The silence between us isn’t awkward this time. It’s soft. Familiar. A different kind of dangerous.
He studies me, careful and unhurried. “You stayed.”
“You asked me to.”
I try not to remember how exactly he asked. With his hands. With his mouth. With the way he breathed out my name like a confession.
He sets his mug down on the nightstand. “We should probably finish decorating before your family shows up.”
The words are practical. His voice isn’t.
“Right,” I say, even though my body is screamingor we could just stay in bed and see what happens next.
I swing my legs out and realize my dress from yesterday is a crumpled casualty on the floor. My cheeks go nuclear.
He follows my gaze. “You can borrow something. If you want.”
“Borrow?”
“I have sweatshirts.” He stands, rifling in his dresser. “You like oversized things.”
“How would you possibly know that?”
He hands me a soft gray sweatshirt without looking at me. “I pay attention.”
Oh. Okay. So we’re doing honesty this morning.
He leaves me to get dressed, and I pull the sweatshirt over my head. It smells like him. It drapes over me like it remembers his hands. I have no business enjoying this much intimacy this early in the day.
When I find him in the kitchen, he’s making a new pot of coffee, hair damp from a quick shower. The cabin looks… different. Warmer. More alive, somehow, even though nothing physically changed overnight.
“Hey,” he says without turning. “Your sister texted: roads are open. They’re heading up in an hour.”
“Oh God.” I wince. “We should… look less like we’ve been… whatever we’ve been.”
His shoulders shake with a quiet laugh. “You think it’s that obvious?”
I gesture between us. “Cyrus. We cannot stand this close to each other without the air catching fire. Molly will take one look at us and combust.”
He turns then, leaning one hip against the counter. “So?”
“So we need to act normal.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What about this feels normal to you?”
I have no good answer for that, so I open the nearest box of ornaments and hope it distracts both of us.
We fall into a rhythm easily, too easily. Untangling ribbons. Adjusting stockings. Hanging the snowflake topper.No awkwardness. No hesitation. Just the kind of comfortable silence that should take months to build, not a single night.
At one point, he steadies the tree while I fix a crooked ornament. His hand brushes my hip. He doesn’t pull away. Neither do I.
This is reckless.
This is perfect.
This is?—
A knock sounds at the door.
