I should pull back, but I don’t. Being in his arms feels like home.
That’s when I see it?—
Beside the porch sits a small fir tree, no more than five feet tall. Roots wrapped in burlap, dusted with snow.
“What’s this?”
He shrugs, eyes on the tree. “Didn’t seem right, you spending Christmas without one.”
“You dug it up?”
“Pulled it from the edge of the clearing. It’ll live fine if you replant it after.”
Something soft and unguarded flickers in his eyes. For a man built of silence and muscle, it’s almost tender.
I can’t seem to find words. The gesture hits somewhere deep. Simple. Thoughtful. Completely unexpected.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He nods, glances at the door. “Let’s get you warm.”
We carry the tree inside together, the branches poking our coats, scattering snow across the floorboards. The animals rush us in a joyful, chaotic tidal wave—barking, circling, the parrot yelling “IDIOT!” Holt looks shocked, then huffs a laugh.
We set the tree down by the window. Holt’s close enough that I can see the damp strands of hair clinging to his neck, the tiny flecks of snow melting on his shoulders.
He looks around the cabin. “Better already.”
I laugh quietly. “You’ve got a low bar for improvement.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Just practical.”
His gaze alights on me and for a long moment, I can’t move, caught in the headlights of those amber irises—and then I remember the darn groceries.
“Need to go back to the truck,” I tell him.
He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh. “I’ll get your stuff.”
“It’s okay, I can do it.”
“You’ve done enough falling for one day.”
He’s already out the door. I follow because… well, because I can’t let him haul all my bags again.
And because being near him feels impossibly dangerous and impossibly safe.
We carry them in together, both of us breathless, laughing a little. The snow is coming even faster now, and the truck sits half-buried in white.
Inside, the fire crackles, the new tree filling the room with the scent of pine. I set the groceries on the counter, pulling off my gloves.
Holt drops the last bag beside me. He’s close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, pick up that low, rumbling sound of his breathing, which seems to belong only to him.
“You can trust me, Lila,” he says quietly.
I stop what I’m doing, my heart thudding. “Trust you?” I turn to face him. “Remember what happened last time I trusted you?” The words come out sharper than I intend.
He looks away, jaw tight.
“I remember,” he says finally. His voice is quiet, but there’s no mistaking the weight behind it.
