Juni had been awake for an hour, maybe two, staring at the ceiling while her mind replayed last night. The way Goraath had looked at her in the firelight. The way his thumb had traced her cheek when he’d tucked that silver herb behind her ear. The way they’d sat there, neither willing to leave, the space between them charged and aching.
Until they’d gone to bed.
In different rooms.
God, this was torture.
She rolled out of bed and padded to the kitchen in bare feet, the stone floor cold enough to make her hiss. But she had work to do.
An hour later the sweet bread she’d baked sat cooling on the counter. Not quite right—the alien flour had a different texture, the spices weren’t the same—but close enough. She unwrapped it and the scent filled the air—warm and yeasty. Her mother would have approved.
Setting water to heat for the kasta, she dug through the spice containers she’d found yesterday. There—that one smelled almost like cinnamon if she didn’t think too hard about it. A pinch in the mugs, just enough to make it special. To make it Christmas.
The table needed setting. She smoothed the red fabric runner, adjusting it three times before it looked right. Sprigs of silver herb at each place—for luck, he’d said. Branches of til’vaash between them, that bright pine-citrus scent filling the kitchen.
Two plates. Two mugs. Everything arranged just so.
From her pocket, she pulled three small white shapes. Snowmen, made from fabric scraps she’d found in a storage box. She’d stuffed them with dried herbs and scraps, stitched tiny smiles with black thread, and fashioned buttons from seed pods. She bit her lip. She’d been so proud of them but now they just seemed ridiculous.
She tucked them back in her pocket, stomach fluttering. What if he thought they were stupid? What if?—
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Her heart-rate kicked up as Goraath filled the doorway.
His hair was loose and damp from washing, falling past his shoulders in a dark wave that made her fingers itch to touch. He’d put on clean clothes… work clothes still, but fresh ones. He stopped when he saw the table, taking in everything. The bread. The decorations. Her standing there, wringing her hands like an idiot.
“Merry Christmas.” The words came out smaller than she’d intended.
He didn’t move for a long moment, his gaze on the table. Then he looked at her. “You did this?”
Heat burned her cheeks as she nodded. “It’s tradition. My mom always made a special breakfast on Christmas morning. Sweet bread and... I know it’s not really Christmas here, and the bread no doubt tastes weird because the flour’s different, but I wanted...” She trailed off, not sure how to finish.
“It’s perfect.”
The certainty in his gruff voice made her throat tight. He crossed to the table and sat in his usual chair. She poured kasta with shaking hands, watched him notice the spice, and the way his eyebrows rose a little at the first sip.
“This is good.” He took another sip, slower. Savoring it. “Different, but good.”
“For Christmas, everything should be a little special.” She cut the sweet bread, and gave him the larger piece. Then held her breath as he bit into it.
He took a second piece without her offering.
Relief flooded through her, spreading warmth from the center of her chest. They ate in comfortable quiet, the scent of til’vaash mixed with sweet bread and spiced kasta filling the air. His gaze found hers across the table, held for a heartbeat before sliding away.
She fidgeted, the snowmen burning a hole in her pocket. Before she could lose her nerve, she pulled them out.
“I made you something. For Christmas.” The words tumbled out too fast. “It’s tradition to exchange gifts and I know it’s probably silly but I wanted to make something. For you.”
She set the three little figures on the table between them.
He stared at them and then picked one up, the tiny thing looking absurd in his massive hand. Turning it over, he studied the stitched face, the seed pod buttons, and the way she’d shaped the body.
“What are they?”
“Snowmen. It’s a Christmas tradition. When it snows, you roll snowballs and stack them, make a figure. Give it a face, buttons, sometimes a hat. My mom and I made them every year until...” She was babbling, couldn’t help herself. “These are just fabric because there’s no snow yet, but I thought?—”
“Why are they white?”
She blinked in surprise. “Because that’s what color snow is?”
