Chapter 7
Pippa
The festival wrapped around us like a warm embrace as we made our way toward the Library, lantern glow casting shadows that danced across snow-dusted paths.
Laughter echoed from the stalls behind us, and somewhere in the distance, someone was playing a flute—a melody that seemed to weave itself into the starlight.
I was still flushed from the skating, from the fall, from that moment when time had stopped and left us tangled together on the ice.
My wings kept giving little involuntary flutters beneath my coat, betraying every restless pulse of energy humming through me.
The memory of his hands steadying me, the warmth of his body pressed against mine—it clung to my skin like heat.
Get it together, Pippa. I needed my usual armor of mischief and teasing. Safe territory. Familiar ground.
"So," I said, bumping his shoulder with mine as we walked, letting the contact linger a beat longer than necessary, "what's the great Callen's Solstice wish? Eternal order? A world alphabetized by element? Maybe a universe where everyone follows proper magical protocol?"
I expected him to deflect, to give me one of those dry looks that said I was being ridiculous. Instead, he was quiet for a long moment, his breath visible in small puffs as we walked. The silence stretched between us like something fragile.
"Connection," he said finally, his voice softer than I'd ever heard it. "I suppose I wish for... connection. To stop feeling like I'm always watching life happen to other people instead of living it myself."
The honesty slammed into me. I'd been expecting sarcasm, maybe some academic joke about ancient texts. Not this—not the raw admission that made my throat tight and killed every teasing word I had ready.
"I've spent so much time building walls," he continued, his gray eyes fixed on the Library ahead of us. "Maintaining control, keeping distance. Sometimes I wonder if I've forgotten how to let anyone in."
Oh. I stared at his profile, at the way lantern light caught the sharp line of his jaw. This was the man beneath all that rigid control—someone who felt isolated, who wanted to belong somewhere. The urge to reach out, to touch that vulnerable place he'd just revealed, hit me like a physical ache.
Someone not so different from me.
"That's..." I started, then stopped, my usual quips suddenly feeling pathetic and small. Something fluttered in my chest that had nothing to do with my wings. "That's not what I expected you to say."
He glanced at me, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The expression transformed his entire face, made him look younger. Dangerous. "What did you expect?"
"Something about ancient rituals. Or maybe world peace through proper cataloging systems."
That earned me a genuine laugh, low and warm. The sound sent heat curling through my stomach. "Sorry to disappoint."
"You didn't," I said quietly, and meant it.
The admission hung between us as we climbed the Library steps, each step bringing us closer together, our shoulders brushing.
I found myself caught between wanting to lean into this softer version of him and the instinct to retreat.
Vulnerability was dangerous. It led to expectations, to disappointment, to the kind of hurt my mother had carried for years—watching my father chase freedom while she waited, learning that love meant being left behind.
But looking at him now, seeing the way his guard had dropped just a fraction, I felt something dangerous stirring in my chest. Something that whispered maybe and what if and other terrifying possibilities.
"What about you?" he asked as we reached the heavy oak doors. His hand came up to rest on the door handle, but his eyes stayed fixed on mine. "What does a pixie wish for at Solstice?"
The words that wanted to come out felt too big, too real. The truth about how I'd built my whole life around never being the one left behind.
"Family," I heard myself say. "I wish I could trust that wanting something doesn't mean you'll lose it."
The admission slipped out before I could stop it, raw and honest in a way that made my chest tight. I could feel the weight of his gaze, the way the moment stretched between us like something fragile and dangerous. The space between us seemed to shrink, charged with possibility.
Too much. Too real.
I slid back into my teasing armor, grinning up at him with deliberate mischief. "All right, Professor. Let's go corrupt the archives."
The Library's interior wrapped around us—warm candlelight and the hushed whisper of ancient magic. I led him deeper into the stacks, hyperaware of his presence at my back, the way his footsteps matched mine, the occasional brush of his coat against my wings, until we reached the restricted section.
"Ancient Solstice traditions," I announced, stopping before shelves that stretched up into shadow. "Should be exactly what you're looking for."
I could feel his attention shift as I pulled a ladder over—not to the books anymore, but to me.
The weight of his gaze was almost physical, tracking my every movement as I climbed.
When I glanced down from the upper shelves, I caught him staring with an intensity that made my fingers fumble on the scroll I'd been reaching for.
Focus, Pippa. I grabbed a promising-looking scroll and climbed back down, his hands coming up to steady my waist as I descended—not hovering this time, but actually touching, warm and firm through my clothes.
The contact sent heat racing up my spine, and from the way his breathing hitched, he felt it too.
His hands lingered a moment longer than necessary before he stepped back.
"Professor," I said, unrolling the scroll while still standing near the ladder, "you're being awfully quiet. Plotting something scholarly and devastating?"
He moved closer, though he maintained a careful distance, the space between us charged with awareness. "Just thinking."
