I tilt my face up, studying him in the dim light. The familiar lines. The certainty. The quiet strength that doesn’t demand anything from me but honesty.
“What if this scares me tomorrow?” I ask.
“Then we talk about it tomorrow,” he says without hesitation. “And the next day, if we need to.”
“And if it stops making sense?”
“Then we figure out why,” he replies. “Together.”
The word lands softly but firmly.
Together.
I shift in his lap, straddling him now, my hands resting on his shoulders. He doesn’t pull me closer. Doesn’t rush. Just lets me take the space I need.
“I don’t want to be a fantasy,” I say. “Or a snow-day miracle that fades when the power comes back on.”
He exhales slowly. “Neither do I.”
His arms wrap around me. “I want grocery store arguments and stolen kisses in the hardware aisle. I want you complaining about my coffee order and me pretending not to hear you.”
I smile despite myself. “You really don’t love peppermint?”
“I loveyouliking peppermint,” he counters. “That’s different.”
We sit like that for a long while, tangled together. The conversation turns to Matty and the way he insists on sleeping in his hockey jersey the night before games. About the library’s creaky third-floor radiator that never quite works. About Gwen’swedding plans and my documentary projects still half-formed in my head.
There’s no rush. No pressure to define what this is beyondright now.
“You still thinking about never leaving?” he murmurs.
I smile into the warmth of him. “I’m thinking about choosing to stay.”
He presses a kiss to the top of my head—slow, reverent. “That’s all I’d ever ask.”
ten
. . .
Rhett
I waketo the soft hiss of the wind against the windows, the house still smelling faintly of wood smoke from last night’s fire. My eyes blink open to the warm weight of Bristol pressed against me, her hair splayed across my chest in a messy halo. She’s still wrapped in my arms, one knee tucked over my hip, breathing even and calm. For a brief second, I allow myself to soak in the moment. I memorize the light pink heat of her cheek as she sleeps, the soft rise and fall of her chest, the way she lets out tiny little sighs every now and again.
“Morning,” I murmur softly, pressing my lips to the top of her head. She stirs slightly, mumbling something incoherent and nuzzling closer.
I can’t help the slow smile that creeps across my face. I brush a strand of hair from her eyes. “Still asleep, huh?” I whisper.
Her fingers tighten around my arm. “Don’t move,” she mutters. “It’s Christmas.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, it is.”
The thought hits me: Christmas in Mistletoe Bay, snow still heavy in the streets, streets half-shut from the storm just daysago. And I’m here with her.With her. Not just in town, not just messaging on some app, but here. Close. Real.
I shift slightly so she can stretch without me moving, careful not to disturb the cozy warmth we’ve built. My phone buzzes on the nightstand—a message from Gwen.
LittleSis:Matty’s up. Breakfast’s chaotic. How soon until you get to Mom and Dad’s?
I laugh quietly, shaking my head. Chaos is an understatement when it comes to my sister and her seven-year-old hurricane of a son. I glance down at Bristol, still snuggled against me, her breathing slowing into the deep rhythm of sleep again.
