It’s heat sharing.
Basic biology.
Nothing more.
Except it felt like more.
And that’s the problem.
I give myself somewhere between five and ten minutes of silent freaking out in the cold bathroom air. Then I braid my hair, splash more water on my face, and return to face him and whatever awkwardness awaits.
The great room is empty.
As promised, the fire has been built up, crackling merrily like it’s not witnessing my complete emotional breakdown.
But what really catches my attention is the window. Which I hadn’t noticed earlier because, well... spooning. But now...
Holy shit.
The storm outside is absolutely raging. Like, apocalypse-level raging. Snow is coming down so thick I can barely see the trees.There’s a drift piling up against the bottom of the floor-to-ceiling glass that reaches higher than my waist. Maybe chest-high in some spots.
So much for “the storm will clear tomorrow.”
Future archaeologists will probably find us here, perfectly preserved in ice, still awkwardly avoiding eye contact after accidentally cuddling.
I force myself to look away from the weather situation and head toward the kitchen.
Where I find him.
And stop short.
He’s made French press coffee.
Correctly.
Without being asked.
The carafe sits on the counter, dark and rich, and I can smell it from here. He’s standing next to it with his hands in his pockets, looking weirdly nervous in a way that makes my chest tight.
“You made coffee.” My voice comes out softer than intended.
“I made coffee.” He pulls his hands out of his pockets, then puts them back. “I practiced your instructions. Four minutes. Not three. Not five.”
Something about that, about him practicing, about him wanting to get it right, makes my eyes sting.
Stop it.
This doesn’t change anything.
So he learned to make French press coffee.
That doesn’t erase Brazil and everything else.
Still, it was a nice gesture.
“Merry Christmas,” I offer tentatively, because apparently we’re doing this. Being civil. Pretending we didn’t just wake up wrapped around each other like we belong together.
Which we don’t, of course.