"Dangerous habit." I held the scroll up to catch the candlelight, squinting at the elegant script. "Let's see what we have here... 'Ancient Rituals of Winter's Heart.' Sounds promising."
I began to read aloud, expecting the usual academic language about seasonal transitions and agricultural cycles. Instead, the words that flowed from the parchment were something else entirely.
"'When winter's longest night descends,'" I read, my voice automatically dropping to match the scroll's intimate tone, "'hearts seek the warmth of connection. Let touch kindle the flame that burns away solitude...'"
I paused, blinking at the text. Heat crept up my neck as I realized what I'd stumbled into.
"Keep reading," Callen said quietly.
Something in his voice made me look up. His gray eyes were fixed on me with an intensity that made my pulse skip, and I caught the slight huskiness that had entered his tone.
I cleared my throat and continued. "'Let breath mingle with breath, skin warm skin, until the cold cannot touch what burns between souls...'"
My voice had gone softer without my permission, the words seeming to hang in the air between us. I watched as Callen's pupils dilated slightly, his hands flexing at his sides. The scroll was definitely not about agricultural cycles.
"'In the joining of two hearts,'" I read on, very aware of the way Callen had gone perfectly still, his attention laser-focused on my lips, "'winter's grip is broken. Touch becomes fire, whisper becomes song, and the longest night transforms into dawn...'"
Heat crept up my neck, but I kept reading, partly because the words were beautiful and partly because I was curious to see how far I could push before Callen's control cracked. The air between us seemed to thicken with each word, electric with possibility.
"'Let hands explore the landscape of desire,'" I continued, my voice deliberately sultry now as I watched his jaw tighten, "'let lips trace the map of longing. In the sacred space between heartbeats, between breaths, between the moment before surrender and the moment after—'"
"Pippa." His voice was low, warning. The sound of my name on his lips, rough with barely controlled want, sent a shiver through me.
I looked up, meeting his eyes with deliberate innocence. "What? It's just an ancient text, Professor. Very... educational."
His jaw tightened, and he took a step forward, the movement predatory and controlled. The space between us suddenly felt charged, dangerous. "You're doing this on purpose."
"Doing what?" I asked, though I could feel the grin tugging at my lips, could see the way his gaze dropped to my mouth before snapping back up. "Reading? I thought you wanted to learn about Solstice rituals."
I held the scroll just out of his reach as he moved closer, taking a step back to maintain the distance, the game sending electricity racing through my veins. "Unless you're afraid of a little historical research?"
"I'm not afraid of anything," he said, but there was something dark and heated in his voice that made my breath catch, made my wings flutter beneath my coat.
"No?" I tilted my head, studying him. The careful mask of control was still there, but I could see cracks in it now—the way his hands had clenched into fists, the tension in his shoulders, the heat building in those gray eyes like storm clouds gathering.
"Then why do you look like you're about to bolt? "
I took another step back as he moved forward, the scroll still clutched in my hands.
The game was intoxicating—this push and pull, this dance of advance and retreat.
I could feel power humming just beneath his skin, responding to whatever was building between us, making the air itself shimmer with barely contained magic.
"Maybe you're the one who's afraid," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to echo in the space between us. "Afraid to feel something real for once instead of hiding behind all that control."
The words hit their mark like a physical blow. His entire body went rigid, magic crackling around him in visible sparks that made the air itself shimmer. The careful mask didn't just crack—it shattered completely.
"You want something real?" he asked, his voice rough with barely leashed power, with want and challenge and something that made my pulse race.
His hand came up to cup my jaw, tilting my face toward his, the touch electric against my skin. His thumb traced across my lower lip, and I felt that touch like lightning racing through my veins.
Before I could answer—before I could even think—his mouth was on mine.
The kiss was nothing like I'd expected from controlled, careful Callen.
It was fierce and consuming, all heat and demand and barely restrained power.
His magic flared against my skin, warm and electric, making my wings flutter and my hands fist in his shirt.
I could taste the winter air on his lips, could feel the careful walls he'd built around himself crumbling with each desperate press of his mouth against mine.
I kissed him back with equal intensity, all my teasing and provocation transforming into something deeper, hungrier. The candles around us flared higher, responding to the magic crackling between us, casting dancing shadows on the ancient books.
His other hand tangled in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss, and I melted against him, every nerve ending alive with sensation. The scroll crinkled forgotten as it fell from my hands as I pressed closer, needing more contact, more of this intoxicating loss of control.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against mine, his eyes dark with want and something that looked almost like surprise, as if he couldn't quite believe what had just happened.
I stepped back abruptly, my hands trembling as I smoothed down my hair, trying to regain some semblance of composure. The kiss had shaken me more than I cared to admit, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable in a way I hadn't expected.
Moving toward the door on unsteady legs, I paused at the threshold and glanced back at him. "So much for control, Professor," I whispered, my voice shakier than I'd intended, my lips still tingling from his kiss.