But then he reaches for a box of ornaments, his fingers brushing mine again, and the moment pulls tight around us.
“We should finish these,” he says quietly.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “We should.”
We hang the last few ornaments in near silence, both pretending the tension isn’t crawling up our spines.
We’re almost done when I open a small wooden box tucked in with the lights. Inside is a carved ornament — smooth edges, simple lines, sanded carefully by hand.
A date is etched into the back. The wedding date.
My breath catches. “You made this?”
He stiffens. “Found it earlier. Must’ve forgotten it was in there.”
“You carved an ornament after the wedding?”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t meet my eyes.
The truth hangs between us anyway.
Something mattered. Something mattered enough for him to make this and hide it.
I close the lid gently. “It’s beautiful.”
Cyrus swallows, the movement sharp. “We should finish the rest.”
But neither of us moves.
We stand there, inches apart, light reflecting off the tree, breathing the same slow, shallow breaths.
“Cyrus…”
He looks at me. Really looks.
And I know, with absolute clarity, that we are one wrong move away from crossing the line again.
FOUR
CYRUS
I should step back.
I should put actual space between us, grab the nearest garland, the nearest excuse,anythingthat would cut the tension before it takes us somewhere we can’t walk away from.
But Dahlia is looking up at me with that expression — open, wary, wanting — and whatever good sense I have evaporates.
“You okay?” I ask, even though I know damn well she isn’t.
She wets her lips. “I’m fine.”
She’s absolutely not fine. Neither am I.
The heater kicks on with a low hum. Outside, wind scrapes against the eaves. The weather app said the storm would get bad tonight, but I didn’t think it would matter. I didn’t think she’d still be here.
“Maybe we should—” I stop, because I don’t know how to finish that. Stop decorating? Stop talking? Stop pretending?
She waits, eyes steady.
