Chapter 31 #2
I find what I need—thank fuck—and head back into my room with my arms full.
When I push open the door, Calla’s already dressed in the layers I laid out. Sweatpants cuffed too high at the ankles, sweatshirt sleeves bunched at her wrists.
She’s standing by the bed, holding the jacket and snowpants I pulled from my closet earlier.
Waiting for me.
The image knocks the air out of my chest.
We move through the apartment together, back into the living room and toward the front closet.
I pull out the plastic bin we keep filled with hats and gloves—whatever’s survived the last few winters—and set it on the table with the rest of the gear.
And I start to bundle her up.
She has to stay warm.
Has to.
I can’t shake it—that image of her in my car that night. Lips blue. Hands ice-cold. Body trembling.
It haunts me.
Lives under my skin.
I grab the snowpants and shake them out, crouching in front of her. I take her foot in my hand—gently, like she’s breakable. Slide one leg in, then the other. I rise, button the waist, cinch it tight around her.
Next is the jacket. I hold it open, help her slide her arms through, then turn her to face me again. I zip it slowly, carefully moving her hair out of the way with the backs of my fingers so I don’t catch it in the zipper.
She’s quiet through it all, letting me move her. Watching me like she can’t figure out if I’m trying to keep her warm—or just keep her.
Probably both.
I kneel again, this time for the boots. I unlace them one by one, then guide her feet in, careful to avoid any uncomfortable angles.
My hands are steady.
My heart is not.
“You put both pairs of socks on?” I ask, glancing up.
She nods. “Yes,” she murmurs, cheeks turning faintly pink.
“Good. The boots’ll still be a little big, but they should fit better.”
And as I tie the laces, I wonder if she notices.
If she feels it.
That I’d do this, too—a hundred times over.
That I’d spend my whole life on the floor, freezing, kneeling at her feet, if it meant she were warm.
When she’s ready, I move fast to throw on my own snowpants and jacket. I don’t want to waste a second.
I grab a pair of gloves from the bin, pulling them over her hands one at a time, my thumbs grazing her wrists as I guide them in.
Then, I reach for the loudest, ugliest, brightest neon-orange hat I can find—and pull it down over her head until it covers her eyes. She lets out a soft noise of protest, but I’m already leaning in, tilting her chin up, gripping both sides of her face .
And I kiss her.
Hard. Like it means something. Like maybe it’s the only thing keeping me sane.
When I finally tug the hat back up, revealing her eyes, she’s smiling.
“Come on, Haiyden,” she says, half-laughing. “I’m getting hot.”
“You’re always hot,” I say with a wink.
I step back and take her in, full view—and I can’t help the laugh that breaks out of me.
“Actually, you know how little kids look when their parents stuff them into snowsuits? Big mittens, can barely move?”
She narrows her eyes.
“Cute,” I add, grinning. “Like a little penguin.”
She rolls her eyes at me, but I catch the twitch of a smile she’s trying to suppress.
I open the door, the cold hallway air rushing in fast, and usher her out. Then lock up behind us, slip on my own mittens, and follow her into the snow.
Outside, there’s a small stretch of lawn beside the apartment building—patchy and a little uneven, with footprints packed into the snow where people have already walked. But it’s just big enough for what I have in mind.
Just big enough for two grown-ass adults to make snowmen and pretend it matters.
The second we step out, Calla drops to her knees and starts packing snow into shape, her gloved hands moving with quick precision. I match her pace, rolling my own snowball along the ground as I toss a challenge over my shoulder .
“Bet I can make a better snowman than you.”
She doesn’t answer, at least not out loud.
A few minutes pass. We keep working, the balls of snow growing bigger, heavier, harder to push.
I glance over to check her progress—and that’s when I really see her.
She’s locked in. Focused in a way that makes my heart ache.
She has that same quiet intensity she brings to everything—like it all matters. Like this isn’t just a snowman. Like it’s a monument. Something permanent. Something that can’t be melted or ruined or taken from her.
It’s supposed to be fun. Light. Dumb.
But I know that look. I’ve worn that look.
I watch her for a second longer, then bolt. I take off running—awkward, clumsy steps through the thick snow.
She sees me at the last second, her eyes flicking up just as I stumble and throw myself straight into the massive snowball she’s been working on.
I hit the ground hard—hard enough to knock the wind out of me—and let out a low groan as I roll onto my back, snow packed into my jacket.
She’s standing over me now, shaking her head.
“Very uncool, Haiyden,” she says, voice dripping with mock outrage.
But I can see it. The corners of her mouth twitching. The light behind her eyes lighting its way to the surface.
She turns and walks slowly toward my snowball—the one I’d been shaping all wrong—and without missing a beat, starts stomping the hell out of it .
Boots slamming down with exaggerated vengeance.
My jaw drops.
“You are a monster,” I say, half-laughing, half-gasping for air. “That was art.”
She doesn’t reply.
Because she’s already turning around.
And by the time I sit up, barely managing to blink the snow out of my eyelashes, a snowball slams directly into my face. The snow explodes across my face, cold and wet and humiliating.
Calla bursts out laughing. Loud and unrestrained. The kind of laugh that shakes her whole body.
And fuck, I need that sound injected directly into my veins.
I need it burned into my skin.
I need to remember that she can sound like that.
“I gotta say, impressive aim…” I start, wiping my face as I stalk toward her. “But you really shouldn’t have done that, Calla.”
Her eyes go wide.
She runs.
I chase her—just long enough to build anticipation—then tackle her to the ground, catching her carefully, making sure she lands soft, cushioned by snow and my own body.
When she’s on her back, I lean over her, bracing my weight on one arm, my breath misting the space between us.
I look at her. She looks at me.
And she smiles.
It’s soft. Real. The kind of smile you can’t fake.
We stay like that for a while. Not saying anything. Not needing to .
Eventually, I roll onto my back beside her, the cold seeping through my jacket until I can feel the earth below me. I stare up at the sky, watching snowflakes drift down like ash.
The world is muted. But it’s the kind of silence that feels earned.
I turn my head slightly. Calla’s beside me, arms spread out, eyes closed, tongue out. Catching snowflakes like she’s never done it before.
Like this is the only time she’s ever allowed herself to just be .
Just… living.
I reach out and place my gloved hand over hers. She curls her fingers around mine without even opening her eyes.
So I close mine too. Tip my head back. Stick out my tongue. Let the snow melt on contact.
This—this feels like happy.
Like snow days with extra marshmallows and Saturday morning cartoons I pretended to be too old for. Like the smell of cinnamon in December. My mom folding laundry in the living room. My dad tying my boots tighter after I already did them, just to make sure they’d hold.
I hold onto that feeling as long as I can. Because that was before.
Before everything cracked open.
Before silence started spilling out of the places where laughter used to live. Before grief carved out pieces of me I didn’t know could be taken.
Pieces only she knows how to hold.
I turn to her again, watching as snowflakes kiss her skin and melt into her warmth.
And I want to. I want to tell her.
I think I might need you forever, Calla James.