let it settle between us. Let myself breathe it in.
Then I leaned back in my seat, eyes still on the snow. “So what now? We wait for Sam to come dig us out?”
Callie shifted in her seat, still cocooned in my jacket. “I could tell you about some of the new books coming in.”
I shot her a look. “You really think I’m interested in your book list?”
She tilted her head, that familiar spark flaring in her eyes. “Maybe not. But it might be enough to distract you from whatever brooding thoughts you’ve got bouncing around in there.”
“Not much to distract from.”
She raised a skeptical brow but didn’t press. That was something I appreciated about her—when she wanted, she could leave a door alone, even if she was dying to open it.
Outside, the snow kept falling—blanketing everything in silence. And inside the van, for the first time, I didn’t mind sitting still with her beside me.
Not completely.
She watched me from the corner of her eye.
I didn’t need to look to feel it—that quiet, steady gaze.
Like she was trying to read something I didn’t know how to say.
I kept mine fixed on the snow swirling past the windshield, jaw tight.
Not out of irritation. Out of something else. Something harder to admit.
“You didn’t have to,” she said finally, her voice low but clear.
I didn’t answer right away. Let the silence stretch a beat too long before saying, “I know.”
The words came out softer than I meant. Caught me off guard.
Maybe it caught her too.
The air shifted between us. Not cleared—just… thinned. Like the silence wasn’t so heavy now. Still full of things unsaid, but not pressing the way it had been.
She curled deeper into the jacket, her hands tucked beneath the sleeves like they were holding something fragile. I shifted in my seat, elbows brushing the door, the empty space between us charged with something I couldn’t name.
Outside, the snow built up on the windows like the world was being buried slow and quiet. Inside, everything felt… suspended. Still. Like this cab had turned into its own world and neither of us wanted to break it.
She spoke again, softer this time. “When he says an hour, do you think he means it?”
I shrugged, still watching the snowfall blur out the trees. “Sam gets where he needs to go.”
Her mouth quirked—just barely. “Good. I was starting to worry I’d have to carry you out of here.”
I almost smiled. Almost. “You wouldn’t make it ten feet.”
She gave a little snort and went quiet again, pulling the coat closer around her. My coat. My scent. My silence.
I should’ve hated this—being stuck, being close. But I didn’t. Not really.
“Guess we’ll be here a while,” I said, more to myself than her.
She didn’t reply, but her head leaned just slightly against the window. Still wrapped in my jacket. Still here.
And somehow, for once, I didn’t mind the waiting.