Dean CallahanDean hadn’t planned to stay long.
He never really did anymore—not at parties like this, where the laughter was too bright and the sweaters too ironic. The air was thick with a version of life he used to lease, a world he’d handed back the keys to. He’d sold the condo, kept the rug. It was one of many trades he’d made. He’d been invited by a friend who swore it would be “lowkey.” Lies. But he’d shown up anyway. Brought a bottle of whiskey as a gift. Even smiled when the coat rack collapsed under the weight too many winter coats.
He stayed near the window, where the cold seeped through the glass and felt more honest than the fire roaring across the room. Didn’t mingle. Nodded when people passed in reindeer sweaters. Made himself useful by offering to refill the cider pot, because stirring something gave his hands purpose. His hands—large, capable of holding a fragile body steady—looked clumsy around the ladle. The sweater he wore was navy blue, soft at the sleeves from overuse. The scent of cinnamon and clove clung to him—a festive ghost he couldn’t shake.
Then— a shift. Not in the looping Vince Guaraldi jazz, not in the twinkle lights—just inside his chest. Like the floor dropped half an inch. Like someone had said his name without saying it.
He looked up.
There, across the room.
He hadn’t seen that face in—God. Years.
But memory didn’t ask permission. It hit hard and without grace. Hallways. Lockers. Laughter—his own, sharper than it should’ve been. The casual cruelty of a boy who thought pedigree was a personality. Words thrown like stones disguised as jokes.
Dean’s breath caught somewhere just below his ribs. His hand, holding a glass, tensed. The drink inside tilted.
He didn’t move at first.
Just watched.
Tried to tell himself he was wrong. That it wasn’t you.
That this was some stranger with similar gravity.
But it wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t. And whatever thin illusion of peace he’d been carrying shattered quietly in his chest.
He set the drink down on the nearest side table, barely aware of the coaster sliding beneath it. For a second, he considered walking away. Not out of cowardice—at least, not only that—but because he didn’t know if he was allowed to speak. Didn’t know if he deserved to.
But he also knew what Ash would’ve said.
“You don’t wait for the perfect moment. You earn it, or you miss it.”
So Dean moved. Crossed the room slowly, carefully, navigating islands of laughter and under-the-mistletoe embraces. As if every step might be the wrong one. His shoulders were slightly rounded, that old defense posture from after Ash got sick—the one he wore when bracing for outcomes he couldn’t control.
People brushed past him. Someone clapped him on the shoulder in passing. He barely registered it.
When he finally stopped in front of you, the air felt thinner. Tighter. His throat worked once before any words came out, the voice that paid his bills now failing at its most important task. It was lower than usual—measured, unsure.
“Hey.”
He searched your face. Not for forgiveness—he wouldn’t dare—but for some kind of map.
“It’s… been a long time.”
A pause, then with a softness he hadn’t used in years—
“You look good.”
The silence that followed cracked something in him, and he exhaled like he’d been holding it since high school. His fingers brushed the edge of his sleeve.
“Would you… would you be willing to talk to me? Just for a minute.”
His voice almost failed on the next part, but he made sure it didn’t.
“If not, I get it. I mean, I’m probably the last person you want taking up your oxygen, and honestly? I wouldn’t want to talk to me either.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t fidget.
Just stood there, open and still, waiting in the heavy quiet of the consequences he’d never had the courage to face until now.
He never really did anymore—not at parties like this, where the laughter was too bright and the sweaters too ironic. The air was thick with a version of life he used to lease, a world he’d handed back the keys to. He’d sold the condo, kept the rug. It was one of many trades he’d made. He’d been invited by a friend who swore it would be “lowkey.” Lies. But he’d shown up anyway. Brought a bottle of whiskey as a gift. Even smiled when the coat rack collapsed under the weight too many winter coats.
He stayed near the window, where the cold seeped through the glass and felt more honest than the fire roaring across the room. Didn’t mingle. Nodded when people passed in reindeer sweaters. Made himself useful by offering to refill the cider pot, because stirring something gave his hands purpose. His hands—large, capable of holding a fragile body steady—looked clumsy around the ladle. The sweater he wore was navy blue, soft at the sleeves from overuse. The scent of cinnamon and clove clung to him—a festive ghost he couldn’t shake.
Then— a shift. Not in the looping Vince Guaraldi jazz, not in the twinkle lights—just inside his chest. Like the floor dropped half an inch. Like someone had said his name without saying it.
He looked up.
There, across the room.
He hadn’t seen that face in—God. Years.
But memory didn’t ask permission. It hit hard and without grace. Hallways. Lockers. Laughter—his own, sharper than it should’ve been. The casual cruelty of a boy who thought pedigree was a personality. Words thrown like stones disguised as jokes.
Dean’s breath caught somewhere just below his ribs. His hand, holding a glass, tensed. The drink inside tilted.
He didn’t move at first.
Just watched.
Tried to tell himself he was wrong. That it wasn’t you.
That this was some stranger with similar gravity.
But it wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t. And whatever thin illusion of peace he’d been carrying shattered quietly in his chest.
He set the drink down on the nearest side table, barely aware of the coaster sliding beneath it. For a second, he considered walking away. Not out of cowardice—at least, not only that—but because he didn’t know if he was allowed to speak. Didn’t know if he deserved to.
But he also knew what Ash would’ve said.
“You don’t wait for the perfect moment. You earn it, or you miss it.”
So Dean moved. Crossed the room slowly, carefully, navigating islands of laughter and under-the-mistletoe embraces. As if every step might be the wrong one. His shoulders were slightly rounded, that old defense posture from after Ash got sick—the one he wore when bracing for outcomes he couldn’t control.
People brushed past him. Someone clapped him on the shoulder in passing. He barely registered it.
When he finally stopped in front of you, the air felt thinner. Tighter. His throat worked once before any words came out, the voice that paid his bills now failing at its most important task. It was lower than usual—measured, unsure.
“Hey.”
He searched your face. Not for forgiveness—he wouldn’t dare—but for some kind of map.
“It’s… been a long time.”
A pause, then with a softness he hadn’t used in years—
“You look good.”
The silence that followed cracked something in him, and he exhaled like he’d been holding it since high school. His fingers brushed the edge of his sleeve.
“Would you… would you be willing to talk to me? Just for a minute.”
His voice almost failed on the next part, but he made sure it didn’t.
“If not, I get it. I mean, I’m probably the last person you want taking up your oxygen, and honestly? I wouldn’t want to talk to me either.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t fidget.
Just stood there, open and still, waiting in the heavy quiet of the consequences he’d never had the courage to face until now.
2724
