Chapter 16
Callie
Two days had passed since I asked Cavil to leave, and the emptiness that followed settled into me like fog—thick, quiet, and inescapable.
The Book Nook, usually my haven, felt hollow.
I told myself I needed the space, that stepping back was the mature choice, but now?
Every hour dragged. I dusted shelves that didn’t need dusting, reorganized sections that were already tidy.
Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind from drifting back to him.
The bell above the door jingled, and—just like every other time—I looked up too quickly.
Hope flared before logic crushed it. Not him.
Of course not. I muttered a greeting to the customer and forced a smile, slipping into practiced cheer as I recommended winter romances and cozy thrillers.
But every word felt stiff, like I was speaking through cotton.
Even Marmalade seemed out of sorts, perched in his usual spot by the window with his tail twitching, ears tilted every time the door opened—like he was waiting, too.
The quiet between customers was the worst. That’s when memories came creeping in—his voice low and unsure when he tried to open up, the way he held my gaze like it meant something.
And it had meant something. That night hadn’t been a fluke.
I felt it in the way his fingers brushed mine, in the storm behind his eyes that calmed when he looked at me.
I’d told him to go because I was scared, because falling for him meant risking everything.
But now, I couldn’t stop wondering if I’d made the wrong choice.
I tried to shake it off, grabbing a copy of Pride and Prejudice to shelve. My hand slipped, and the book hit the floor with a loud thud. I flinched. So much for not being distracted.
I crouched down to pick it up, pressing the worn cover to my chest for a second longer than necessary. “What if I made a mistake?” I whispered aloud, and the words echoed more than I wanted to admit.
Marmalade let out a soft meow from the window. I looked up, and he blinked at me like he understood. Maybe he did. Because as much as I tried to convince myself I was fine, the truth was gnawing at me:
I missed him. Not just the idea of him. I missed Cavil.
I wandered over to Marmalade, crouching beside his perch and letting my fingers scratch behind his ears.
He leaned into the touch, purring faintly, but kept his eyes mostly shut—content, detached, and clearly uninterested in offering emotional wisdom.
“You know,” I murmured, “I could really use some advice right now.”
He gave a single, unimpressed blink before closing his eyes again, as if to say you’re on your own, sweetheart. Typical. Furry, cozy, and emotionally unavailable—just like every man I’d dated before Cavil.
With a soft sigh, I stood and turned toward the front window.
Snow fell steadily outside, blanketing the town in pristine white.
It was beautiful, the kind of soft winter magic you read about in books.
And yet, behind the glass, in the stillness of my shop, it felt hollow.
Without Cavil’s quiet presence, his low voice, the way he made every corner of this place feel warmer—it all seemed a little too quiet. A little too empty.
I pressed my forehead to the glass, watching a snowflake melt the instant it touched the pane. “I should’ve told him,” I whispered. I should’ve said how much he mattered. How he made me feel alive again—how, after everything with Leo, I didn’t think that was even possible.
But the fear—God, the fear. What if I was wrong again? What if Cavil changed his mind? What if Leo found out and everything shattered into something I couldn’t put back together?
Still… wasn’t love always a risk? And hadn’t I already fallen somewhere along the way?
I slumped into the armchair across from Marmalade, pulling my phone from my pocket like it might hold all the answers I didn’t have. My thumb hovered over Cavil’s contact name. Cavil Carter. Just seeing it there sent a little jolt through my chest.
What could I even say? I miss you? I’m sorry? None of it felt like enough. The silence between us was no longer empty—it was loud, echoing with everything I hadn’t said. Everything I was still too scared to say.
I glanced at the door again, my heart stupidly hopeful.
But the bell didn’t ring. The door didn’t open. And all that greeted me was snow, falling steadily outside, indifferent to the ache pulsing quietly through me.
I pulled my coat tighter around me, bracing against the bite of the wind as I approached the community center.
The little van behind me—usually filled with laughter, teasing, and Cavil’s too-loud critiques of my driving—was quiet now.
Uncomfortably so. The silence pressed in on me, amplifying the thud of the books in the back every time I hit a bump.
God, I missed him.
I parked and sat for a moment, hands gripping the wheel.
Maybe if I just stayed here long enough, the ache in my chest would fade.
But the truth was, I’d made the choice to let him go.
I was the one who told him to leave. And now I was the one left sitting in a cold van, pretending like I hadn’t ripped something important out of my life.
I climbed out and hoisted the box of books onto my hip, heading toward the front doors with stiff resolve. The warmth inside the building hit me immediately—like a soft, familiar hug. The smell of paper, crayons, and faint cinnamon hung in the air, tugging at memories that only made the ache worse.
“Callie!” someone called from the front desk, their smile genuine and bright.
“Hi,” I said, summoning a smile I didn’t quite feel. “Just dropping off some new reads for the kids.”
