Chapter 16
Haiyden
The Christmas music started too goddamn early this morning.
It’s been hours of chaos, and the noise, the pace, the cheer—it’s killing me.
I started cleaning my room. Not because I have to, but because it’s the only thing that makes sense right now.
The happiness spilling out of the living room feels like it’s suffocating me.
I fucking hate Christmas.
It didn’t always feel like this, but this year, it fell apart fast.
I canceled. Thought I could tuck myself away at home like it’s just another day. Made it clear I didn’t want to see my parents.
They made it just as clear they’re moving on. Celebrating without me .
I just feel detached from all of it.
Chase is on another frequency entirely, taking the holiday way too seriously. Overdoing it like he thinks the sentiment can fix things. Like he believes it’ll change anything.
I shake it off, realizing I’m spiraling.
Finishing my room doesn’t fix anything, but it keeps my hands busy.
When I move into the living room, I start straightening the bookshelf, adjusting the throw pillows. Chase already cleaned in here, but I need something to do. So I move around like I’m accomplishing something, even though it’s aimless. Just me pretending.
Chase is in the kitchen, chopping something, but I can feel his eyes on me. I don’t know if it’s curiosity or pity. I don’t care.
“You don’t have to hate Christmas, you know,” he says quietly, the rhythm of the knife punctuating his words.
I don’t answer, and I’m sure he feels the air shift between us.
He sighs, shifting his focus to the cutting board.
“Listen, Haiyden. It’s tough, but you’re going to have to deal with it someday.”
“It’s dealt with,” I snap, final enough to kill the conversation before it starts.
“No, it’s not,” Chase says, setting the knife down and finally looking at me. “You know it’s not. Take your time, but don’t let it ruin your life.”
Then he picks the knife back up and starts chopping again, like he didn’t just drop a bomb in the middle of the room.
Still, I don’t respond.
I just keep moving things around in the living room mindlessly, going through the motions until there’s nothing left to fix.
Then I head into the kitchen, brushing past Chase without a word. I grab plates and silverware, arrange them neatly on the table.
Anything to keep my hands busy. Anything to shut my mind up.
The rest of the afternoon somehow slips by.
Chase and I move around the apartment like we’re in separate worlds. We should’ve just done this at the bar. It’s already clean, the walk would’ve been easy.
This is a waste of energy. A waste of time.
I glance at the clock. Almost 3:00 p.m.
I head to my room to change.
Nothing festive jumps out from the closet—not that I expected it to. So I go the opposite direction: black henley, black jeans cuffed at the ankles, black socks.
Simple. Clean. The only thing that fits my mood.
When I step back into the living room, Chase is in the kitchen, proudly wearing the ugliest sweater I’ve ever seen. Santa’s actually popping out of a chimney in 3D, arms raised like he’s ready to hand out beers from two oversized front pockets that could probably fit a six-pack each.
He glances at me, takes in the all-black, and lets out a long sigh.
“Really?”
I shrug. “Your sweater’s fucking ridiculous.”
He shoots back, more amused than annoyed, “It’s festive . You should try it sometime, Scrooge.”
He slides the last pan into the oven, and just as he’s setting the timer, there’s a soft knock at the door.
She’s right on time .
Before I can move, Chase is already at the door, swinging it open and pulling her into a hug.
“Merry Christmas, Calla!”
I can’t help but cringe.
He hugs her like it’s second nature. She leans into it without hesitation. It gets under my skin in a way I don’t fully understand.
When he finally lets her go, I take her in.
A fitted cream sweater slips off one shoulder, soft against her skin, hugging her in all the right places. Loose black jeans sit just right, balancing her curves, and heeled boots give her a bit of extra height—though I’m still a full head taller.
She’s carrying an armful of bags and gifts, of course. Always prepared. Always thinking ahead.
But then my gaze moves up.
She looks pale, almost washed out. The shadows under her eyes are deeper than normal. Her makeup’s half done, like she started and didn’t bother finishing. Her hair’s tied in a loose, messy bun.
She makes it work. She always does.
But there’s something… off.
There’s a stiffness in the way she holds herself, a tension I don’t remember seeing before. It makes me anxious, and I hate how fast my brain starts cycling through the possibilities.
Late night? Stress?
Better things to do than show up at my apartment on Christmas?
A wave of guilt rips through me when I realize maybe she doesn’t even want to be here.
The thought irritates me more than it probably should.
