ONE
CALEB
The snow’sbeen getting thicker for the last half hour, coating the pines until they look like something out of a postcard. The wipers beat a slow rhythm against the glass, and Miguel hums along under his breath, soft and tuneless, his gloved fingers tapping the steering wheel.
We’ve been on the road for almost four and a half hours, and my legs are getting twitchy. The heater’s turned up too high, and I’ve already stripped off my hoodie, leaving me in just a long-sleeved thermal and the faded jeans Miguel keeps saying are too tight.
He only says that because they distract him.
“Fifteen minutes,” he says, glancing at the GPS like he doesn’t already know.
I smirk. “You’ve said that like three times now. I’m starting to think we’re lost.”
He gives me a side-eye, the kind that makes my stomach dip. “Well, you keep asking how long until we get there. We’re not lost.”
“Right,” I sigh, stretching to bring some blood flow to my legs and now numb ass.
His mouth twitches—that half-smile that still kills me every damn time. “You getting cranky, baby? I can pull over and… uh… stretch you out real quick?”
“No.” I nudge his thigh with my knee. “Just stop driving like an old man and get us there.”
Miguel laughs, low and warm, and it fills the cab like heat. “You saying that ‘cause you’re bored or because you want to see if I really will pull over and give you what you’ve been begging for since we left Santa Cruz?”
The words hit like a spark, sliding down my spine. I look out the window to hide the flush, pretending to focus on the falling snow. “Definitely the boredom,” I mutter.
Lie.
He makes a noise that’s all disbelief and promise.
To fill the silence, I reach for my phone, then side-eye him. “If I put on music, you’re not gonna sing with me, are you?”
“Depends. What kind of music are we talkin’ about?”
“Christmas,” I say, grinning when he groans. “C’mon, Miggy, it’s December. You can’t not.”
“I can,” he says, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth. “Pick one I actually know.”
I scroll through the playlist until I find “Last Christmas.” The opening notes fill the truck, bright and obnoxious, and I start singing immediately—off-key and loud, because it makes him laugh.
Miguel shakes his head, eyes on the road, but I catch the softening in his face—the look that tells me he’s not thinking about the snow or the drive or how quiet we’ve both been since meeting up at our parents’ house last night.
“Your voice is shit,” he says when I hit the chorus.
“Rude. You just don’t likeWham!”
“Can’t argue with the truth, baby.” He lets out a sigh. “There is a reason we play sports and don’t sing.”
I crank the volume higher, singing even louder until he gives in and joins me on the second verse, both of us butchering the song and laughing so hard the windows fog up more.
For a few minutes, it’s easy. It’s stupid and normal and so fucking far from what either of us ever thought we’d have.
We’re still step siblings… but so much more now.
When the song ends, I turn the volume down and let the silence come back. The laughter fades, replaced by something quieter. He reaches over, his gloved hand finding the back of my neck. A small squeeze, grounding and sure.
“Almost there,” he says again, softer this time. “I promise.”
The truck crunchesto a stop on the snow-packed driveway, the tires kicking up a shit ton of powder. I stare out through the windshield at the A-frame cabin—dark wood, steep roofline, complete with a chimney. Pine trees crowd close, heavy with snow.
