“Okay?” His voice is rougher than before.
“Yeah.” The word comes out breathy.
He ties the first boot. Moves to the second. Bends his head to focus on the task, but his breathing changes. Slower. Deeper.
I watch his hands. Scarred knuckles. Steady fingers. The way he’s so careful with the tension, making sure it’s not too tight. He’s close enough that I can smell his cedar and soap scent.
He ties the second lace. His hand lingers on my shin. His thumb brushes the inside of my calf. Just once. Then he stands like I burned him. “Better.”
“Yeah.” My voice is breathy.
He moves to the fire and adds a log that’s not needed.
I sit, pulse hammering, skin still warm where he touched me.
He felt it too. I know he did.
The afternoon drags. Cole’s restless, checking the windows, the generator, and the radio for weather updates. I wander, careful not to invade his space, but I’m curious about how he lives.
The open closet door catches me.
A cardboard box sits on the top shelf. Battered corners and yellowed tape show it’s been packed away for years. An item with smooth wooden edges catches the light through a gap in the cardboard. Perhaps an ornament.
“That’s Emma’s,” he says.
I turn. Cole stands in the doorway. His face is blank, but his eyes are raw.
“Her Christmas things,” he continues. “Haven’t opened it since she died.”
“I’m sorry.”
He nods once. “Yeah.”
“What happened?”
His jaw locks. “Winter accident. Three years ago. Roads were icy. She didn’t make it.”
“Cole. I’m truly sorry.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
“Is that why you don’t celebrate Christmas?”
“Yeah.” His voice is flat.
I look back at the box and that piece of wood visible through the gap. It feels important. Loved. “What’s in there?”
“Her things. Ornaments she carved. Garland that she strung.” He doesn’t move. “She loved Christmas.”
Something heavy settles behind my ribs. The silence between us feels fragile. I want to reach for him, but I don’t know if he’d let me. “Who did you stop celebrating for?”
The question comes out more quietly than I meant it to. But I need to know. Not just about Emma. About him. About why this man, who fixes and protects and cares so carefully, locked away the one thing that might bring him joy.
His jaw works. His throat moves.
But no words come.
He turns and walks outside, the door clicking shut behind him.
