“Yeah, twenty years.”
“What were holidays like for you?” I ask.
“Well, desert doesn’t give a shit about your calendar. Heat instead of snow. No trees, no garland. Just sand, blood, and letters. If you were lucky.”
I glance at him. “Were you lucky?”
He huffs a dry sound. “Depends on the year.”
He doesn’t say more.
He doesn’thaveto.
Something inside me softens. “What did you miss the most?”
He turns his head, jaw tense. “The silence. The way snow muffles everything. The sound of someone laughing in the kitchen. Even those stupid-ass sugar cookies with red sprinkles.”
I grin. “Youlikecookies.”
“Don’t push it.”
I stand slowly, setting the cocoa down, walking toward him with careful steps. Not sure why—maybe because if I move too fast, the moment will vanish like breath on glass.
“I bet you never had someone throw a gingerbread house at you.”
He glances down. “You planning to?”
“Only if you insult my garland again.”
He smirks. Barely. But it’s there.
I stop beside him, close enough that our shoulders brush.
The firelight flickers across his cheek, casting the edge of his profile in gold. And I feel it again—that tight pull in my chest. Like if I let my guard down for a second, he’ll crawl in and take up permanent residence.
“You should keep it up,” he says quietly.
“What?”
He nods toward the photo. “Your parents. The lights. The traditions. The whole holiday tornado.”
“You’re not going to burn it all down when I’m not looking?”
His eyes lock on mine. Serious now. “No.”
We stand there a moment longer. Breathing in time with the storm outside. Something unseen but undeniable humming in the space between us.
Then—
He leans in.
Just a fraction.
My breath catches.
His hand lifts. Hovers near my waist. Doesn’t touch.
“Nash…” I whisper.
