I give her a look that should qualify as a warning. She ignores it and stands on her toes to tie the garland in place, her shoulder brushing my chest.
She smells like vanilla and pine and something warm I’m not sure has a name.
When she steps back to admire her work, she bumps into me again.
Soft. Warm. Familiar.
“Sorry,” she says breathlessly.
“Don’t apologize,” I say before I can stop myself.
She turns slowly. Our eyes catch.
Something in her expression flickers, unguarded and bright.
The tree glows.
The fire glows.
And she—God help me—she glows too.
I clear my throat, stepping back a few measured inches before I do something reckless.
Like touch her.
Or kiss her.
Or pull her close and let the world tilt.
“Want some cocoa?” I ask instead, voice rough.
She smiles—small at first, then helplessly wider. “Yeah. I’d love that.”
We sit on the couch with steaming mugs, the stove crackling beside us. The decorations are only half finished, but the cabin already looks different—warmer, brighter, touched by something gently magical.
She blows on her cocoa. A little marshmallow melts onto her lip.
She doesn’t notice.
I definitely do.
“Okay,” she says, tucking one foot under her. “Serious question.”
I brace slightly. “All right.”
“What do you want this Christmas to feel like for your family?”
I stare into my mug. “Not stressful.”
“That’s a start.”
“I don’t want them walking on eggshells.”
“Good.”
“I don’t want my mom worrying she did something wrong.”
She nods gently. “Okay. And for you?”
