Chapter 20
Callie
I woke slowly, warmth still clinging to me like an afterglow, like the ghost of his touch hadn’t quite left my skin.
The memory of Cavil’s kiss lingered—gentle but unshakable—settled somewhere deep beneath my ribs.
Everything about last night felt like it had cracked something open inside me, something I hadn’t realized I’d been holding closed.
But when I rolled over, my heart stumbled.
The other side of the bed was empty. No imprint. No warmth. Just a sheet creased like it had never been disturbed.
For one breathless moment, I froze. What if he regretted it?
What if I’d misread everything? I tried to shove the thoughts away, to stop the spiral before it started.
But my chest still squeezed tight as I sat up, pulling one of his shirts over my head—soft cotton worn thin and smelling like cedar and safety.
I padded barefoot down the hallway, the wood floor cool beneath my feet, my hair a wild tangle down my back. Each step felt heavier with uncertainty, hope flickering like a candle in a drafty room.
Then I stopped at the kitchen doorway—and all the fear in my chest softened.
There he was. Cavil. Standing at my counter like he’d always been meant to be there, sleeves pushed up, pouring coffee into two mismatched mugs. Barefoot. Rumpled. Beautiful. He moved like the space knew him already, like he’d stitched himself into the quiet fabric of my morning without asking.
I leaned against the doorframe, watching in silence, committing every detail to memory. The curve of his back. The way he cradled the mugs like they mattered. The little furrow between his brows as he focused on getting it right. My lips curved into a smile before I could stop them.
And then he looked up.
That quiet smile of his—half-sleepy, half-knowing—unraveled something in me.
“Merry Christmas,” he said, voice low and warm, like it was just for me.
“Merry Christmas,” I breathed, stepping into the kitchen.
His gaze swept over me—bare legs, messy hair, his shirt swallowing my frame—and the look in his eyes told me everything I needed to know.
He hadn’t run. He’d stayed.
And that? That felt like a beginning.
A soft Christmas tune floated through the kitchen, the kind that had played in the background of every December memory I’d ever clung to.
It wrapped around me like warmth, like nostalgia and hope stitched into melody.
Without thinking, I stepped onto the cool tile, the chill biting at my toes, but I didn’t care.
I needed to feel something good. Something real.
I started to sway—slow at first, letting the rhythm pull me like a tide. My pajama pants fluttered as I twirled, the hem catching air with each spin. A laugh bubbled out of me, light and spontaneous, chasing away the heaviness that had settled over the past few days.
Cavil stood at the counter, mug in hand, watching me like I was something precious. Something worth staying for. His expression wasn’t teasing—not really. There was amusement there, yes, but also a softness I hadn’t seen before. It settled somewhere deep inside me and bloomed.
“You’re ridiculous,” he said, voice low and laced with affection.
“And you love it,” I shot back, spinning once more just to see that grin tug at the corner of his mouth—the one that made my knees a little weak and my chest a little tight.
I finally came to a breathless stop in front of him, hair wild, heart racing, a little sweaty and entirely unbothered. “What’s not to love? It’s Christmas!”
He chuckled, shaking his head as he took a sip of coffee, eyes drinking me in like I was the sunrise. I felt bare under that gaze, not in a way that made me want to hide—but in a way that made me want to stay right here, dancing in my kitchen, forever.
The world outside didn’t exist. Not the snow, not the fight with Leo, not the grief. Just this moment. Just him.
I padded over to the counter and pulled out the leftover cookies from last night—still covered in lopsided frosting and haphazard sprinkles. “Breakfast of champions,” I declared as I plopped them onto two plates and set them at the table.
He joined me without hesitation, and as I bit into a red-iced sugar cookie that tasted like childhood and chaos, I felt something settle deep in my bones.
This was joy. Messy, imperfect, ours.
Cavil snorted, reaching for a cookie of his own. “More like breakfast of children.”
I grinned, crumbs clinging to my lips as I took another bite. “Maybe so,” I said with a shrug, not even trying to defend it. There was something comforting in the simplicity of it all—cookies and coffee, laughter and stillness.
He watched me as I chewed, his gaze unguarded in a way that made my chest ache a little. Each look from him felt like a thread stitching something back together inside me—something I hadn’t even realized was still broken.
“I can’t believe you’re real,” I murmured, barely louder than the soft music drifting from the radio. The words came out before I could stop them—half a confession, half a fear. As if saying it too loud might shatter the spell and send him vanishing like a dream.
His brows pulled together slightly, not in confusion but in something deeper. He didn’t rush to answer—just looked at me, his blue eyes steady, like he was weighing the truth in what I’d said.
“I’m real,” he said at last. “And I’m here.”
The quiet certainty in his voice settled over me like a warm blanket. No promises. No pretending. Just presence. I’m here.
“Merry Christmas,” I whispered again, suddenly and fiercely grateful for this—him, us, the morning light spilling across the kitchen table.
“It is,” he said, and the way he looked at me… it wasn’t just conviction, it was belief—like maybe this was Christmas for him too. Maybe I was.
We sat there, side by side, the mugs warming our hands, the cookies half-eaten, and the kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled. It felt like the first chapter of something new—unwritten, but ready to begin.
