Chapter 17
Cavil
I sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on my knees, staring blankly at the wall across from me.
The place was a mess—mugs from who knew how many mornings ago, unopened bills piled up like they might disappear if I ignored them long enough.
The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was loud.
Crushing. Every breath echoed in the stillness like it didn’t belong.
Outside, snow was falling—quiet and steady—but the softness of it didn’t reach me. Nothing did lately.
A knock shattered the quiet.
“Cav! Open up!”
Luke.
I let out a slow breath through my nose, already regretting everything. Still, I dragged myself off the couch, trudged to the door, and pulled it open.
Luke grinned like a fool, holding up a ridiculous Santa hat with a jingle bell at the tip. “Thought you might need this festive touch.”
Behind him stood Christian, and further back, Claire and her grandmother, Mrs. Bennett.
I stared at the hat. “Not happening.”
Christian laughed as he stepped inside and started brushing snow off his shoulders. “Come on, man. It’s Christmas Eve. Can’t you fake a little cheer?”
Claire slipped inside with that soft smile of hers, the one that always managed to crack the ice just a little. Mrs. Bennett gave me a knowing look, her gaze sweeping the cluttered apartment like she saw straight through me.
“We brought cookies,” she said, holding up a tin like it was some kind of peace offering.
I nodded out of courtesy. “Thanks, but I’m not really in the mood.”
Luke clutched his chest in mock horror. “No mood? You’re missing out! There’s gonna be hot chocolate and some truly godawful carolers. It’s practically a Hallmark movie.”
I leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. “Hard pass.”
Claire and Christian shared a look. Then Claire stepped closer, her voice soft. “It’s just one night, Cavil. It might help.”
I looked at her—really looked. And part of me wanted to go. Just to be near something warm for a minute. But I shook my head. “I appreciate it. Really. But I’d rather be alone tonight.”
Christian chuckled and muttered, “This guy seriously thinks solitude is the answer.”
I shrugged. “Hey, nobody’s forcing you to hang out with me. Feel free to go sip your hot cocoa and sing off-key with the rest of them.”
Even as I said it, part of me hated how bitter it sounded. But it was safer here. In the quiet. In the cage I’d built for myself.
“You’re missing out,” Luke said again, giving me one of those over-the-top winks he was known for. “Who knows? We might meet someone. Free hot chocolate draws in all the cute girls.”
I scoffed, glancing toward the kitchen counter where that ridiculous Santa hat still sat like a challenge I hadn’t accepted. Red felt and jingling bells—festive nonsense for a night I didn’t want to celebrate. I left it there, untouched.
“He doesn’t think she wants him there,” Luke said to Noah, who had snuck in as silent as a wraith.
That hit harder than I expected. I masked it with a shrug, but the words echoed in my chest like they’d been aimed squarely at me.
I wasn’t going because I thought showing up might make things worse—and wasn’t that exactly what I was doing?
Hiding behind excuses. Telling myself staying away was noble, not cowardly.
But the truth was, I didn’t know what I’d say to her if I saw her again.
I didn’t trust myself not to fall all the way.
“You guys should just go,” I said, firmer this time. “Enjoy yourselves.”
A beat of silence followed. Luke looked like he wanted to argue again, but Christian nudged him toward the door with a resigned sigh. Claire lingered, her gaze gentle and unreadable.
Noah stayed quiet, probably debating if he could get out of this too.
“Take care of yourself,” she said quietly.
Then she followed the others out into the night, their laughter fading as the door shut behind them.
And just like that, the silence returned—too loud, too empty.
I stood there, unmoving, watching snowflakes drift outside my window.
Their joy felt miles away from where I was.
I wanted to believe I’d made the right choice staying behind, keeping my distance.
But all it felt like was loss—hollow and heavy, wrapping around my chest and settling in.
I didn’t put on the hat. I didn’t follow them. I just sat down again in the quiet and told myself I’d made peace with it.
But I hadn’t. Not even close.
I sank deeper into the couch, the creak of worn cushions the only sound in the apartment. The silence felt suffocating. But it wasn’t the quiet that unraveled me—it was the memory of her lips on mine.
That kiss. Soft. Uncertain. But real in a way nothing had been for a long time.
And then her words echoed, sharp and clear: “I don’t want to come between you and your brother.”
I closed my eyes, jaw clenched. It wasn’t anger—not at her.
Never at her. It was fear. That gnawing, familiar kind of fear that had followed me from deployment to home and settled in my chest like it had every right to stay.
I’d spent so long building a life around silence and distance, pretending I didn’t want more.
But Callie cracked that lie wide open every time she looked at me like I wasn’t a burden, like I wasn’t broken.
Still, I couldn’t shake the thought: What if I’m just like him?
Leo left wreckage wherever he went. People. Promises. Me. And no matter how much I told myself I was different, part of me still wondered if I carried the same curse—that deep-down rot that made people run before they got left behind.
I dragged a hand down my face, elbows braced on my knees. She didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve the weight of my uncertainty or the shadows I’d spent years pretending weren’t there.
But then I remembered the way she looked at me across the table like she saw me—not the soldier, not the screwup, but the man trying to be something else. Something better.
Callie had that power. She made everything warmer. Softer. Like maybe there was something worth fighting for beyond guilt and regret.
I stood slowly, grabbed my coat off the chair. My heart thudded heavy in my chest as I stared at the door.
I couldn’t keep letting Leo’s ghost make decisions for me. Not when Callie was out there, hurting and probably blaming herself. Not when I knew damn well I wanted her more than I feared the fallout.
