Callum insists that the snow looks “cinematic,” which is exactly the kind of thing I should be saying, not him. But he’s glowing under the soft yellow streetlights, breath fogging in the cold, fingers wrapped around a paper cup of hot chocolate like it’s the greatest invention of mankind. And somehow, in the middle of this freezing December night, I feel warm enough.

Our arms are linked—his idea, because the sidewalk is “icy” and he doesn’t want me to fall. I don’t tell him that I like the way it makes us sway a little when we walk, or that I’m half hidden inside my scarf because if I look at him too long, I’ll say something embarrassing. Instead, I pretend to be fascinated by the Christmas lights strung around the park. Families gathered near benches, kids chasing each other, couples laughing. The world feels slow and soft around the edges.

He bumps his shoulder against mine. “You excited for our movie marathon?” he asks, like this is a state secret and not something he’s mentioned roughly twelve times today.

I hum into my scarf. “I don’t know. You have terrible taste in Christmas movies.”

“Blasphemy.” He gasps dramatically, then squeezes our linked arms closer. “You only say that because you refuse to admit Elf is superior cinema.”

I roll my eyes, but he grins like he’s won something anyway. That’s the thing about Callum—he always finds a way to be joyful, even after everything. Even after cutting ties with a father who never deserved him. Even after choosing peace over familiarity, which is harder than anyone ever admits. Tonight, with snow catching in his eyelashes and Christmas lights reflecting off his cheeks, he looks lighter. Happier. Free.

My chest tightens in that gentle, unbearable way it always does around him.

We walk past a group of little kids building a lopsided snowman, their parents watching with steaming cups of cocoa. Callum slows down, eyes softening. He loves this—watching people be happy. Watching families he never really had. And I think about how strange and beautiful it is that we’re spending Christmas alone together this year, because my parents decided a cruise was exactly the way to celebrate thirty-five years of marriage. I’d teased them for abandoning me, but the truth is, I didn’t mind. Not when it meant waking up next to him this morning. Not when it meant this quiet, tender evening where everything feels right.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs.

“I’m thinking.”

“That’s a first.”

I nudge him. He laughs—low, warm, familiar. The kind of sound that settles into my bones.

How did we end up here? I think of the first night in his house, when kissing him felt like a bad idea I couldn’t stop wanting. Of movie nights in my dorm, of pretending not to care while he fell for me way too soon. Of the tiny apartment filled with mismatched mugs and a one-eared cat who only likes us on alternate days. I think of every version of us before this one—messy, confused, trying—and how none of it compares to now.

Snow crunches beneath our boots. Callum’s hand slips from his cup just long enough to tug my scarf down so he can see my face. “Hey,” he whispers, soft as the falling flakes. “Happy Christmas, Cal.”