Chapter 49 Olivia
Chapter forty-nine
Olivia
Tuesday
The morning light is pale when I peel back the curtains. It slants through the frost-slicked glass, cool and silver, catching on a swirl of breath that ghosts the window from where I’ve leaned too close.
Outside, the world is quiet beneath a soft crust of snow.
The porch steps of Baker’s Inn are still crooked, the sag I used to leap over as a kid now half-buried under a shoveled path.
A ladder leans against the side of the building abandoned and two men in thick coats are brushing fresh paint along the doorframe despite the chill.
Another is scraping ice from the columns, steam rising from his thermos on the stoop.
And then, movement.
Quick and familiar.
There are children out front.
Three boys and a girl, all bundled up in coats and hats, tossing a snowball back and forth with mittened hands too big for their fingers. One kid slips, laughing, before clambering back to his feet with a puff of breath in the cold.
And they are all playing—with him.
War stands near the sidewalk, jacket zipped halfway, a knit beanie pulled low over his ears.
His gloves are off, stuffed in a pocket, fingers red from cold but nimble as he packs a snowball, loose and soft, before lobbing it gently at Tyler; the boy from two houses down.
Tyler shrieks, catches it wrong, and fumbles.
War kneels, showing him how to form a tighter one, not too wet. Another kid joins. Then another.
He doesn’t make it a show. Doesn’t try to win the kids over.
He just… plays. He ducks when they ambush him, laughs when they get him good, teaches them, quietly, easily, how to aim better, how to pack snow without freezing their fingers.
His mouth shapes the words, his breath visible in the cold, his posture relaxed, open.
Something inside me pulls tight. Too tight. I stand up straighter, as if that’ll help.
It’s ridiculous how fast my heart remembers.
It doesn’t care about the silence between us, or the heartbreak in this bedroom, or the months we didn’t speak. It sees him.
My War, in a simple coat, crouching in the snow, teaching kids how to aim without hurting. It sees that, and it leaps.
“Don’t,” I whisper, palms pressing over my sternum like I can hold myself together. “Just because he’s good with them doesn’t mean—”
But the lie falls flat.
Of course it means something. I’ve seen men perform kindness. This isn’t that. This is War being careful with something small.
God help me, I love him most when he’s careful.
He was always careful with me, even when he was rough, I was safe.
I step back from the window like it burned me.
I shouldn’t be looking.
I told myself I wouldn’t.
But he’s still here.
A knock at the door breaks the silence. It creaks open a moment later, and my mom steps in, bundled in her fleece cardigan. She holds a large thermos of cocoa and a stack of paper cups on a tray, steam curling from the spout.
She follows my line of sight to the window, then sets the tray on my dresser.
“I was going to ask you to bring this over to the workers,” she says softly. “But if you’re not ready yet, it’ll be downstairs.”
My stomach twists.
I stare at the tray. “Can’t Dean do it?”
She lifts a brow. “Dean’s already over there. He’s covered in paint and snow. You’re not.”
I hesitate. She softens
“You don’t have to say anything to him, Liv Bug. Just hand out the cocoa. That’s all.”
And then she’s gone.
The door clicks shut, and I sink onto the edge of the bed.
The tray waits. So does the window.
But I force myself to move, to choose clothes, to pull something over the ache still living under my skin.
I open the closet.
It’s cold out, I should wear jeans. A sweatshirt. Something that says nothing.
Instead… I reach for the dress.
It’s sage green, soft, long-sleeved with a gathered waist and a hem that brushes the top of my boots. War filled my closet with dresses like this. I stuffed this one into my suitcase the day I left.
He always used to grumble when I choose skirts in the cold.
Still, I pull open the drawer and grab a pair of fleece-lined pantyhose, shimmying them on before stepping into the dress.
A small rebellion. A quiet compromise.
I glance at the mirror.
The fabric floats as I move, feminine and gentle in a way that feels like remembering who I am. My hair’s messy, tangled from laying in bed too long. I braid it over my shoulder with stiff fingers.
