Chapter 31
Haiyden
I don’t feel her next to me. It’s an instinct. An ache. Like my body notices before my mind does.
For a second, I panic—like she left. Like last night scared her off.
But I open my eyes, and she’s there.
Standing at the windowsill in nothing but the t-shirt I left out for her.
Tanner called in the middle of the night. Because, like the piece of shit I am, I punched a stranger hard enough to probably break his nose, almost fucked Calla in the back office, and then ditched the bar completely. I had to go back. Lock up. Make sure it was all shut down right.
But I couldn’t leave Calla like that—curled up, blinking in that half-asleep haze like she might bolt the second I was gone.
So I smoothed the hair from her face and whispered that I’d be back. That she could sleep. That the shirt was for her. That I wanted her comfortable. That I wanted her here.
And she stayed .
I came back twenty minutes later to her wrapped in my t-shirt and my sheets like a gift I don’t deserve—one I was half-afraid I’d wake up without.
I stay silent and just… watch her.
The way her eyes follow the snowfall, tracing invisible lines through the sky like she’s memorizing each flake. Her legs are bare—long, delicate—and my gaze drifts up to where my shirt clings to her hips, hiding everything I want to worship all over again.
It makes my chest tight.
I blow out a long breath. Just enough to let her know I’m awake.
Her head turns, eyes catching mine like she hadn’t expected it—like maybe she thought she’d get a few more minutes alone with the quiet.
But she doesn’t hesitate. She walks toward me without a word.
She climbs into bed and curls into my side, head tucked against my chest, her fingers drawing soft lines up and down my arm in that absent, almost unconscious way that makes my stomach twist.
It’s so fucking gentle. So unlike the way I’m wired. And all it makes me want to do is hold her tighter.
“It’s snowing,” she says quietly.
“It is,” I murmur, pulling the sheets over both of us like they might keep her here a little longer.
“It’s bad,” she adds, pressing closer, like she wants inside my skin. “There’s no cars out. They haven’t plowed.”
I kiss her forehead—the spot that feels like it was made for my mouth.
“Guess you’re stuck with me today, then.”
“I can think of worse things.”
Her smile brushes against my skin, and fuck, it does something to me. Sets something loose in my chest.
Like maybe… she wants to stay.
We spend another hour in bed, slow and unhurried.
Kissing, touching, licking, tasting—trading heat like we’ve got nowhere to be. Like time’s frozen outside and we’ve found the only warm place left on earth.
It’s a haze of skin and breath and soft sounds. A snow-globe of a morning, sealed off from everything else.
Eventually, we migrate to the kitchen, steam still clinging to our skin from two quick showers meant to scrub off the sweat and sin.
I grab the cereal and pour us both a bowl.
She takes hers without a word, curling up in one of the kitchen chairs like she’s done it a hundred times.
I take the seat across from her—the one with the perfect view of the winter storm still raging outside.
It’s coming down harder now. Huge, heavy flakes stick to the glass, piling on the streetlights.
Calla follows my gaze, turning slightly to look out the window.
“I can’t believe it’s still coming down like this,” she says, voice soft with awe.
“It wasn’t like this when I ran out last night,” I say, spoon halfway to my mouth. “I mean, it was snowing, but not like this.”
She stands slowly, carrying the bowl with her, walking to the window like it’s magnetic.
I watch her from behind as she sets the bowl on the sill, both hands coming up to touch the cold glass.
“It snowed like this once, when I was a kid.”
I set my spoon down and join her, stepping in close and wrapping my arms around her from behind. She sinks into it immediately, and I rest my chin on top of her head.
“Yeah?” I ask softly.
“It was my first snow day ever,” she says, a breath of a laugh caught in her throat. “I was so excited. But my parents had to work from home that day.”
She sighs, like the memory is as heavy as the snow falling outside.
I start to gently rock her, back and forth. Not enough to throw her off balance—just enough to let her feel it. To let her know I’m here. That I’m listening.
“It was the first time I remember really wishing I had a sibling,” she says. “All I wanted was a snowball fight. Like in the movies—kids screaming, laughing, ducking behind forts. But I didn’t have anyone to play with.”
She pauses. Her head leans back against my chest, eyes fixed out the window like she’s seeing it all again.
“I went out anyway,” she says. “Started making snowballs. Neat ones, packed just right. I lined them up on both sides of the yard, like I was getting ready for a real fight. Like someone might show up.”