I watch her closely as her eyes scan the apartment, like she’s mapping it out in her head. Her shoulders are tense, movements stiff as she takes everything in—locating the exits, finding the quickest way to escape.
It’s a game I know all too well.
When her gaze finally meets mine, she steps forward and pulls something wrapped in red and green cellophane from her bag.
“I just wrapped it,” she blurts, her voice rushed, unsure. “It’s not suffocating, but you should probably open it soon.”
I take it from her hands, the crinkling plastic loud in the apartment’s quiet.
It’s… a plant?
I peel back the wrapping and find a small green thing in a muted yellow pot. Simple. Unassuming.
My first instinct is to hand it back. Tell her I’ll probably kill it. That she’s better off keeping it for herself.
But the look on her face stops me.
She’s watching too closely, like she’s bracing for rejection.
I tighten my grip around the small pot and meet her eyes. “Thank you, Calla.”
A beat passes, thick with whatever neither of us are saying. And when I can’t take it anymore, I turn and head to my room, the plant still in my hands.
Whatever’s going on, I just need a second to breathe.
In my room, I pull back the curtain over the window and set the plant on the sill. Sunlight spills across it, making the green glow richer, more alive.
It feels out of place.
From the living room, Chase laughs—loud and obnoxious as ever .
“Thanks, Calla!” he shouts, his voice carrying through the apartment.
I pause, take a breath, then step back through the doorway, curious. Chase is in the kitchen, holding up some tiny porcelain mouse dressed like a chef. He sets it on our kitchen shelf like it’s a prized possession.
Something about it feels too personal.
My chest tightens, an open wound splitting somewhere deep. But before I can dissect it, my eyes find her.
She’s still standing a few feet away, arms loosely crossed.
Her face is sad. Wrecked in a way that makes my chest ache for an entirely different reason. It lingers just long enough for me to notice, before she straightens up and smooths her expression into something neutral.
When Chase steps away to set up the music, she startles slightly, thrusting the last two bags toward me.
“For you… both, or, um, for dinner,” she says, stumbling over her words. “Whatever works.”
I nod and take the bags, our fingers brushing in the handoff. The contact is fleeting, but it sticks to me in a way I don’t expect.
When I turn toward the kitchen, she follows, hovering just behind me, close enough that I feel her warmth.
I pull the bottles from the bags and glance at the labels—nice, expensive, not a random grab. I set them on the counter, turning the labels so she can see them.
“Red or white?” I ask, rummaging through the drawer for the wine opener.
She shrugs. “I don’t care. Whatever you want.”
Something about that answer rubs me the wrong way. I know she has an opinion.
My grip tightens around the opener, and before I can stop myself, my words come out clipped.
“I didn’t ask what I wanted. I asked what you wanted. Pick one.”
Her eyes widen slightly, then drift toward the door. She folds her arms tighter across her chest, shoulders inching inward like she’s bracing for something.
When she speaks again, her voice is softer.
“Red.”
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
I press my lips together, anger humming under my skin. Not at her—at myself. Shame clings to every movement as I nod once and turn to grab wine glasses from the cabinet.
By the time I return, she’s composed again. Face blank in a way that feels intentional.
Like a defense.
And it only makes the anger burn hotter.
After uncorking the wine, I pour a glass and slide it toward her. She hesitates for a beat before picking it up, watching me like she’s waiting for something else to go wrong.
I lift my own glass, tilt it gently toward hers, and whisper—just low enough that Chase doesn’t hear.
“Merry Christmas, Calla James.”
She taps her glass against mine with a small nod, then lifts it to her lips.
And I watch.
The curve of her mouth against the rim, the slow tilt of her head as she takes a sip. The quick flash of her tongue as she tastes it. Lashes dip shut—just for a second.
It shouldn’t be anything. But it is.
It’s too much, all at once.
And somehow, not nearly enough.
The rest of the evening drags, every minute stretching into hours. Chase, always the life of the party, keeps the conversation going, cracking jokes, trying to banter. But Calla barely engages. I’ve seen them at the bar. I know how she usually lights up around him—quick with comebacks, easy smiles.
Tonight, she’s somewhere else entirely.
Absent mentally. Barely here physically.
And it bothers me. More than it should.
Dessert passes in near silence, Chase clearly having emptied his arsenal of conversation starters. For once, even he seems to have picked up on the shift. His usual energy dims as he settles into the quiet with the rest of us.
When his phone rings, cutting through the lull, his energy snaps back.