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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.”