“Oh, baby,” I reply, smirking. “I have a very fun way of denying you. Keep playin’ with me.”
After a few more rounds of back-and-forth, we migrate to the couch, Caleb wrapped in a blanket like a little burrito. I drape another over both of us, pulling him close so the heat of his body presses against mine. The fire flickers, throwing shadows across the cabin, and the snow is falling harder outside. It’s the perfect ambiance for a Christmas movie debate.
“So,” Caleb says, half serious, half teasing, “what are we watching first?”
I smirk. “Die Hard.Obviously.”
He nearly chokes on his sip of champurrado. “Die Hard? That’s not a Christmas movie!”
I let a slow smile spread across my face. “Uh, yes, it is. Set during Christmas, snow outside, John McClane is literally saving Christmas. It’s a classic.”
“No,” Caleb says, shaking his head. “Setting doesn’t make it Christmas. Christmas needs terror, suspense, that creeping dread of a killer in a Santa mask, likeBlack Christmas.”
I laugh, tilting my head back. “You mean the 1974 one?”
He nods, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Yes. That’s a real Christmas movie. People die, houses are creepy, you know, classic holiday vibes.”
I nudge him with my knee. “So your criteria is someone dies, and the killer wears a Santa mask? That’s your holiday spirit?”
“Yes!” he shoots back, leaning closer, eyes sparkling. “It’s scary, it’s festive, it’s… perfect. More Christmasy than a guy crawling through vents with machine guns!”
I snort. “McClane is iconic, and he’s wearing a Santa hat in at least one scene. That counts. Plus, explosions are festive too.”
“You’re insane,” he says, shaking his head, still smiling, biting the corner of his lip.
“And you love arguing with me,” I reply, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “Don’t you, baby? You wanna keep this going? I’ve got all night.”
He groans, rolling his eyes, but doesn’t move away. “Ugh… fine. But we’re doing both.Die Hardfirst, thenBlack Christmas.”
I grin, leaning back into him, letting his warmth seep through the blanket. “Deal. But if I’m holding you on the couch during Black Christmas… you’re not allowed to complain tomorrow when I watchThe Long Kiss Goodnight. You and scary movies don’t mingle.”
“Lies,” he says, voice teasing, one eyebrow raised, and it makes me laugh. I know better than to believe him entirely, but the promise in the curve of his smile is enough.
The fire pops,spreading warmth through the small living room, and between his warmth, the blankets, and our quiet, playful sparring, I feel the weekend stretching out perfectly ahead of us. I pull him a little closer, feeling his hip press against mine, and the smirk that never leaves his face softens when he rests his head on my shoulder.
“See?” I whisper against his hair. “Christmas already feels better with you here.”
He hums, nudging me in reply. “Okay, now shush. It’s movie time.”
I grab the remote and settle against the back of the couch, Caleb tucked against my side under the big wool blanket. The firelight dances across the room, and outside, the snow falls thick and fast. I hit play onDie Hard, expecting a little quiet background chaos while we watch, but I know better.
“McClane looks ridiculous with that Santa hat,” Caleb mutters, nudging my arm.
“Ridiculous?” I echo, tilting my head. “He’s heroic. Classic. Festive.”
Caleb hums, shifting closer, and I feel him brush against my chest. I glance down, a smirk tugging at my lips. “You’re distracting me already,” I murmur.
He grins innocently. “Am I?”
Oh, bratty Caleb wants to play.
“Yes,” I reply, voice low, and I try to focus on the screen, but his hand snakes under the blanket, resting lightly on my thigh. My pulse jumps.
“I’m just… making sure you’re paying attention,” he says, lips brushing against my ear in a whisper that makes me shiver.
I clear my throat, trying to keep my composure, but he’s bold, bold in a way that’s impossible to resist right now. His hand drifts lower, the denim of my jeans resisting slightly under his fingers, teasing me without breaking contact. I bite back a groan, tilting my head so my lips brush his temple.
“You’re poking the bear, baby,” I mutter, trying to sound stern, but the warmth of him pressed to my side, the brush of his hand, and the scent of his shampoo, it’s too much.
