The kid launched herself at her, tiny arms wrapping around Callie’s waist with zero hesitation. Callie froze for a heartbeat, then melted into the hug like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I stayed a few paces back, boots crunching in the snow, watching it unfold. No sarcasm. No armor. Just her—completely present, completely open.
“Do you like reading?” she asked once the hug loosened.
“Yes! I love dragons!” the girl beamed.
Callie laughed, light and real. “Then I have just the thing.” She sifted through the box and pulled out a book with a green dragon on the cover, handing it over like it was a treasure.
I couldn’t look away. Something inside me twisted—hard and low. I’d come here to help, to do something useful, something quiet. But instead I stood there, gut punched by the sight of Callie glowing in the winter light, showing kindness without effort.
And the worst part?
I felt it.
Even after everything—I felt it.
It gutted something deep in my chest—sharp and unfamiliar. Admiration, maybe. Regret, definitely. I didn’t like the way it crept in, gnawing around the edges of whatever careful detachment I’d built up since I walked back into this town.
Why the hell did seeing her like that—on her knees in the snow, laughing with a kid, handing over stories like they were magic—make something stir? Like maybe there was more to her than I’d let myself remember. Like maybe I’d been wrong about the way we left things.
I shook it off, like brushing snow off my sleeves. Useless thoughts. Dangerous ones.
The grandmother thanked us more times than I could count, her voice warm despite the cold that crept through our coats. Callie stayed there, still kneeling in the snow, chatting with the kid like they were old friends. And for that moment—just that breath of stillness—it was like the rest of the world fell away. No tension. No past. Just the three of them framed against the white-dusted trees, and me, standing off to the side like I didn’t belong in the picture.
When they finally started back toward me, Callie dusted off her coat with one hand, tucking her hair behind her ear with the other. A snowflake clung to her scarf, and she didn’t notice. My eyes lingered longer than they should’ve. She moved with this easy kind of grace—like she belonged to this place, like she didn’t even realize people were still watching.
“Nice work back there,” I said as evenly as I could when she reached me.
She gave a small shrug, but the smile she tried to hide pulled at the corner of her mouth. “Kids love books,” she said, like it was obvious. Like that explained everything.
I nodded, but something shifted under the surface of that exchange. Something quiet. Something I didn’t want to name.
“Let’s keep moving,” I muttered, dropping my gaze before it could give anything away. I turned back toward the van without waiting.
She followed, climbing into the passenger seat again like she’d been doing this with me for years instead of hours.
As I started the engine and pulled away from the curb, I kept my eyes on the road. But the knot in my chest stayed there, tight and persistent. I didn’t look at her again until we hit a pothole that jarred the van and made her curse under her breath.
It was stupid, how that sound made me smile. Even worse, how badly I wanted to hear it again.
Chapter6
Callie
Ibounced a little as the van rolled away fromThe Book Nook;the tires crunching softly over fresh snow. My fingers tapped against my thermos lid—part nerves, part excitement. Day two of deliveries. I was determined to make it better than yesterday.
“So,” I began, my words rushing out before I could stop them, “doesn’t it feel different this year? The holidays, I mean. Like the air’s thicker with cinnamon or nostalgia or…I don’t know, second chances?”
Cavil didn’t say anything right away, but his hands stayed steady on the wheel. His expression was unreadable, which was probably on purpose. Still, I caught the tiniest twitch near his mouth. Not a smile, exactly. More like… restraint.
“Last year, everything felt heavy, didn’t it?” I pressed on. “People were tired. No one wanted to celebrate. But this year—I don’t know. There’s a pulse again. Hope or cheer or maybe just sugar cookies.”
Still no response. Just the road, his profile, and the quiet hum of the heater.
“We should make this a thing,” I said, half to him, half to the dashboard. “Like a yearly book delivery. One big community tradition—Book Nookelves spreading joy and paperbacks.”
A flicker of his gaze met mine before shifting back to the street. “Book Nookelves?” he echoed, dry as ever.
