He finally rolls off me, pulling me tight against his side under the blanket, the cool air hitting our damp skin.
“That,” he says, his voice deep and rough, “is how you put Christmas to bed.”
I giggle and snuggle closer, resting my cheek against Slade’s chest, listening to the slow,deliberate rhythm of his breathing. The room smells faintly of spent magic, pine wreaths, and the faint ghost of cinnamon that clings to my skin. The credits roll across the TV in soft grayscale, but neither of us is paying attention anymore. My body feels boneless, warm, thoroughly worshipped, and entirely ruined in the best way.
Slade’s fingers trace slow, lazy paths down my spine, the motions languid and assured. He kisses the top of my head, then my cheek, then the corner of my mouth, each kiss softer than the last—gentle, affectionate, almost unbearably intimate.
“Piper,” he murmurs, his voice still carrying the lazy gravel of afterglow, “you’re shivering. Are you cold?”
“I’m fine,” I breathe, nuzzling into him. “Just… melted.”
He chuckles quietly, a sound that rumbles through his chest like a warm tide. “You meltbeautifully.”
For a long, blissful moment, the world is nothing but his warmth and the faint jingle of the Christmas-themed commercial playing in the background.
Eventually, he brushes a damp curl away from my cheek and presses another soft kiss there.
“Get dressed,” he murmurs.
I blink. “For what?”
“For air. For time that isn’t limited to couches with questionable structural integrity.” His smile curves wickedly. “And because if we stay here, I will not let you walk again tonight.”
Heat pools low in my belly again, but he sits up and helps me sit too, wrapping the fleece blanket around my shoulders before I can protest. Newt gives a disapproving chirp, as if we’re ruining his evening, then leaps onto the back of the sofa with a dramatic flick of his tail.
Slade stands, retrieving our strewn clothing with casual efficiency. When he hands me my leggings, he brushes a kiss against myknuckles—tender and reverent—before stepping back to pull on his own shirt.
“Come on,” he says, offering his hand. “There’s a place I want to take you.”
I lace my fingers with his, still feeling the phantom of his touch everywhere he claimed me. We dress slowly, stealing kisses between buttons, the quiet kind that taste like promises rather than hunger.
Ten minutes later, we step out into the crisp winter air, the snow still fresh from the afternoon flurries. The street glows with soft holiday lights—warm gold, red, and evergreen, twinkling along rooftops and lampposts. Slade slips an arm around my waist, pulling me snug against his side as he guides me down the sidewalk.
“Where are we going?” I ask, leaning into his warmth.
“To dinner,” he answers. “Somewhere quiet. Somewhere I can watch you glow without interruption.”
“I’mnotglowing.”
He stops walking. The streetlamp above us casts a halo over the snow. He tilts my chin up with a single finger, his eyes drifting slowly over my face, my lips, the faint flush still coloring my neck.
“You’re radiant,” he says softly. “You always are. But tonight… it’sdifferent.”
I open my mouth to argue, and… instead, I choose to feel the words in my chest, hot and aching. I tuck myself into him, letting him lead us through the soft winter evening, past frozen storefronts and twinkling trees. The world feels gentle for once—like the universe is exhaling with us.
We arrive at a tiny Chinese restaurant tucked between two older brick buildings, the kind with red lanterns in the window and a hand-painted sign that flickers between OPEN and OPN because the light’s been dying since 1998. Warm air rushes out as soon as Slade opens the door, carrying themouthwatering scent of ginger, garlic, sesame oil, and something fried and glorious.
Slade watches me step inside, but his gaze is already drifting toward the illuminated menu wall like a man approaching a holy relic.
“This is your guilty pleasure, isn’t it?” I murmur.
His eyes darken in a way that is both sheepish and unrepentant. “No one musteverknow,” he says solemnly, guiding me in with a hand at the small of my back. “I have a reputation to consider.”
I grin at his foolishness.
We’re seated in a corner booth—intimate, candle lit by a small electric tea lights shoved into a frosted glass holder that pretends it’s fancier than it is. Slade sits beside me instead of across from me, thigh brushing mine, his arm draped behind me as if it belongs there permanently.
The warmth between us is quiet, content—like a soft exhale after too many days of tension.
