The answer sits on my tongue, familiar and sore.
“Because I needed the reset,” I say. Not loud. Not shy. Just true. “Because the last holiday season I planned almost broke me. Because I forgot how to enjoy something I used to love. And because your mom’s message said she wanted a real family Christmas again, and that felt like something worth showing up for.”
His expression shifts—not pity, not sympathy—something else. Something deeper.
“You’re honest,” he says. Like he wasn’t expecting it.
“I try to be.”
He nods once, thoughtful. The fire throws a soft glow across his features, and for the first time since I arrived, he doesn’t look like he’s bracing for impact.
He looks…human. And a little bit hopeful.
Then the lights flicker.
I freeze. “Um…”
He glances up. “Wind must’ve hit a line.”
The lights flicker again. And again.
Then everything goes black.
The fire still glows, but the rest of the cabin plunges into shadow. I’m suddenly very aware of how quiet the world is without electricity—and how close Calder is in the dark.
My heartbeat echoes in my ears.
“Do you have candles?” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he murmurs back. “Stay put.”
I hear him stand. Hear the soft thud of his boots on the wood floor. The scrape of a drawer. Then the warm flare of a match, followed by the hazy glow of candlelight.
He returns, setting one on the coffee table. The light casts gold across his jaw, his throat, the planes of his shoulders.
“Better?” he asks.
I swallow. “Yes. Definitely. Thank you.”
His gaze lingers on me, shadowed and unreadable.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod too quickly. “Fine! Totally fine. Very normal about storms.”
He watches me for a long second. “You don’t like the dark.”
“It’s not my favorite.”
“You cold?”
“No,” I lie.
He lifts a brow.
“Maybe a little,” I admit.
He crosses to the woodstove, opens the door, and adds another log. Sparks swirl, catching fire. The cabin warms again.