My jaw clenches.
The image of little Calla—alone in the yard, waiting for someone— anyone —to play with her?
It fucking guts me.
I didn’t realize she was always so goddamn alone.
“I waited for hours,” she says, softer now. “No one came. So I started rolling them into snowmen. I used every single one. I had a whole army by the time I went back inside.”
She pauses.
“And the next morning, before school, they were still out there. But they had stick arms, carrot noses, and coal buttons.”
She turns around, wrapping her arms around me like she’s trying to bury the memory somewhere warm. I fold her in, holding her there, my hands stroking slow lines down her back.
“I think my parents felt guilty,” she says into my chest. “They weren’t bad people. Just… busy.”
She stops herself—like she caught the edge of being too generous. Or maybe too vulnerable.
“They didn’t last, anyway,” she adds after a beat. “It got really warm a few days later.”
It makes me think about all the snowball fights Willow and I had. The snowmen that started as crooked, lopsided things and somehow ended up perfect—because our parents were right there.
Carrots from the fridge. Coal from the bag on the porch.
My dad, searching the woods for the right sticks, like it fucking mattered.
It mattered.
No one should have to do that alone.
It sparks an idea. Something dumb, probably. But it grabs hold fast.
I lean down, close enough that my lips brush the shell of her ear. “I guess that means I’m in the presence of a snowman expert, though.”
She lets out a little snort—more air than laugh—but her body relaxes against mine.
“I guess so,” she says, voice still laced with something wistful.
It’s not lost on me that she didn’t say it with a smile.
“Stay here,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I’ll be right back. ”
I head into my room, the idea already unfolding, my mind buzzing like it used to when I was a kid trying to pull something off before anyone could stop me.
I start grabbing the basics—two thick pairs of socks, the tightest pair of briefs I own so they won’t ride up under layers, a long-sleeve shirt, sweatpants, and a soft navy sweatshirt she’ll probably swim in.
I fold everything, laying it neatly across the top of the dresser like it matters how it looks.
I move to the closet and start digging.
My old ski jacket’s buried deep, tangled with gear I haven’t touched in years. But I find it. Snowpants too. They still smell faintly like campfire and pine and dust.
I fold those and place them on the bed, my chest already tightening at the thought of her wearing them. Of her bundled up in too-big gear that swallows her whole, safe in the middle of a storm.
“Calla!” I call—maybe a little too loud.
She comes running in, eyes wide, the faintest crease between her brows.
“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you,” I say quickly, raising both hands.
I hadn’t meant to startle her. But something about how fast she came—how scared she looked—does something twisted and warm to my chest.
I don’t deserve that kind of response. That kind of care.
She’s breathing a little hard, standing in the doorway in my socks and t-shirt, and I look her over without meaning to.
“Strip, please, pretty girl.”
Her expression wavers—equal parts cautious and wrecked. Like her body still remembers everything we did this morning and isn’t sure it can survive a round two.
I laugh under my breath.
“Not like that.”
She doesn’t move, but she doesn’t pull away either.
So I step toward her, careful, and gently lift the t-shirt she’d pulled on after the shower.
She raises her arms without needing to be asked again.
“Get dressed,” I tell her, nodding toward the pile I’d laid out on the dresser. “It’s not exactly high fashion, but it’ll keep you warm.”
She looks from me to the clothes, and I can practically see the gears turning in her head as her eyes scan the room. The second they land on the winter gear folded on the bed, something flickers through her expression.
Hope. Curiosity. That kid feeling—the one that hadn’t been there before.
Her whole face lights up, just for a second. She’s starting to get it.
And fuck, I’d do this a thousand times just to see that look again.
“I’ll be back in five minutes. Be ready,” I say, slipping out of the room and heading straight for Chase’s closet.
He usually keeps a backup set—extra jacket, snowpants, gloves. Stuff he forgets he owns until the first snow hits and he turns into some kind of overly enthusiastic mountain goat.
I start digging, half-praying he didn’t take the whole damn setup with him on his trip.
As I search, I think, just for a second, how much better Chase’s stuff might fit her. He’s smaller than me. Slimmer. His clothes wouldn’t drown her like mine probably will .
But the thought doesn’t sit right. Not even a little. I’ll wear Chase’s stuff. That’s fine.
She’s not wearing another man’s jacket. Not even his gloves.
Even if Chase is harmless. Even if he wouldn’t think twice.
It’s mine or nothing.