My heart tightens with affection as I slide my hand into his. “Mine too. Until it wasn’t.”
We step past a booth filled with miniature sleighs, the scent of cedarwood curling into the cold night. My boots crunch softly over a scatter of pine needles. I stop, the cold brushing my cheeks, letting it all soak in.
Maybe it’s the market that’s changed. Or maybe it’s just me, seeing it all with steadier eyes.
I no longer carry my phone, always looking for the next shot. There’s no agenda or likes between me and the moment. My blog still exists, but it’s changed. It’s less about destinations. More about people and presence. It’s about staying, instead of always chasing the next view.
There’s a post pinned to the top of the page. Just one image: Jax, backlit by firelight, snow in his beard, hands cradling a mug as he stares straight at me. The title: “The Mountain Man Who Saved Christmas (and Me).”
People thought it was fiction.
I let them.
Jax stops in front of a vendor with painted glass ornaments and leans in to examine a hand-painted one shaped like a cabin with smoke curling from the chimney. It’s detailed and perfect, right down to the little stack of firewood at the door.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” he asks.
I smile. “That it looks like home?”
He nods once, then gestures toward the vendor. “We’d like this one, please.”
Later, we wander past the cider stand and the local maple syrup booth, where the man behind the counter offers us a sample drizzled onto fresh snow packed in a tiny bowl. Jax hands me his and watches while I taste it, like he can’t decide if he’s more interested in the syrup or my reaction.
“It’s sweet,” I say, and his eyes drop to my mouth.
“You are,” he says. He watches me as I blush, the space between us tightening. His knuckles brush my wrist, slow and deliberate, before his hand finds mine again, fingers lacing tight.
A year in, and he still makes me blush.
We cross into the quieter part of the market near the edge of the square where the crowd thins. A trio of women sing carols in three-part harmony, their shawls catching the wind as they sway together. I slow near a table of hand-knit stockings and trailmy fingers across the embroidery. One has a stitched pine tree. Another, a tiny star.
Jax doesn’t say a word. Just tugs gently on my hand.
I follow him.
He leads me into the narrow alley beside the bakery. It’s quieter here, tucked between brick walls that hold the heat from the ovens. We’re near where he found me last year at the ornament stand with my eyes full of tears, a phone full of staged shots and stories I didn’t even believe anymore. Back then, I hadn’t learned how to stay or believed I could belong anywhere, least of all here.
Now, standing beside him with the first snowflakes drifting through the golden light, I realize I already do.
He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out something small. A square box, wrapped in flannel and tied with twine.
“This is your early gift,” he says, and the roughness in his voice makes my throat tighten.
“Jax…”
“Open it.”
The box is warm from his body and smells like wood. I untie the twine with chilled fingers and peel back the flannel.
Inside is a hand-carved ornament. Two figures, one tall and broad, one curvy and soft, their hands entwined beneath a snow-covered tree.
My breath catches.
“I used the photo on your blog,” he says quietly.
My hands tremble as I run my fingers along the carved edge.
“I love it,” I whisper. “I love all of this that you’ve given me.” I glance toward the holiday market’s bustle, even though it feels as if it’s a mile away from us.