Makeup?
No. War always liked my freckles.
But my eyes are puffy, rimmed in exhaustion.
Concealer.
I dab it on carefully, then swipe mascara through my lashes. I pause, staring at the reflection.
Before I know it, I’ve done the full routine, except my freckles. I let them stay.
Then I eye my jacket.
It’s heavy. Puffy. Practical.
And I hate how it feels over this dress. Like armor when I don’t want to be armored.
I leave it behind.
I take another full glance.
“You got this Liv,” I murmur to myself.
I lift the tray, carefully balancing the thermos and cups, and head downstairs.
The air outside bites immediately, sharp and bracing. Snow crunches under my boots as I cross the street. My breath fogs in front of me, and the chill creeps through the fabric of my dress, but I keep moving.
Voices drift from the porch. Hammers thud. Saws buzz faintly under the crackle of frozen air.
Greg is the first to spot me. “Well now,” he says, smiling wide. “Cocoa angel’s here.”
A few of the men cheer, teasing lightheartedly. I offer a small smile in return, cheeks burning from cold and nerves.
I scan the group.
No War.
The children are gone.
I swallow the lump forming in my throat and set the tray down on a nearby sawhorse. “Hot Cocoa.”
They thank me, passing around the cups like it’s Christmas again. One of them offers me a cup back. I take it just to keep my hands busy.
I stay a minute longer than I should, pretending to enjoy the drink.
Then I gather the tray and turn to go.
I don’t run.
But I want to.
Back in my kitchen, I set the tray in the sink and stare at the single untouched cup. The one I held the whole time. The one I never drank.
I pour it down the sink, watch the chocolate swirl away, and whisper to myself: let it go.
***
“This is the worst,” I grumble.
Ella chuckles. “Hush, we love romcoms”
Ella thought it would be brilliant to go to the movies, watch something on the big screen, get dressed and go out.
I love Romcoms, but not now, not tonight.
It’s sweet. It’s funny.
It’s unbearable.
Every glance on screen feels like a knife, like the weight of his stare across a crowded room. Every brush of hands reminds me of his palm covering mine. Every kiss, too soft, too staged, pulls me back to the hotel balcony where he kissed me until my knees gave out.
I can’t breathe.
Worse—I swear I can smell him. His cologne, threaded with something warmer, something I could never name but always knew. His scent clings to the back of my throat like memory.
I shift in my seat.
Then again.
And again.
My chest is tight, my skin buzzing.
I have to get out of here.
“Bathroom,” I whisper, and Ella waves absently, already laughing at the screen.
I slip into the lobby, heart pounding.
It’s quiet out here. The hum of a vending machine. The faint chatter of the concession counter. And then, I see him.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair, immaculate. Jeans. A plain black sweater. Standing with his back to me, weight balanced in that familiar way.
It has to be him.
My pulse stutters, then races. This could be it.
I can tell him I don’t want this distance.
I don’t want to be free.
I want him.
Maybe I can ask him to join us, to sit in the dark beside me, watch the movie and laugh at the predictability. I can already picture his hand brushing mine when we reach for the popcorn at the same time.
I step closer, almost close enough to reach out, to touch his arm—
He turns.
Not War.
Heat slams into my cheeks. “Sorry,” I stammer. “Thought you were someone else.”
The man blinks, polite and puzzled, before turning back to the machine.
I spin away, mortified, my throat closing around a laugh that never comes.
My feet drag me back to theater, the room is washed in the blue glow of another montage. A song swells. Two actors kiss. A few people in the audience sigh.
I scan the rows anyway as I walk to my seat, certain I’ll catch a flash of him, certain I’ll smell him again like smoke curling through the dark.
“Stop being weird,” Ella whispers, tugging me down into my seat.
I let out a shaky breath, fold into the cushion, eyes fixed on the screen.
But my pulse doesn’t settle. My skin still hums. And my heart—
My heart is sure he’s near.
Even if he isn’t.