Vincent’s expression flickers—guilt, pain, gone in an instant. “You don’t get it,” he says, voice rough. “If I tell you what’s really happening, you’ll want to fix it. And this—” he gestures around him, at the office, the company, everything “—this can’t be fixed.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“You don’t have to.” He steps back, hands on his hips, head bowed. The fight drains out of him, but the distance doesn’t.
And that’s the part that hurts—the way he can shut a door mid-sentence and lock it from the inside.
I stare at him for a long moment, trying to find the right word, the right key to get through. But before I can, a voice breaks the tension—soft, warm, familiar.
“You two know you’re standing under the mistletoe, right?”
Both of us turn. She’s leaning against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised, mug of cocoa in her hands, the faintest smile curving her mouth. Her tone is teasing, but there’s a flicker of caution in her eyes—like she can feel how close this almost was to breaking.
“You have to kiss and make up,” she says, stepping fully into the room. “House rules. I don’t make them; I just enforce them.”
For a second, neither of us moves. Vincent’s chest still rises and falls too fast, and my pulse hasn’t settled since he told me to mind my business. The mistletoe hangs above us, innocent, absurdly out of place amid all the broken glass and tension.
I drag a hand through my hair, scoffing. “Seriously?”
Willow shrugs, smiling. “Seriously.”
Vincent exhales through his nose, the faintest ghost of a laugh catching in it. “You’re joking.”
She lifts her mug in mock solemnity. “It’s bad luck to fight under it and not make peace.”
I groan. “I’m not kissing him, Willow.”
Vincent’s mouth curves, sharp and humorless. “You think I’d kiss a sourpuss like you?”
“Then kisssomeone,” Willow shoots back, rolling her eyes.
He doesn’t even hesitate. He turns toward her, leans down, and presses a tender kiss to her lips—soft, but the touch was needed enough that I can see the tension bleed from his shoulders.
“There,” he murmurs against her skin. “Mistletoe honored.”
Willow blinks, caught between amusement and surprise, and I swear I see a flicker of color rise in her cheeks.
Vincent straightens, jaw tight, just as the watch on his wrists buzzes, signaling a call to his now broken phone. The sound slices through the silence like a blade. He glances down, and whatever flashes across the screen wipes the last trace of calm from his face.
He doesn’t move for a heartbeat—just stares at his wrist—then swipes to answer, voice dropping low. “Give me a minute to find a phone.”
Willow and I exchange a look. The warmth that had just started to creep back into the room drains fast.
“Vincent,” Willow says softly, trying again, “what’s wrong?”
He shakes his head without looking at us, running a hand through his hair. “It’s fine. Just work.”
She takes a small step closer. “Work shouldn’t sound like that.”
He exhales through his nose, that sharp, frustrated sound that always meansstop asking.“I said it’s fine, Willow.”
He storms out of the room, door swinging shut, cold air spilling into the room for a brief second before it seals again. The echo of it lingers longer than it should, that hollowthudthat makes the walls feel too close, too still.
Willow stands there for a beat, staring at the empty doorway as though she can will him back through it. The soft hum of the heater stirs to life again, the sound filling the silence he leaves behind. I can see the small rise and fall of her shoulders as she exhales heavily.
Before she can sag all the way, I move. I cross the space, loop an arm around her waist, and pull her in close enough that her hair brushes against my jaw. Her skin is cold from the draft, the tip of her nose pink, but she melts into the warmth without hesitation. I press a kiss to her temple.
“I just don’t know—” she starts, voice fragile, threaded with worry.
