The whole roof slid, tilting dramatically before slumping down onto the table in a sugary collapse.
We stared at it.
Then at each other.
Then I burst out laughing.
Enzo didn’t laugh. But he did exhale a quiet breath that felt very close to one. Or it could’ve been exasperation.
“Okay,” I declared when I finally caught my breath. “Plan B.”
He arched a brow.“A new house?”
“No.” I scooped a chunk of gingerbread from the broken roof. “Christmas ruins.”
He stared at me. “You’re serious.”
“Extremely. Look.” I positioned the fallen pieces into something that vaguely resembled an ancient, festive archaeological site. “Artistic. Rustic. Historically significant.”
“That’s not a house.”
I shrugged. “It’s a vibe.”
Enzo clicked his tongue. “It’s a disaster.”
“It’s our disaster,” I shot back.
Our eyes met and he paused, just long enough for the meaning of the word “our” to settle between us, warm and delicate and terrifying.
Then he quietly replied, “Yeah. It is.”
We decorated it anyway—peppermints lining the broken wall, gumdrops circling the ruin like little guardians, powdered sugar snow drifting over everything. By the end, the table was a mess, our sleeves were dusted in sugar, and the gingerbread house looked… not great.
But it was ours.
And it was somehow ridiculously charming.
I stepped back to admire it. “Be honest. It’s adorable.”
“It’s something,” Enzo replied, but there was this softness in his voice that wasn’t there an hour ago.
I bumped his arm gently. “We started a tradition.”
He looked at the gingerbread ruins, then at me; really looked, and for a heartbeat, the air changed. Warm. Charged. Something new blossoming between us. Not just sex, but more.
“I guess we did,” he murmured.
I wanted, desperately, to lean in. To close that small space between us and kiss him. But the moment was too sweet, too fragile, and I was afraid to tarnish it with something sexual.
So instead, I picked up a gumdrop and popped it into my mouth. “Merry almost Christmas, Enzo.”
He reached out and dusted my cheek, fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary. “Merry almost Christmas, Gia.”
By the time we finished cleaning up the kitchen: brushing powdered sugar off the counters, gathering gumdrops from impossible corners, arguing about whether our gingerbread ruins deserved a place of honor or should be thrown in the trash, the cabin had settled into a soft, comfortable quiet.
The quiet I’d come to love and treasure.
We placed the gingerbread creation on a small wooden board by the tree. I straightened the peppermint pieces one last time before stepping back.
