Chapter 8 Callum
CALLUM
The snow’s coming down hard outside, a relentless swirling curtain of white that blurs the edges of the world until it feels like we’ve stepped inside a snow globe.
Every breath stings, every gust cuts, the cold bites at my cheeks.
But even through it, there’s a warmth in my chest that the winter air can’t touch.
Noelle.
Her name pulses through me like a heartbeat, steady and inescapable.
Six years.
Six long years since that snowbound weekend at her dad’s house. Six years since everything changed and none of us had the courage to talk about it afterward.
The memory sits heavy inside me, a mix of guilt and want that’s never faded no matter how far I’ve run and how much time has passed.
Grant’s call yesterday had lit something under my ribs. A spark of unease along with a strange simmering anticipation I haven’t been able to shake.
The way he’d said her name, the weight in his voice…
I knew he was thinking the same thing I was.
That the past wasn’t nearly as buried as we’d all pretended it was.
Now, trudging through the knee-deep snow beside Dean, it feels like walking back into a memory I’ve tried to forget.
Dean’s unusually quiet.
That in itself says something.
His scarf is pulled tight over the lower half of his face, only his eyes visible.
They’re focused, scanning the near-empty street as the storm grows heavier.
The wind howls down the narrow avenue, carrying with it the faint jingling of a distant bell from one of the lamppost decorations lining the sidewalks.
“Maybe we should’ve waited it out,” Dean mutters, his breath fogging the air. “Feels like we’re walking straight into a whiteout.”
“Probably,” I admit, shoving my hands deeper into my coat pockets.
Coming out in the middle of what is quickly turning to be a blizzard probably wasn’t the smartest move, but staying cooped up in our hotel room for a minute longer would’ve driven me more insane than I already feel.
The snowflakes grow thicker, pelting against my coat, clinging to my eyelashes each time I blink.
Then, through the veil of it, a faint light glows ahead as the shape of the storefront finally comes into focus.
The sign sways lightly in the wind, its letters scripted in looping red cursive. Noel’s Winter Wonders.
My chest tightens.
It’s so her.
Warm, festive, and unashamedly nostalgic.
A slice of Christmas carved out of this sleepy town, a reflection of the girl who told us she used to sneak down at midnight just to watch the snow fall, who’d hum carols under her breath when she thought no one was listening while she cooked for us.
I swallow hard as we cross the last stretch of sidewalk, boots crunching.
When we push through the door, the sound of the storm muffles instantly, replaced by the soft chime of bells and the hum of quiet holiday music.
The air inside is warm and fragrant, thick with the scent of pine, cinnamon, and something sweeter.
Light spills from strings of fairy lights overhead, casting a soft glow over rows of ornaments, garlands, and wreaths that glitter softly in the warm lighting.
It’s beautiful.
For a heartbeat, my mind drifts.
Back to that living room six years ago when the fireplace was crackling softly as the snow outside swallowed the world whole.
While the three of us sat inside pretending we weren’t unraveling under her touch.
I can still see the way she’d looked in the firelight still in my mind’s eye, hear the soft tremor in her breath when my hand brushed along her skin.
The way she’d leaned into my touch like she’d been waiting for it.
The way everything else—the world, the rules, Richard—had fallen away when she whispered my name.
Standing here, surrounded by everything that feels like her, it’s like no time has passed at all.
Dean moves ahead, tugging off his scarf and shuffling his feet along the entryway mat.
“She really made this place hers, huh?” he mutters under his breath.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. My voice barely carries over the sound of the carol playing from the back somewhere. “She did.”
Dean gives a low whistle under his breath, and together we start down the nearest aisle.
The place feels alive, full of light and color.
Every inch of it is filled with Christmas. Garland winds along shelves, ornaments glittering under the lights, ribbons spilling from wicker baskets, but there’s a rhythm to it all, a kind of intentional chaos.
I can see it in the details.
The perfectly balanced displays, the mix of old-world charm and modern style, the hand-lettered tags on every wreath.
Even the air feels curated with pine and spice and something faintly sweet, like sugar cookies just out of the oven.
“This is…damn impressive,” Dean says, half to himself.
He reaches out to tap a glass snowflake hanging from a branch display.
It sways and catches the light, scattering tiny prisms over his jacket.
When we reach the back of the store, the source of the music becomes clear: a small radio sits behind the counter, playing an instrumental version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.
Perched on a high stool just behind it is a little boy.
He’s hunched over a coloring book, the tip of a red crayon clutched in his tiny fist.
His tongue sticks out of the corner of his mouth in fierce concentration as he works, the page beneath his hand crowded with a cheerful chaos of color as he fills in a reindeer, a snowman, and a crooked Santa with a beard too big for his face.
A few stray crayons lay scattered across the countertop.
His curls are wild and soft-looking.
