“Like what?”
“Pinecones from the yard. Branches from the trees. I saw pictures of strings of cranberries on some of the covers of the old magazines in the box—maybe we could find things to string together.” His voice gains enthusiasm as the idea takes shape. “Itwouldn’t be fancy, but it would be ours. Made for this place, this Christmas.”
The suggestion hits me harder than it should. Not fancy store-bought decorations or perfectly coordinated themes, but something handmade and honest. Something that belongs to this moment, this unusual Christmas we’re creating together. Just like this morning, when he’d trusted me to guide him through his fear of Jasper.
“That actually sounds…” I pause, testing the words. “Really nice.”
“Smart orc!” Peanut interjects.
I glance at Ryder, who’s trying not to smile at being called smart by a judgmental parrot. “I think you’ve won him over.”
“High praise from the management,” he says solemnly.
Hamlet chooses that moment to emerge from his post-lunch nap and investigate our floor project. With a snort of disapproval, he sniffs at the broken ornaments, then plants himself firmly between us as if to prevent any further Christmas-related foolishness.
“He doesn’t approve of our holiday plans,” I observe.
“He thinks we should focus on more practical matters. Like belly rubs and premium pig snacks.”
“Smart pig.”
As we finish clearing away the damaged decorations, I stand and stretch, my spine popping in protest after too long on the floor. Before I can fully straighten, Ryder’s already moving.
“Come here,” he says, his deep voice more command than suggestion. He sits, pats the couch beside him once, then catches my wrist when I hesitate. The next thing I know, he’s guiding—no,arranging—me exactly where he wants me, his strength effortless and unhurried.
I end up half turned, my back against the armrest, legs extended before I can even think to protest. His big hands close gently around my ankles, and with an easy tug, he settles my feet in his lap like I weigh nothing at all.
“Ryder—what are you doing?” My voice comes out breathy and high, almost like a teenager.
“You’ve been kneeling for twenty minutes. Trust me.”
He pulls off my socks, and his hands immediately find my arches, thumbs pressing slow circles that make heat curl low in my stomach. The contrast of his strength and care is dizzying—the same hands that wield a firefighter’s axe are now coaxing knots from my muscles with impossible gentleness.
Maybe that’s what I’m really afraid of. Not the temporary nature of this arrangement, but the way he makes me feel like I matter. Like I’m worth careful handling. Like I’m not too much trouble or too much work or too much anything.
Like I’m exactly enough, exactly as I am.
“Tomorrow?” I ask, surprising myself with how breathless I sound. “The decoration making?”
“Tomorrow,” he agrees, his thumbs working magic on my instep, and his smile is warm enough to melt the snow still piled against the windows.
His hands slow, then still, resting warm and heavy on my feet. When I look up, his amber gaze holds mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
“Laney,” he says quietly. “Sorting through decorations with you, talking about your family recipes, sitting here like this… This feels like we’re building something. Not just passing time until the roads clear.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. This is the moment I should pull back, should remind him of all the reasons this won’t work. But his hands are still touching me, warm and solid, and for once I don’t want to run.
“It feels that way to me, too,” I whisper.
The admission hangs between us, fragile and terrifying and full of possibility. His thumbs stroke across the top of my foot once, twice, and the simple gesture feels more intimate than it should.
“Sunshine!” Peanut calls from his cage, and we both jump slightly, then laugh.
“He has terrible timing,” I say.
“Or perfect timing, depending on your perspective.” Ryder’s smile is soft. “Keeps us honest.”
Outside, the world remains buried in white, keeping us isolated from reality for at least another day. But inside, surrounded by the debris of Christmas past and the possibility of Christmas present, it feels like maybe being trapped isn’t the worst thing that could happen.
