“Meaning?”
“Meaning if she’s going to have a full-blown existential crisis over a guy, it might as well be you.”
“Wow,” I said dryly. “Touching.”
“Don’t mention it.”
I leaned back, exhaling slowly. The warmth of the bar seeped into my bones, the familiar creak of the floorboards grounding me. For all its noise and chaos, The Rusty Stag was home. Always had been.
But tonight, it felt emptier.
Like it was missing something or someone.
“You know,” Callum said after a minute, “if you’re waiting for the perfect timing, you’ll be waiting forever. Life doesn’t hand out neatly wrapped second chances.”
“Is that supposed to be motivational?”
“Depends,” he said. “Is it working?”
I smirked faintly. “Not really.”
“Then I’ll keep trying,” he said, pouring himself another coffee. “We’re brothers. Annoying each other is kind of our brand.”
“Yeah,” I said, a small laugh escaping me despite everything. “That checks out.”
We stood there for a while, the bar humming quietly around us, the snow falling harder outside. I stared at the window, at the faint reflection of the Christmas lights we’d strung.
“She’s something, huh?” Callum said softly.
“Yeah,” I said, my throat tight. “She is.”
He clapped me on the shoulder. “Then quit standing still. You’re not a tree.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, though we both knew I probably wouldn’t—at least not tonight.
Callum chuckled. “You know what you need?”
“A vacation?”
“Eggnog.”
I groaned. “God, no.”
He grinned, reaching for the bottle under the counter. “Too late. It’s Christmas, brother. Brooding’s allowed but not without booze.”
I laughed despite myself, shaking my head as he poured. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet somehow with the smartest woman in town,” he said, raising his glass. “Miracles do happen.”
I clinked my mug against his. “To miracles, then.”
“To love,” he said pointedly.
“Don’t push it.”
But I drank anyway.
And as the warmth hit my chest, I couldn’t help glancing toward the door again, half-hoping, half-dreading that the next time it opened, it’d be her.