It was time to stop running. Time to find her.
Before the silence swallowed us whole.
I tugged the scarf higher around my neck, the ridiculous red-and-green knit scratching at my chin as I stepped into the cold. Callie had laughed the first time I wore it—said I looked like I lost a bet with Santa’s stylist. I hadn’t worn it since.
Until now.
Snow crunched under my boots as I walked, the world around me glowing with Christmas charm.
Poinsettias lined every storefront window.
The wreath on Ms. Langley’s antique shop was bigger than her door.
And the trees along Main Street twinkled with strands of white lights that shimmered like icicles under the streetlamps.
The air smelled like roasted chestnuts and sugar cookies, and someone was handing out steaming cups of cider near the church steps.
Carolers huddled in scarves and mittens, harmonizing to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” while kids in puffy coats threw snowballs and parents laughed over coffee cups.
The whole town looked like it had been wrapped in a snow globe and shaken just for the occasion.
I should’ve felt like an outsider. I usually did.
But tonight?
Tonight I felt… tethered. Anchored to something bigger than the ache I carried.
Maybe it was the memory of Callie’s eyes lighting up when she read Christmas stories to the kids. Or the way she hummed along to carols when she thought no one was listening. Or maybe it was how she’d looked at me that night in her kitchen, like I was someone worth believing in.
That memory warmed me now more than the scarf ever could.
The square was packed, but I moved through it with purpose—dodging snowball fights and weaving around couples taking selfies beneath the lights. I scanned the crowd, heart thudding, pulse picking up as I neared the giant tree in the center. If she was anywhere tonight, it would be here.
And if I found her?
I wouldn’t waste another second in silence.
Not when the whole damn world smelled like cinnamon and second chances.
I lingered near the lamppost at the edge of the square, trying to ignore the way my breath fogged in the cold and how my heart wouldn’t settle. The metal at my back was freezing, but I barely noticed. All I could see was her.
Callie.
Standing beneath the golden glow of fairy lights, she looked like something out of a dream. Not because of the way the snow caught in her curls or the cranberry red coat she wore—but because she belonged there. Center stage. Lit up. Alive in a way I hadn’t seen in far too long.
“Thank you all for coming to celebrate the reopening of The Book Nook,” she said, her voice ringing through the square like music. Confident. Steady. Joyful.
I’d heard that voice quiet, hesitant, trembling when she let herself be vulnerable. I’d heard it teasing and warm over grilled cheese and bookstore banter. But this? This was a Callie who knew she was loved. Who had earned every ounce of the crowd’s affection.
And God, it was beautiful.
She went on, thanking the community for their support, her words as heartfelt as ever. I watched how the townsfolk leaned into her like she was their sun—how the kids gathered at her feet, how Claire wiped away a proud tear, how even old man Jenkins gave a rare, approving nod.
But it was the way she carried herself that undid me—chin high, eyes alight, shoulders square beneath the twinkle of Christmas lights. She wasn’t just filling Mr. Fletcher’s shoes. She was carving out her own place in this town, this season, this story.
And somehow, I wanted to be part of that story too.
When she mimicked Fletcher’s voice and the crowd erupted in laughter, I laughed with them, a sound that surprised even me. For a moment, it was easy to forget all the reasons I’d stayed away. All the fear, all the guilt.
She looked up then.
Right at me.
I swear to God; the noise faded. Just for a second. It was just her and me and a silent understanding that passed between us like a shared breath.
I didn’t wave. Didn’t move. But I knew. She saw me.
And more than that… I think she wanted me to be there.
Maybe the time for shadows had passed. Maybe tonight, with snow falling soft and lights glowing warm, it was time to step forward into something brighter.
Toward her.
I watched her step down from the stage; the snow catching in her curls like stardust, her laughter curling through the air and wrapping itself around me like ribbon on a gift I didn’t know I still deserved. She moved through the crowd like she belonged—effortless, radiant, alive.
Our eyes met, and for one breathless moment, everything else vanished. The music, the lights, the people—all of it blurred into the background.
She didn’t hesitate long. With a few soft words to the group surrounding her, she stepped away and started walking toward me. Each step stole air from my lungs. I wanted to run. God, I wanted to disappear before she got close enough to see the truth in my eyes. But I didn’t move.
Not this time.
She stopped in front of me, cheeks pink from the cold, her hair dusted with snow like a halo. I’d never seen anything so heartbreakingly beautiful.
“You came,” she said, and her voice hit me like warmth after too long in the cold.
“Didn’t want to miss you,” I said. It came out quieter than I intended—gruff, raw—but it was honest. The truest thing I’d said in days.
She smiled, small and trembling and impossibly hopeful. “I’m glad you didn’t.”
That was it. That one sentence cracked something open in me. Like the frost finally melting.
I shifted, unsure, the words catching in my throat. “You were great, by the way. Up there. I mean it.”
Her laugh was soft, her eyes dipping shyly. “Thanks. It felt… right.”
“Yeah. It showed.”
A beat of silence settled between us. It wasn’t heavy—it was charged. Hopeful. Like the world was holding its breath.
She looked at me again, uncertain now. “Do you maybe want to—?”
“Get out of here?” I finished, surprising us both.
Her eyes lit up, a quiet spark flickering in the blue.
“Let’s go,” she said.
And just like that, I stepped out of the shadows. Out of fear. Out of everything that had kept me frozen in place for far too long.
Because if this was a beginning—I wanted to meet it head-on. With her.