I am teetering on the edge of bursting into carols.
Meanwhile, Calder, looks like he’s questioning all his life choices that brought him here.
“You okay?” I ask as he wrestles the trunk into the stand.
He grunts. “Tree’s heavier than it looks.”
“You’re doing amazing.”
“I’m being attacked by pine.”
“It’s a team-building exercise.”
He shoots me a look over his shoulder, one that’s half glare, half amusement. “If sap gets in my hair, I’m blaming you.”
“Oh,” I say sweetly, “so youdohave hair under control? Interesting.”
He exhales through his nose—the lumberjack version of a laugh. When he adjusts the tree again, I hold the stand steady, trying not to notice how close he is or how good he smells (woodsmoke, pine, something warm and familiar I can’t name).
We get the tree upright, step back, and look.
It’s perfect.
The deep green needles. The height. The symmetry. The faint sparkle of fresh snow still clinging to a few branches.
My chest warms. “Calder… look at it.”
“I’m looking,” he says.
“Do you see how good this is?”
“I see you’re very proud.”
“I’m proud ofus.”
“Us?” he echoes, one brow rising.
“Yes,” I say firmly. “We are a Christmas tree–selecting unit now. It’s a sacred bond.”
He huffs again and crouches to tighten the screws on the stand. “If we’re bonded, you’re also helping vacuum up needles for the next month.”
I clap my hands. “A small price to pay.”
We work around the tree for the next hour, clearing space and repositioning furniture. Calder grabs the rug and shakes out old wood chips. I adjust the coffee table to create more flow for foot traffic.
At one point, we both reach for the same end of the couch to shift it.
Our hands brush.
Stop.
Stay there a beat too long.
We both freeze.
Then he pulls back, slow and careful.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
