Mine too.
“You okay?” I ask softly, fingers still grazing hers.
She nods, but her breath trembles. “Why does your roof hate me?”
“It doesn’t,” I say. “It’s just loud.”
“I’m loud,” she mutters. “This is payback.”
I fight a smile and set her mug safely on the table.
For a moment, we sit in the aftermath of the almost-moment. The moment that could’ve been more. The moment that’s going to sit between us now, warm and alive.
I clear my throat. “We should finish the tree tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Tomorrow.”
She stands, smoothing her blanket around her shoulders.
“I’m gonna head to bed,” she murmurs. “Big day tomorrow. Lots of holiday… things.”
I nod once. “Goodnight, Natalie.”
She lingers in the doorway, glancing back at me—one last flicker of what we didn’t quite say.
“Goodnight, Calder.”
The door closes softly.
And I sit there in the firelight, staring at the glow of the half-decorated tree, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to make it through tonight without thinking about the way she said my name.
And knowing I won’t.
ELEVEN
NATALIE
I don’t sleep well.
Not because I’m uncomfortable. The bed is warm, the quilt is cozy, and the storm outside has settled into a soft, steady hush. No, the problem is inside my chest, unspooling thoughts like tangled ribbons I can’t put back into a neat bow.
Because we almost kissed.
Almost.
Not quite.
Close enough that I felt the heat of his breath against my cheek and the weight of his attention like a hand pressed lightly over my heart.
My pulse betrays me every time I replay it—which is roughly once every seven seconds.
Sometime near dawn, I give up on sleep entirely.
When I pad out into the living room, the fire is still warm but low. Calder isn’t there. His boots are gone from beside the door. So is his coat.
I pull my blanket tighter and check the window.
He’s outside, sweeping snow off the porch and the rooftop overhang with a long-handled brush. His hair is mussed, breathclouding in the cold. His movements are steady, efficient, purposeful.
