“Exactly.” She slid a cinnamon roll toward him. “Eat. Drive to Boston, grab enough clothes and art stuff for a month, then come back before the roads get gross.”
He stared at the roll. “You’ve already decided, haven’t you?”
“Actually,” she said, tapping the counter next to his mug, “youdecided the second you said yes to helping with the festival.”
“I did not?—”
She gave him The Look. “You said yes with your soul.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re unbearable.”
“And yet you love me.” She nudged the roll closer. “Besides, what would you even do in Boston for the next four weeks? Sit in your apartment and argue with AI in your head?”
He didn’t answer because she wasn’t wrong.
He took a bite of cinnamon roll, letting butter and sugar do their work. “You’re manipulative.”
“I’m effective,” she corrected.
They ate in companionable silence for a moment. Outside, light snow drifted past the window. The world was soft and gray, as though someone had turned down the saturation.
Aileen spoke, her voice kinder. “I know holidays suck for you.”
He looked up. She was watching him, her eyes gentler than her teasing voice ever let on.
“Split holidays,” she went on. “Custody calendars. We’re both allergic to ‘forced fun.’ I get it. But this doesn’t have to be that way. You can work. You can help. You can hide in the back with the cookies when it’s too much. Just… be here. With us.”
He stared at the table for a long moment.
Then he expelled a slow, halting breath. “Fine.” He glanced up at her.
Aileen’s face lit up. “Fine?”
“Fine,” he repeated. “I’ll drive back today. Pack some stuff. I’ll come back tonight or tomorrow. But if you make me wear an elf hat, I swear I will walk.”
“No elf hats,” she said. She bit her lip. “Probably.”
“Aileen.”
“Okay, okay. You might have to wear an apron, though.”
“That I can handle.”
She squeezed his wrist as she walked past. “Good. Because I really do need you, El.”
He didn’t say it, but the thought was right there.
I need you too.
By noon he was on the highway south, the town shrinking in his rearview mirror, Boston growing ahead like a gray promise. Trees hunched along the roadside, their branches bare, dusted lightly in snow. The sky hung heavy and low, the radio drifting in and out. Every now and then a car flew past, spraying slush.
He tried to think about logistics. Packing. Conferences. Deadlines.
Instead, his brain unhelpfully queued up a replay of Noah in the bakery.
Noah with snow on his beanie.
Noah turning pink when teased.
