Her breath hitched—just a fraction, just enough for the air around us to change. Her skin warmed instantly under my touch.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Neither of us looked away.
Up close, I could see tiny flecks of gold in the green of her eyes, the faint dusting of flour on her cheekbone, the way her pupils had blown a little wider. My heart was hammering, but I kept still, waiting to see which way she’d go.
She exhaled roughly and stepped aside, breaking the contact like it physically cost her. “Okay. Cocoa.”
But the shift had already happened. It hummed under everything we did next.
We tasted flights of cocoa, each tiny mug passed between us, each sip an excuse to stand closer. Her shoulder brushed mine. Her hand grazed the back of my knuckles when we swapped cups. Once, when she reached for a tasting card at the same time I did, our fingers fully laced for a half-second.
She didn’t pull away.
I didn’t either.
Her throat bobbed on a swallow that had nothing to do with hot chocolate. She focused on the card like it contained national secrets.
“This one’s too sweet,” she said.
“Noted.”
“This one’s good, but it’s going to clog a line if we’re not careful.”
“Add that to the list.”
She scribbled in her notebook with unnecessary vigor, the tip of her tongue caught in her teeth. My gaze tracked the movement, and I had to lock my knees not to lean in.
The kitchen grew smaller with every passing minute. The silence between comments grew thicker. The music from my ancient Bluetooth speaker hummed in the background, some mellow indie Christmas playlist, but it faded under the rush of my own pulse in my ears.
Her hair slipped forward again. This time, before I could think better of it, I reached out and gently tucked it behind her ear.
She sucked in a breath, eyes going wide.
I started to pull my hand back, but she didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Her cheek leaned infinitesimally into the touch before she caught herself.
I felt that like someone had hooked my ribcage and yanked.
Because talking seemed marginally safer than staring at her mouth, I said, “So, timing-wise, I’m thinking we need to know how long this actually takes from start to finish. From approach to finished product.”
She blinked once, twice, before latching onto the logistics like a lifeline. “Right. So we should run it the way we’re actually going to run it—with whatever version of rules we settle on, realistic expectations for how long people stand around dithering, factoring in cleanup and reset.”
“We’re already halfway there,” I said. “We’re just missing the dithering.”
Her lips twitched. “I can create some dithering if necessary.”
“I’ve noticed,” I said, and her laugh came out unexpectedly soft.
We moved back to the island, to the next “stop” on our mock route. “Holiday truth-or-dare Jenga” sounded like a good idea on paper. In practice, it involved us standing shoulder to shoulder around a wobbly tower of wood blocks, bumping into each other every time one of us reached.
She drew the first block, read it, snorted, and put it back. “Nope.”
“That’s cheating.”
“That one was clearly designed by Pepper and is therefore invalid.”
I plucked a block, read it, and slowly turned it so she could see: Tell the person across from you one thing you like about them.
