The snow starts falling again, softer this time, drifting like confetti. I heat a can of soup on the stove, and we eat at the counter, sharing stories. He tells me about growing up on this mountain. I tell him about planning a Christmas gala where a proposal went wrong and I had to distract an entire ballroom while security looked for a stolen diamond ring.
He laughs—a real laugh, warm and surprised.
“You like this work,” he says.
“I do,” I admit. “Even when it’s stressful. I like helping people celebrate.”
“What about you?” he asks. “Have you ever had a Christmas that was just yours?”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“One you didn’t plan. One you didn’t work. One where you just… enjoyed it.”
I open my mouth—then close it.
It hits me with a soft, sad truth:
I can’t remember the last time Christmas was somethingforme.
“I guess not,” I say quietly.
Calder’s eyes soften. “Then you should get one.”
The warmth in my chest spreads. “You volunteering?”
His breath hitches—almost imperceptibly.
“Maybe,” he says.
The air shifts.
The silence stretches.
His gaze drops to my lips.
My breath catches.
We move closer together.
THUD.
Something hits the side of the cabin, and we spring back. It isn’t snow this time. It’s too heavy. A sharp thump that rattles a picture frame on the wall.
I jump again. “Okay, what the hell was that?”
Calder’s already moving toward the window. “Probably ice dropping from the roofline.”
“Your roof needs a lesson in relaxation.”
“You’re welcome to try teaching it.” He checks outside, then returns. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Every time you say that,” I mutter, “I worry more.”
He steps closer. Not much—just enough to make the air feel suddenly warmer.
“You’re safe here,” he says quietly.
My breath catches.
