Callahan is silent, and then he leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The mattress shifts beneath his weight, bringing us closer together.

"You're not alone in this, Izzy."

I’m startled by the way he says it—so steady, so sure. His eyes hold mine, unwavering.

"I know it feels like all of this is on you, but it's not. You have me."

A lump forms in my throat. I look away, unable to meet his stare. The warmth of his words settles somewhere deep inside me.

"I don't know if that's enough," I admit, voice quieter.

The muscles in his face visibly tense.

"It is," he says. "Because I know what I'm doing. And you? You're smart as hell, and you give a damn about this store more than anyone else does."

I let out a shaky breath, the compliment catching me off guard.

Callahan tilts his head, watching me. "The old manager—he was an ass, wasn't he?"

I let out a half-laugh, half-scoff. "You have no idea."

He waits, so I continue, finding the words coming easier now.

"He was one of those old-school, traditional retail guys. The kind who thought women should be sales associates, not in management. He kept stuff from me on purpose."

Callahan’s expression darkens. "You deserved better than that."

I blink at him, caught off guard by how serious he sounds.

"I'm serious, Izzy," he says, leaning in slightly. "You're good at this. You belong in this position."

And the way Callahan says it—like it's not even a question, like it's a fact, like I'd have to be insane to doubt it—hits me in a way I wasn't expecting.

"I'm just afraid of failing," I admit, voice quieter.

"You won't," he says immediately.

I let out a shaky breath, rubbing my thumb over my knee. "I just—I put so much into this job. If I screw up, it's not just me that suffers. It's the whole store. It's the employees who rely on me. It's⁠—"

"It's pressure," he finishes, watching me carefully.

I nod. "Yeah."

He falls silent, watching me closely, as if he’s trying to understand how much I’m holding together. Then, slowly, he exhales.

"Do you trust me?"

I freeze.

Because the way he says it—like it's a real question that actually matters—hits somewhere deep and unsteady inside of me. I lick my lips, shifting slightly on the bed. "I⁠—"

His eyes hold mine, demanding honesty.

"Yes or no, Izzy."

I swallow, the question sinking into me.

And then, quietly, truthfully⁠—

"Yes."

"Good," he says.

I frown slightly, uncertain. "Why?"

"Because," he says, leaning in just enough to steal the air from my lungs, "if you trust me, then you’ll trust me when I tell you that I’ll be there with you and I won’t let you fail.”

"Thank you," I say, softly, because what else am I supposed to say? The words feel too small, too fragile, compared to the enormity of his promise.

Then he leans back slightly, his expression shifting.

"So," he says, his words light to break the tension. "Are we done panicking, or do I need to find a paper bag for you to breathe into?"

I snort, rolling my eyes. "Shut up."

His smirk grows. "That's a yes."

I exhale, shaking my head. "Okay, I think that's enough Christmas PTSD bonding for one morning."

Callahan lifts an eyebrow, amusement tugging at his mouth. "Oh, we're calling it bonding now?"

I roll my eyes. "Trauma bonding, then."

He chuckles. "I feel like that applies to a lot of our conversations."

I laugh, shaking my head. "God, that's actually true."

"So, what do you do for the holidays?" he asks, shifting the conversation.

I shrug. "The usual. Big family gatherings. My parents are very Catholic, so tomorrow, I have to go to Palm Sunday Mass."

His brow lifts slightly. "You sound thrilled."

I groan. "Look, I don't hate church, but when you grow up with three overprotective brothers and a mom who still calls to remind you that Jesus is watching, it gets...exhausting."

Callahan chuckles. "And after Mass?"

I roll my eyes dramatically. "Big family dinner. Loud. Chaotic. My Nonna asks when I’m getting married, my mom criticizes my outift, my brothers attempt to grill me about my love life, and my dad just sits there looking mildly disappointed in all of us."

Callahan shakes his head. "Sounds fun."

I raise a brow. "Fun?"

He shrugs. "Better than spending it alone."

I pause, tilting my head. His words carry a weight that suggests experience.

"Is Evan going with you?" he asks.

I scoff. "No. He and my family don't get along."

Callahan’s mouth curves in a wry half-smile. "Gee, I wonder why."

I roll my eyes, but I don't argue. Because he's right. My family hates Evan. And honestly? They have a point. My brothers saw through him from day one, a fact I've been ignoring for far too long.

Before I can think too much about that, I shift the conversation. "What about you?"

He shrugs. "It's just me and my dad."

Something about the way he says it feels heavy.

I pause. "And your mom?"

"She died when I was a kid." His voice is flat, matter-of-fact.

I frown, my chest tightening. "Oh. I'm so sorry."

He shakes his head. "Alcohol took her. It was her demon and she didn't try and fight it."

I don't know what to say to that. The rawness of the admission makes me wish I hadn't asked.

Instead, I clear my throat. "Where does your dad live?"

"Pennsylvania," he says. "Owns a wood shop out there. He likes to keep busy."

I nod. "Do you see him often?"

Callahan shrugs. "Not as often as I should."

"Is he religious?" I ask after a beat.

"Yeah," Callahan says. "Not Catholic, though."

"Well, Easter is still an important holiday."

His eyes study my face as though trying to read something there.

"You should call him," I say, shrugging. "Before next Sunday. Maybe you guys could talk."

He exhales, looking away. "Yeah. Maybe."

I nod, letting the silence settle for just a moment. Because I think he might actually be considering it. And I don't know why that makes me feel like I did something good.

"So," I say, trying to steer us into calmer waters. "What do you even do for fun? Since I ruined your Friday night, I feel like I should make it up to you."

Callahan lifts a brow. "You didn't ruin anything. I told you, I made the choice to stay."

I roll my eyes. "Okay, but still. What does Callahan do for fun on weekends?"

He leans back slightly, looking way too relaxed. "Not much."

"Define ‘not much.’"

He shrugs. "I work out. Cook for the week."

I narrow my eyes. "That's it?"

"Pretty much."

I gape at him. "You don't go out? Drink? Have a little fun?"

His expression shifts slightly, and I know I've just said something wrong. The air in the room seems to cool by several degrees.

"I don't really drink," he says, voice even. "Not after what happened with my mom."

Oh.

Oh, shit.

I instantly regret it. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m so sorry.”

A subtle change crosses his face—curiosity, maybe concern—but it’s gone almost as fast as it appears.