But he’s been watching me like a man memorizing his favorite mistake.
Nash stands at the stove now, shirtless again, jeans low on his hips, stirring cocoa like it’s his goddamn military mission. His shoulders roll, taut and scarred and maddeningly sculpted, and when he reaches for the cinnamon shaker—Lord—I almost drop the photo frame in my hand.
It’s the only one I brought. Just a little silver ornament-shaped frame with a picture of my mom and dad in front of our old house in Pasadena, Christmas lights glowing behind them. My dad had a Santa hat on. My mom was trying to pull it off while laughing. I took it the year before they died.
It’s dumb, but I always set it somewhere. Wherever I’m decorating.
I slip it onto the mantel between a ceramic reindeer and a pine garland Nash didn’t notice I snuck up there last night.
Or he pretended not to.
“Is that your family?” he asks.
His voice is deep and quiet, warm as the stove. I jump a little. I didn’t realize he’d moved closer. His footsteps were silent for a man who walks like he could stomp through drywall.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “My parents.”
He sets a mug down next to me. Cocoa with whipped cream, cinnamon, and one of those chocolate-covered spoons I brought from the city. The man grumbles about everything, but apparentlystill uses my cocoa spoons.
“They look happy,” he says.
“They were.” I sip, letting the heat work through the chill in my chest. “They died in a car accident two years ago. Drunk driver. Christmas Eve.”
His jaw flexes. “Damn.”
“I was supposed to go home that night, but I got stuck at a client’s cocktail party. Stayed too late. By the time I got the call… they were already gone.”
Silence stretches. Heavy. Not uncomfortable—justfull.
“I’m sorry, Noel.”
“I know.” I glance at him. “You ever lose anyone?”
His gaze shifts to the fire.
“A few.”
I nod, and for a minute we both just… sit.
The cocoa warms my hands. The storm wails beyond the window, but in here, there’s nothing but fire crackle and the thump of his fingers against the ceramic mug.
“I used to think holidays were everything,” I admit, voice barely above a whisper. “The lights, the music, the cookies, the traditions. Now… sometimes it just hurts.”
He looks over at me. “So why keep doing it?”
I offer him a soft smile. “Because it made me happy once. It makes other people happy still. It reminds me of who I was before.”
His eyes narrow like he’s looking for pieces of that girl somewhere behind my words. “And who are you now?”
I look down at the cocoa, swirling.
“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “Maybe that’s why I came here.”
He stands, moves toward the window, looking out at the thick snow still burying the world.
“I missed a lot of holidays, this will be my first Christmas since I completed my service this Spring,” he says.
“Career military man, huh?”