After we finished, Cavil stood and took our plates to the sink without needing to be asked. I lingered at the table, watching him. The way he moved so naturally in my kitchen, like this had always been part of his life too. Like he belonged here.
And maybe he did.
The old radio crackled softly as a new song began—a slow, familiar melody that filled the corners of the room like candlelight. I let my eyes close for a moment, heart steady for the first time in a long while.
Something was different now. Not perfect. Not fixed. But possible.
And possibility, I realized, might be the most hopeful thing of all.
I turned back to the counter, heart fluttering like it was trying to take flight. Nestled behind a string of garland and a ceramic snowman sat the little package I’d hidden days ago—just in case I got brave. Apparently, I had.
The wrapping was simple. Just brown paper and twine. But my hands trembled a little as I picked it up. It wasn’t the gift that mattered—it was what it meant. What I was saying without saying it.
I turned and held it out to him.
Cavil looked surprised, brows lifting as he wiped his hands on a dishtowel. “You got me something?”
“Just open it,” I said, suddenly shy. My voice was softer than I intended. I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to tear into it or treat it like something precious. Maybe both.
He took the gift carefully, his large hands untying the string and unfolding the paper like it was something sacred. And in a way, it was.
When the book came into view—its worn cover and dog-eared corners—his gaze stilled. The Velveteen Rabbit. He looked at it, then at me. Back again. He said nothing at first, but I could see the shift in his posture, like something quiet had broken open inside him.
He opened the front cover slowly and read the inscription.
Thank you for bringing me back to life.—Callie
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward or uncertain. It was reverent. Thick with meaning. With memory. With everything neither of us had figured out how to say.
“Cavil…” I started, voice catching on the edges of the moment.
But he didn’t answer—not with words.
He crossed the space between us in a few sure steps and cradled my face in his hands, so gentle it made my throat tighten. His thumb brushed across my cheek like he was tracing something invisible only he could see.
And then he kissed me.
Slow. Deep. Intentional. Like a vow wrapped in warmth and wonder. Like he knew what this meant—that I wasn’t just giving him a book, but a piece of my story. Of myself.
And in the way he kissed me, I heard everything he didn’t say:
You matter.
I feel it too.
You don’t have to be alone anymore.
The rest of the world slipped into a hush—like snow falling outside a window—soft and distant.
All I could feel was him, the warmth of his hands against my skin, and the quiet ache that had lived in me for so long finally easing.
My fingers curled around his arms, grounding myself in the solid presence of him.
Of us. It felt like coming home after a long, uncertain journey.
When our lips parted, our foreheads remained pressed together. We were both breathing hard, hearts racing in unison like they’d just remembered how to beat in rhythm. That fragile space between us felt different now—charged, open, sacred.
His voice was low, almost hesitant. “Why this book?”
I smiled softly, not pulling away. “It was my grandmother’s favorite. Every Christmas, she’d read it aloud in front of the fireplace. She said it taught her everything she needed to know about love… and what it meant to lose it, too.”
Cavil nodded, and his fingers brushed my jaw in slow, thoughtful circles. I leaned into his touch, not needing words just yet, but giving them anyway.
“It’s also about becoming real,” I added. “About how love—true love—makes you real. Even if it hurts. Even if it leaves scars.”
For a moment, his eyes softened in a way I’d never seen before—like something fragile had cracked open behind them, letting the light in.
“I think you’re already real,” he whispered. “More real than anyone I’ve ever known.”
I looked down at The Velveteen Rabbit, now resting gently between us on the counter. The edges were worn; the spine cracked—but it still held magic. I nodded slowly.
“Callie,” he murmured, his voice low and steady.
He reached into the collar of his shirt and pulled out his dog tags—identity disks—the metal catching the warm kitchen light as they swayed slightly in his grasp. The sight of them made my breath hitch. Something about their weight, their meaning, sent a ripple through me.
“These were the only things that reminded me who I was,” he said, his eyes fixed on the worn tags like they carried every version of himself he’d ever been.
“For a long time, I didn’t know what my purpose was outside the army.
” His gaze lifted, locking with mine. There was something raw in his expression—like he was letting me see a piece of him no one else ever had.
“Finding the blokes—Christian, Noah, Luke, Javier… that helped. But finding you…” His voice wavered slightly before he found it again. “It was like finding myself again.”
I didn’t know what to say. My heart thudded wildly in my chest, aching for the years he’d lost and thundering at the thought that somehow, I had helped him reclaim them. That maybe, despite all my fears, I wasn’t just someone passing through his life—but someone he could build with.
He stepped forward, closing the space between us until I could feel the warmth radiating from his chest. Then, gently, he lifted the chain and slipped it around my neck. His fingers brushed my collarbone, careful and reverent. The tags settled against my skin like a promise—cold, solid, real.
“Cavil…” I started, overwhelmed, but he shook his head slightly.
“Just let me say this.” He pulled me closer, and the way our bodies fit—it felt inevitable, like we’d been shaped for this exact moment.
“I love you,” he whispered against my lips, the words sinking into me just before he kissed me—soft and slow, like he had all the time in the world.
I kissed him back with everything I had.
Every thread of hesitation fell away. The past didn’t matter, not here, not with him.
In our little kitchen, wrapped in morning light and something that felt an awful lot like forever, I finally let myself believe we could have this.
That love—his, mine—wasn’t just possible.
It was already here.