I want to punch everyone of them.
She looks more relaxed than when I arrived, but not completely at ease. She keeps her shoulders angled inward, like she’s bracing for the noise.
Instinctively, my body shifts toward her.
But before I can head her way, someone clinks a glass, calling for attention, corralling us all into a loose circle near the tree they’ve set up in the corner. It’s real, somehow, a full evergreen dragged into an industrial venue and decorated with white lights and minimalist ornaments. It’s tasteful and pretty, and I hate it.
Boxes and bags are piled underneath, chaotic and mismatched. An excited murmur spreads through the crowd when they see all the presents.
Merry fucking Christmas, everyone.
Liz drifts closer to me as the crowd tightens. Not touching. Just close enough that I can feel the heat from her arm through the thin space between us. I immediately feel better.
I don’t look at her.
If I do, I won’t look away. My hands curl into fists as I force them to stay where they are and not touch her. I desperately want just a small contact. Would anyone notice if I curled my pinkie around hers? If I just accidentally brushed my hand against hers?
I don’t dare to do either, because it wouldn’t be enough. The air between is so charged I swear I hear it spark.
Sara steps up to start the gift exchange. As she calls out names and people open their gifts, laughter ripples through the crowd.
Someone gets novelty socks. Someone else gets a bottle of wine that’s immediately inspected like it might be fake.
When Liz’s name is called, everything in me sharpens.
She startles slightly, still endearing, still her, and steps forward, smoothing her hands down the sides of her dress like she’s steadying herself.
A few people clap. Someone whistles, and she startles, ducking her chin to hide her blush.
I take a step forward, but Sara pegs the whistler with a stink eye, and he steps back, hiding behind his coworkers.
I watch, heart pounding far harder than it should.
She crouches to pick up her gift. It’s medium-sized, wrapped simply, with a small tag with her name written in careful block letters. My handwriting.
She turns it over once, curious, then opens it.
Paper tears softly.
She pauses.
Her brows knit as she pulls out the envelope first. She opens it, reads, and then her breath catches, not dramatically, just enough that I notice.
She looks up.
Finds me immediately.
I hold her gaze, steady and open, but keep my face bland.
Then, she reaches back into the box and pulls out the voucher.
A few people lean closer, curious.
“What is it?” someone asks.
Liz blinks, then laughs, a surprised, genuine sound. “It’s… a Wreck Room session.”
A beat, and then, “Oh, that’s the best,” Sara exclaims, and laughter erupts around us.