His sweater, red with a slightly peeling snowflake pattern, hangs just a little big on his small frame.
He’s utterly absorbed until Dean’s shadow crosses his page.
He looks up, startled at first, then straightens, blinking up at us.
His eyes are a bright hazel that remind me so much of Noelle it surprises me.
“Hello! Welcome in!” he chirps, his small voice high and clear, cutting through the background music.
Dean chuckles, leaning against the counter. “Hey there, buddy. You the boss around here?”
The boy’s grin widens, eyes sparkling. “I’m the assistant manager!”
He says it with such conviction that I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Still, the corner of my lip twitches upward. “The assistant manager? That’s a big job.”
He nods proudly, leaning back on the stool while slamming the crayon down with purpose. “I help my mom. She says I’m very responsible.”
Dean glances at me, eyebrows raised, but I can’t pull my eyes off the kid.
His curls, the faint dimple when he smiles, the way his nose scrunches slightly when he talks, it’s all so familiar it hurts.
He’s like her carbon copy.
The door to the back creaks open then, and all my thoughts fall away.
“Eli, who are you talking to?” And there she is.
She’s balancing a large box in her arms, holding it tight against her chest as she walks out from the storeroom.
Her hair is pulled back in a loose twist, a few strands falling forward to frame her face.
The years haven’t dulled her at all, they’ve simply refined her. Her eyes, those same wide hazel ones her son shares, haven’t changed though.
She freezes when she sees us.
The box in her hands wobbles just slightly, her knuckles whitening as she watches us.
For a second, no one says a word.
Eli breaks it first, completely oblivious to the tension that’s seized the room. “Mama! Look, we have customers!”
Her gaze snaps back to him, a flicker of forced calm passing over her face before her eyes dart back to us, first me then Dean.
Her eyes dart between us suspiciously.
“Dean, Callum,” she says slowly. “Didn’t expect to see you both. What’s…what’s up?”
Dean, bless him, shifts awkwardly beside me, shoving his hands into his pockets.
I force a small shrug, trying to play it cool even though my heart is hammering hard enough that I can feel it in my ears. “Just braving the storm to check out your shop. Grant said it was something special. He wasn’t wrong.”
Her cheeks flush a faint pink at the compliment, but it doesn’t soften her. If anything, her posture straightens, chin rising as her walls go up higher.
She glances past us toward the front windows, eyes flicking toward the door like she’s mentally mapping out an exit.
Off indeed.
“Thanks. It was a lot of work, but worth it.” Her grip tightens slightly on the box in her hands, and her next words come out quick, practiced. “I’ve got a lot to do today before I can close up before the storm gets too bad, so I really should be getting back to it.”
She’s trying to get rid of us.
I see it clear as day.
She’s concerned we’re going to corner her, and she’s trying to find a way out without making a scene.
Dean doesn’t seem to notice, he’s too busy pretending to admire a nearby display of snow globes, but I see every flicker in Noelle’s expression, every tell.
I’ve spent years reading people and she’s practically vibrating with nerves.
I want to tell her she doesn’t have to do this, that she doesn’t have to act like we’re strangers or ghosts from a past better left buried.
I want to tell her that I’m not here to hurt her, that all I’ve wanted since that weekend is to see her again, to know that she’s okay.
But there’s something else burning in me, something I can’t swallow down no matter how hard I try.
That boy.
Eli.
I glance at him again, perched behind the counter as he stares at us with those impossibly bright hazel eyes.
Would she really have kept something like that from us?
Would she really have raised a child—our child—without ever saying a word to us about it?
What if we never returned to this state?
Would he have tried to find us after he turned eighteen?
The weight of those questions presses down on me until it’s almost hard to breathe.
I look back at her, and for a second our eyes meet.
I see it then, the panic, the guilt, and something else underneath. Something that looks a lot like fear.
I swallow hard, forcing the words out past the dryness in my throat. “He seems like a great kid.”
Her gaze sharpens instantly. “Yeah. He is.”
My lips part to say something else, but the words die instantly on my tongue. The radio station switches over to another rendition of “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”
Before the silence between us can grow too heavy, Eli leans forward on his stool, palms pressed flat on the counter, grinning from ear to ear.
“I am!” he declares proudly, his voice a small burst of sunshine.
The corner of Dean’s mouth curves into a grin.
“Hell yeah, little man. Put it right there,” he says, lifting a fist toward him.
Eli’s face lights up, eyes wide with delight.
“Like this?” he asks, holding up his tiny fist, tentative at first.
Dean nods. “Exactly like that.”
Eli’s grin widens, a gap showing where one of his front teeth is missing.
He presses his small hand forward until his knuckles meet Dean’s much larger ones with a soft tap.
Just as their fists connect, the entire building is swallowed in darkness.