“Oh, perfect!” she said, standing to take the box from me. “We’re setting up for story time now. Want to help?”
“Of course,” I said, following her to the back tables.
I busied myself unpacking the books—titles about faraway kingdoms, talking animals, brave girls, and mischievous dragons. Normally, I’d feel energized here, surrounded by stories and tiny hands eager to grab them. But today, everything felt a little muted. Like the color had dimmed just a bit.
Until he ran in.
A blur of energy flew past the tables, nearly knocking over a stack of chapter books before skidding to a stop in front of me. A little boy—six, maybe seven—grinned up at me with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.
“Thank you for the books!” he said, breathless.
I blinked, caught off guard. “You’re… welcome?”
“The ones the British guy picked out,” he clarified, eyes wide. “He said I’d like the dragon one. And I did! He breathes fire and everything!”
I laughed, but it came out choked, emotions catching in my throat. “You liked it?”
He nodded, serious now. “It was the coolest book ever.”
And just like that, warmth burst through the ice that had settled in my chest. He remembered. Cavil had picked those books with such care, crouching beside me as we talked through what kids might love, how stories could make them feel seen and brave and safe.
Even when he wasn’t here, he was.
I swallowed hard, offering the boy a smile as I crouched beside him. “I’ll tell him,” I whispered, more to myself than to him. “I’ll tell him you loved it.”
My heart ached in that full, unbearable way joy sometimes brought—the kind that cracked you open with its quiet beauty.
Tears welled in my eyes, not from sadness but from the weight of everything Cavil had unknowingly given—a spark, a story, a piece of himself left behind in the pages of a dragon book.
That gentle, guarded man had no idea how deeply he could touch lives simply by showing up, by caring in his quiet, intentional way.
Without hesitation, I dropped to my knees and wrapped the boy in a tight hug, burying my face against his messy hair. “I’m so glad you liked it,” I whispered, letting that warmth settle deep in my chest, chasing out the cold I’d been carrying.
Something inside me—something I hadn’t realized had been locked away—began to thaw. It wasn’t just about Cavil or the ache of missing him. It was about this. This impact. This joy. This reminder that the little things mattered.
“I want to be a knight when I grow up,” he said proudly, pulling back with a grin that made me laugh through the lump in my throat.
“A knight?” I echoed, smiling wide. “That’s amazing.”
“Yeah! And then maybe dragons will be real.” His eyes sparkled, full of belief, and for a moment I wished with everything in me that the world would always stay this magical for him.
I wished Cavil could see this. I wished he could hear that tiny voice and realize what he’d helped build—not just for this boy, but for me.
I’d spent so long feeling afraid of what could go wrong, of the messiness and the fallout.
But maybe… maybe life was messy. Maybe love was too.
And maybe that didn’t make it any less worth chasing.
The boy bolted off, already lost in his next adventure, and I stayed there for a breath longer—knees on the floor, hands trembling slightly over the books we’d brought.
When I finally stood, I felt different. Steadier.
Hopeful.
I looked down at the waiting box and smiled, brushing a hand over the cover of the dragon book like it was sacred.
I barely made it to the delivery truck before the tears spilled over, hot and unstoppable.
They blurred my vision as I collapsed into the driver’s seat, fingers clutching the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping me grounded.
The sharp sting of winter air clung to my coat, and the lingering scent of cinnamon from a bakery bag on the passenger seat wrapped around me—but it couldn’t touch the ache blooming deep in my chest.
The grief wasn’t just about missing him.
It was everything—everything we’d started to build, and everything I’d pushed away.
It was the look in his eyes that night in the kitchen, the way he held silence like it was sacred, not awkward.
It was how he saw me—really saw me. Not as someone broken, or someone Leo had left behind, but as someone worth staying for.
Cavil listened like each word mattered. He remembered the smallest details, the ones no one else thought to ask about.
And when he looked at me, I didn’t feel like a collection of past mistakes. I felt…known.
A sob escaped before I could swallow it down.
I wiped at my cheeks, breath hitching as I tried to calm the storm inside.
But it only got worse when I realized how much of this was my own doing.
I’d told him to go. I’d closed the door on something that could have been good—on someone who had done nothing but show up for me when I least expected it.
“I was scared,” I whispered to the empty car, voice cracking. “God, I was just… scared.”
Because falling for someone again meant risk. And with Cavil, it wasn’t just about me—it was about Leo, about loyalty, about the fear of everything blowing up in our faces. But wasn’t not trying its own kind of failure?
I stared out at the windshield, fogged and streaked with the residue of tears and indecision. My heart ached with the weight of it all. But somewhere beneath that pain, something stirred—a tiny ember of courage.
I didn't know what I was going to do with it. But I knew I would do something. Sometimes, you had to create your Christmas miracle, and I was determined to create mine.