“Dinner tonight, Cal,” he said, voice cutting like he had a right to her time. “We need to talk about this.”
“She’s busy,” I said, voice even. “Our first group meeting’s tonight. She’s walking the space with us. Needs to be there.”
Leo’s scowl deepened. Arms crossed tighter. “Then I’ll come too,” he said, jaw set like it was some kind of test. Like he could muscle through anything he didn’t like.
“Can’t,” I replied. Flat. Firm. “The meetings are for vets. Confidential. You would know if you enlisted, but you chose not to."
Leo bristled. “I went to university,” he snapped, voice rising. “That’s a duty too.”
“It’s not the same,” I said, eyes locked on his. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t give an inch.
Callie stood behind the counter, still and watchful, caught between the two of us like a thread tugged in opposite directions.
Above, a flicker of movement. The cat perched on a high shelf, tail flicking slow, watching us with lazy disdain. Smart enough to stay out of it.
Leo stepped closer, chest squared, like size could win arguments. “You think you get to decide what merits as duty?” he asked, voice low but charged. “You've been gone for years, living in some small American town. When was the last time you went home to see Mum and Dad, hmm? That's what I thought."
“Dad made it very clear what he expected from me," I said. "I'm respecting his wishes."
“Whatever you say to sleep at night, Cav,” he muttered, laugh sharp and humorless. “Mum asks about you even now. Maybe go for her, hmm?"
Callie shifted behind the counter. Uncomfortable. Like she was bracing for impact. Like she’d seen this version of him before.
The animal let out a bored meow from above, tail twitching once, like even he was over the drama.
Same, cat.
Same.
Leo shot Callie one last glance, frustration etched on his face. “This isn’t over,” he said, voice tight as he turned on his heel and walked out, the bell jingling behind him.
I glanced at Callie—she stood behind the counter, shoulders tense, eyes still following Leo’s retreating figure.
The soft strains of Christmas music filled the space, a stark contrast to the tension that had just unfolded. “What a lovely tune for a holiday reunion,” I muttered under my breath.
Callie looked at me then, brows furrowed. “You didn’t have to do that,” she said, her tone low but edged with something deeper. “I was handling myself.”
“Sure you were,” I replied, letting a smirk slip onto my face. “He looked like he was about to offer you a complimentary holiday ham or something.”
She shot me a look that could slice through glass. “I don’t understand you,” she admitted, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “You barely said anything to me when I was with your brother, and now that we’re not…” Her voice trailed off for a moment as she collected her thoughts. “You make these comments and decisions—why?”
“You don’t need to understand me.” I shrugged casually, though the truth felt heavier than it should’ve. “I’m just here for the space.”
“Right,” she replied, voice clipped as if trying to regain some control in this mess.
“What time shall I tell everyone?” I asked, shifting gears as the silence stretched between us like an elastic band ready to snap.
“Five thirty.” She exhaled slowly, letting her arms drop back to her sides. “I know I told him… But we’re not opening for a week. I have stock coming in, but it should quiet down around then. That way, you can have your privacy.”
“Got it.” I nodded once.
More silence fell between us—thick and uncomfortable as the music played softly in the background. Each note seemed to hang in the air longer than necessary.
Finally, Callie broke first. She shifted slightly on her feet but didn’t meet my gaze directly. Her expression softened just enough for me to catch glimpses of something vulnerable behind those steady blue eyes. Her eyes finally flicked to mine, and for a moment, neither of us said anything. There was a storm behind her expression—hurt, pride, maybe a little guilt—and I didn’t flinch from it. Just let her look.
“I’m not some damsel in distress, Cavil,” she said, the edge returning to her voice like armor clicking back into place. “I’ve been fine without either of you for a long time.”
“I never said you weren’t.” My voice stayed even. “But sometimes fine still looks like hell.”
