"Look," Ben said quietly. "Maybe you could stop by tomorrow? Watch a run-through and share some thoughts?" He paused. "I'll be there early, working on sets. I could show you the theater renovation."
The logs popped, sending sparks in impossible colors—copper, green, deep purple. Shadows shifted across bottles on a shelf.
"Ben restored most of the original woodwork himself," Mrs. Brubaker added. "Some say the building sings now, when performances are good."
"You saw myWest Side Story?" I asked Ben.
"Front row, opening night." He smiled. "You were incredible. Made me want to be part of creating those moments." He shifted, his knee brushing mine. Electricity shot up my thigh. "Sorry."
"It's fine," I managed.
"What Ben's too modest to mention," Holly said, eyes twinkling, "is that those box seats he's refinishing? The wood practically purrs under his hands now."
I tried not to think about what those hands would feel like on my skin, ignoring imagining them sliding under my shirt, rough and—
"Someone had painted over the cherry?" I asked, voice slightly strangled.
Ben grinned. "1970s orange paint. Crime against woodworking."
We exchanged smiles. The candles leaned toward us, flames stretching.
"So," Ben said, voice dropping lower. "Tomorrow? Seven AM? I make decent coffee, and the theater's warm. Generates its own heat during the season, radiating all those years of joy that soaked into the walls."
Every instinct screamed at me to refuse. Unfortunately, Ben's eyes sparkled, and the idea of spending tomorrow morning with him, watching those capable hands work—
"Only to observe," I heard myself say. "No promises."
"Perfect." His smile was like sunlight breaking through clouds. "No pressure. Just... it would be nice to have someone around who really understands this stuff."
"Don't get your hopes up too high."
"I'm a carpenter, not a dramaturg." He stood, extending a hand. When I took it, those callused fingers wrapped around mine with gentle strength, and heat raced up my arm.
I didn't let go immediately. Neither did he. We stood there, hands clasped, close enough to see freckles scattered across his nose and gold threading his irises.
"But I know good craftsmanship when I see it," he said quietly. "In sets or in performance."
Holly pressed a warm jar into my free hand as I reluctantly released Ben's. "Arnica salve. For your tailbone. Also works on bruised hearts. Rub it in clockwise, three times, and think about what you want to heal."
Mrs. Brubaker walked us to the door. "Alex, dear—we're glad you're home. This town has always been a safe place for people to be exactly who they are. That hasn't changed. The valley protects its own, especially during the Twelve Nights."
The words settled a hint of anxiety in my chest. "Thanks, Mrs. B."
Ben walked me out, carrying my bag. "I'll help carry your things to the house. These sidewalks are treacherous, and the valley's magic doesn't prevent all accidents. Only the ones that aren't meant to happen."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." He fell into step beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed. "Besides, I like talking to you. Somehow, I think I was waiting for it."
We walked in comfortable silence. The streetlights glowed warmer as we passed. Snow fell gently, considerately. Distant bells chimed.
"Can I ask what brought you back?" Ben asked. "You've got the look of someone carrying something heavy."
"I had a spectacular breakdown at an audition. Panic attacks. Couldn't get through 'Music of the Night.'" I laughed bitterly."Turns out you can't outrun grief. It just tackles you on stage in front of fifty industry professionals."
"I'm sorry." He reached for my hand, fingers lacing through mine like they belonged there. "My mom died when I was nineteen. Took me years to realize I'd been holding my breath, waiting for the world to make sense again."
"Does it?" I asked, staring at our joined hands. "Make sense again?"
