She lifts two ornaments—one with tiny carved mountains, one with small painted stars. “Which one should go on the highest branch? The top piece shouldn’t be too heavy.”
“They’re ornaments,” I say.
“Yes. And?”
“And they’re all the same.”
She gasps like I’ve committed a felony. “Calder. That is the worst, coldest, most incorrect thing you’ve said so far.”
I fold my arms. “It’s a tree. It’s not going to file a complaint.”
“It should.”
“It won’t.”
She narrows her eyes, holding both ornaments up like evidence. “Pick one.”
I sigh and point. “The stars.”
Her entire face brightens. “I knew it.”
She hops up—actually hops—and climbs carefully onto the chair to reach the top of the tree. I stand close, not touching, just hovering in case she slips again. It feels automatic. Necessary. Like I’m meant to be exactly where I am.
She nestles the ornament on the tallest branch, tilting her head to evaluate it.
“It’s perfect,” she declares.
“It’s fine,” I counter.
She climbs down the chair and gives me a look that’s at least fifty percent fond and fifty percent “you poor, clueless mountain man.”
When she steps past me, our shoulders brush. Not an accident. Not intentional. Just…inevitable.
I feel the contact everywhere.
She must feel it too because she goes a little still before moving again.
The fire snaps in the stove.
Wind hums outside.
And the air between us feels like a held breath.
We spend the next hour decorating. She takes charge. I follow her instruction even when I pretend not to.
“Higher,” she says, gesturing at the garland.
I raise it.
“No, wait—too high.”
I lower it.
“Perfect. Don’t move.”
“I’m literally holding it.”
“Hold it more.”
