Yet.
She shifted beside me, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear—one of those small, familiar movements that felt like it carried more weight than it should. But she didn’t pull away. Just stayed there, shoulder close to mine, the space between us buzzing with something we weren’t quite naming yet.
Another compliment floated across the room—someone praising her holiday display—and she deflected it with practiced humility, smiling like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. None of this was. Not the store, not tonight, and definitely not her.
I watched her as she moved through the room, the quiet hum of connection between us lingering like a promise I wasn’t sure I deserved—but knew I wanted, anyway.
And in that moment, surrounded by paper snowflakes and twinkle lights and the smell of cocoa and pine, I knew one thing with absolute clarity:
This wasn’t just a stop on the way to somewhere else.
This was where I wanted to be. Always.
I stood near the cocoa station, the warmth of the shop curling around me like something familiar—like a coat I’d forgotten I owned. Callie moved through the room with an ease that made it impossible not to watch. Her smile was quick, her laugh unguarded. She floated from table to table, making people feel seen, wanted—home. She was in her element. And damn, I’d missed seeing her like this.
A gust of cold air rushed in as the door opened behind me. A woman hustled through, dusting snow from her shoulders and cradling a tray piled high with cookies. “Sorry I’m late!” she called out, breathless. “I brought treats!”
Before I could step out of the way, Callie’s voice rang through the chatter. “Cavil! Can you help?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.” The word left my mouth without thought as I stepped forward, closing the distance between us like it meant something.
The tray was heavier than it looked, but I barely felt the weight. What caught me instead was her smile when I took it from the woman—warm, grateful, soft in a way that cracked something open in me.
“Thanks,” Callie said, voice quiet as her gaze met mine.
Something shifted then—something I didn’t have a name for but felt like familiarity edged with ache. We moved together through the crowd, weaving toward the back where a group of kids sat cross-legged on cushions.
Callie knelt beside them with the kind of care most people faked and she lived. A little girl leaned into her, and Callie opened a worn hardcover in her lap. “And then the brave little mouse stood tall against the dragon…”
Her voice lulled the room into a hush.
I set the cookies down and stood back, watching as her fingers absently combed through the child’s hair. Gentle. Steady. The kind of touch that made people believe the world was safe again.
It gutted me.
Not because I hadn’t seen her like this before—but because I had. And I’d ignored her, anyway. Because she wasn't mine. I’d watched her hold everyone else together when no one held her. Seen her smile through the weight of things that should’ve broken her.
This place, this warmth, this community… she’d built it with her bare hands. And still, she had room for every lost kid and lonely stranger that wandered through her door. Somehow, she’d made space in a world that never made enough for her.
My throat tightened. I shifted my weight, trying to shake the feeling, but I couldn’t stop watching her.
Callie shone here. Not as the girl I used to know, not as the woman my brother left behind—but as someone who’d carved a life from ashes and turned it into something beautiful.
A couple of hours later, most of the crowd had trickled out, leaving behind scraps of laughter and the soft clink of mugs being stacked. The place still smelled like cinnamon and cookies—warmth lingering in the corners like it didn’t want to leave either.
I stood at the edge of the room, watching her. Callie moved through the shop with that same quiet rhythm I remembered—stacking trays, adjusting a centerpiece, humming to herself like no one was listening. Maybe she didn’t care if they were. Maybe she was just…happy.
I didn’t think about it. I just moved closer to help. Didn’t ask. Didn’t speak. Just started stacking plates beside her. It felt natural. Easy in a way nothing else had in a long time.
Our shoulders brushed now and then, little electric shocks snapping through my nerves like reminders that I was still here—still feeling something I shouldn’t.
“Careful with that,” I muttered when she wobbled a tower of mugs too high.
She shot me a look over her shoulder—half smirk, half warning. “I’ve got it.”
“Didn’t say you didn’t. Just don’t want to mop cocoa off the floor.”
She laughed—light and sudden—and it pulled something loose in my chest. “You sound like my mother.”
