I sat up straighter. “We are not actually dating, remember?”
“Tragic.” He sighed dramatically, hand to his heart like he was wounded. “But today, we’re faking it extra hard. Besides,once we get to my dad’s, we’re gonna have to change into our matching pajamas anyway.”
I blinked. “Matching what now?”
“Pajamas,” he said, like I was the unreasonable one. “It’s a family tradition. We all wear them every year. It’s a whole thing, pictures and everything.”
I stared at him. “I don’t recall agreeing to coordinated outfits.”
“It’s in the fine print,” he said. “You fake date a guy for Christmas, you wear the jammies.”
Despite myself, I let out a laugh and leaned back on my elbows. “Fine, but I need coffee first, and if there’s not enough creamer, I’m calling off this entire charade.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, love.” His grin turned smug in a way that made something twist low in my stomach. “Already made it. You just gotta add your poison of choice. I got four different creamers—including peppermint mocha. You’re welcome.”
I rubbed my eyes and blinked at him. “Okay, I’ll get ready and be out in a few.”
He smiled before walking out of the room and shutting the door behind him. I rolled out of bed, my feet hitting the cool floor, and dug through my suitcase for something cozy: leggings, an oversized sweater, and thick socks with little red hearts on them that I refused to admit I packed on purpose.
I peered out the window to see snow had coated every surface outside overnight. Somewhere between waking up to his voice and hearing Christmas music drifting in from the living room, my usual holiday indifference started to melt away.
I padded over to the bathroom. The mirror was foggy from Sawyer’s earlier shower, complete with a little heart he had drawn with his finger. I chuckled and turned on the fan.
Woodstone Falls should have felt foreign and temporary—a brief stop in a town I'd never planned to notice. But standing inthis town for the second time, I felt something I'd hadn’t dared dream of in years—the pull of a quiet life I could never have.
San Francisco had always been enough. More than enough—it was everything. I'd grown up with music spilling from every doorway, fog rolling in like clockwork each afternoon, steep hills that burned my calves and built my character. The city was woven into my DNA; its restless energy matched my own. I could find dim sum at dawn or tacos at midnight, could lose myself in a crowd of thousands or find solitude on a hidden rooftop. It was home in every sense that mattered. It was why I never left for bigger and better cities for a music career.
But this small town was doing something to me I hadn't expected. In just two visits, it had started settling into my thoughts, making me imagine mornings without sirens, evenings when I could actually hear myself think. I felt myself wanting it, but I knew it was impossible. Some people weren’t built for small towns, and some dreams weren’t meant for people like me.
My parents and I used to fill winter breaks with performances, back-to-back rehearsals, and promo shoots. For us, Christmas was nothing more than a brief pause between cities. We had a tree sometimes, but mostly, the holiday was marked by late-night sound checks and my mom’s birthday cakes instead of sugar cookies.
Being here with him was like a reset, as if that five-year-old version of me, the one who used to sit cross-legged on the carpet circling every dollhouse in the Christmas catalog with a red crayon, had started clawing her way back to the surface.
After brushing my teeth and touching up my makeup, I stepped into the hallway. Sawyer was singing in the living room—badly, loudly, with all the confidence in the world.
I leaned against the doorframe, taking him in. He was cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a mess of wrapping paper, a roll of tape stuck to his hand.
He didn’t seem to notice me, so I watched.
His biceps flexed with each careful, focused movement, folding the edges with more care than I would have expected from a giant football player. I couldn’t help but smile at how completely absorbed he was.
It hit me as if I'd been personally victimized by my own feelings—how much I actually wanted him. Yeah, there was definitely the kind of wanting that involved significantly fewer clothes and far heavier breathing. This was more than that too. I wanted someone who would wrap Christmas presents while singing off-key, who found joy in the smallest, silliest moments, and made me desperate to be part of that world.
I started singing along softly, matching the harmony. His head snapped up, and then his face lit up.
I dropped down next to him on the floor, still singing as I helped fold the flaps of a glittery pink gift box. He blushed, but he didn’t stop. He kept singing like this was the most normal thing in the world.
Our voices were imperfect and unpracticed, tangled in a surreal way. Goosebumps prickled along my arms when he hit a high note and glanced at me with a pleased little smile.
I wasn’t performing. I was just…singing. For fun. For joy.
This.This was why I fell in love with music in the first place.
Not the applause, the charts, or the carefully planned PR stunts.
It was this. Singing without an audience, without perfection, feeling the moment. Letting the lyrics speak when words couldn’t. Letting your body remember how to feel before your brain catches up.
I’d lost that feeling somewhere along the way. Music had become a business and a brand. Singing on that floor, surrounded by wrapping paper, next to a man who made me want to be myself—here, I remembered what it felt like.
