I nod. “Grief does that.”
He glances at me. “You’ve had that too.”
It’s not a question.
I swallow. “I’ve had… disappointments. Loss, but not like yours. Mostly I’ve just… lost time, I guess. Lost the holidays to work. Lost the feeling behind them.”
He studies me for a long beat. Not pity. Not curiosity. Just… recognition.
“You’re trying to get it back,” he says.
I look up, surprised. “How do you know?”
“Because you light up around all this,” he says, gesturing toward the tree, the decorations, the cocoa mix still on thecounter. “You want this holiday to work. Not just for me. For you too.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Is it that obvious?”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “But not in a bad way.”
My heartbeat grows unsteady. Warm. Full.
Before I can answer, he clears his throat, straightens. “We should check the road again after breakfast. See if we can grab the last of the supplies from town.”
“Supplies,” I repeat. “Yes. Good. Responsible. Totally normal topic shift.”
His mouth twitches.
He doesn’t call me out on it.
He never does.
And that somehow makes it worse.
We head to town midmorning, the jeep crawling carefully over the partially-plowed road. The sky is deceptively clear. Sunlight glints off the snow in blinding sheets. The wipers squeak. The heater hums.
I glance at him. “So what exactly are we grabbing?”
“Food. Decorations. Firewood bundles. Extra blankets. A backup propane tank.”
“That’s a lot.”
“My family is loud,” he says. “Chaotic. They’ll need space and snacks.”
“I love snacks.”
He gives me a sideways glance. “I’m aware.”
I swat his arm lightly. “Excuse you.”
“You ate half a sleeve of those snowflake cookies yesterday.”
“They were tiny.”
“They weren’t that tiny.”
“Your face wasn’t that tiny.”
He actually laughs, shaking his head. “Now you’re not even trying.”
