“Oh,” she breathes. “Calder.”
I turn.
The tree is—there’s no other word—beautiful.
The good kind of beautiful.
The kind that feels earned.
Warm white ribbons glow among soft pine branches. The star-shaped ornament sits perfectly at the top. The whole tree looks alive in a way I haven’t seen in years.
Her voice softens. “Your family is going to love this.”
Something inside me tightens again—not the painful kind, the startling kind. The kind that comes from realizing you want to believe someone.
I swallow. “Yeah.”
She looks up at me—really looks. Her joy is genuine. Her pride is genuine. Her belief is genuine.
And I know I’m in trouble.
Not because I don’t want this—whateverthisis—but because I do.
We clean up the ornament boxes, rearrange a few last pieces of furniture, and then she pulls out her clipboard, tapping it like a general assembling a battle plan.
“Okay,” she says. “We need to finalize the sleeping arrangements before your family gets here.”
I grimace. “Right.”
“I’ve been thinking,” she continues, flipping through notes. “Since there are kids involved, keeping them in the bedroom with your sister makes the most sense. Your mom gets the loft—she has the best mobility. Your uncle and aunt get the couch. The cousin gets the camping mattress. And you…”
I raise a brow. “Me?”
She hesitates. “You and I… might have to share the downstairs space.”
I blink. “Share?”
She flushes. “Just the room. Different sides. Like a Christmas Switzerland.”
I stare at her for a beat too long.
She clears her throat. “It’s just space. Totally platonic. Totally fine.”
“Right,” I say. “Fine.”
Her eyes flick to mine. Something flickers there. Something electric.
She immediately drops her gaze to the clipboard again.
“We should also talk about meals,” she says in a bright, too-fast tone. “Breakfasts, dinners, Christmas Eve, Christmas morning?—”
“Natalie.”
She freezes.
Her pen hovers over the paper. Her breath catches audibly.
“Yeah?” she says.
