“Sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be.” His voice drops a little. “It’s fine.”
I swallow. Hard.
We finish the garland, then move to the tree. It’s still leaning at an unfortunate angle. Cyrus frowns at it like the tree has personally offended him.
“It’s crooked,” he says.
“It has personality.”
“It’s going to fall on someone.”
“With the right encouragement, anything can stand tall.”
He gives me a look that says he knows exactly what I meant. My cheeks heat.
He crouches to adjust the base, and when he stands, snow-dusted pine needles rain down onto his shoulders. Without thinking, I brush them off.
He goes still.
So do I.
His skin warms under my fingertips. His breath catches. The air between us changes — thickens — softens — sharpens.
Then he steps back like he’s been shocked. “We should finish the lights.”
“Right.” My voice is thin.
We wrap the tree, moving around each other in circles that feel more intimate than they should be. At one point, the strand tangles around my wrist. He unwraps it slowly, eyes flicking to my mouth before he looks away again.
By the time we’re done, the room glows. Warm. Soft. A little magical.
Cyrus looks around, shoulders loosening. “It actually looks good.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m always surprised by you.”
My heart stumbles.
Before I can respond, his phone buzzes on the counter. He glances at it. “Bradley. Poker night.”
“Do you usually go?”
“Sometimes.”
“You should.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not leaving you to handle all this alone.”
“I’m not helpless.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
His tone means something else entirely.
I should push. I should tell him to go. I should insist this doesn’t matter.
