The sound draws a real laugh out of me, and for a moment the knot that’s been sitting in my gut since this morning loosens.Snow globe. Cabin.That stupid little glass prison has been stalking the edges of my brain all day, and now here I am, in a movie-scene plaza, wrapped in a stranger’s coat. If this were arom-com, this would be the part where the universe was winking at me.
In real life, the universe doesn’t wink.
We pass under the last archway of lights separating the square from the staff lot. Only two cars remain: my sedan and, a few spaces down, a black SUV that looks too sleek for this part of town. It sits under a flickering lamppost, paint swallowing most of the light.
I stop just under the arch and turn to him, clutching his coat tighter. “Thanks for helping tonight,” I say. “Seriously. You didn't have to stay this late.”
He waves it off. “That's what this Holiday is all about, there's no place I'd rather be than somewhere I'm needed.” His gaze holds mine. “Best Christmas Eve I’ve had in a long time.”
There’s a sincerity in his voice that makes my heartbeat stutter. I open my mouth to say something appropriately breezy, but the words jam up.
He steps closer, just a half-step. The wind picks up, tossing hair across my face. He reaches out and gently tucks the strand behind my ear. His fingers graze my cheek, warm against skin gone numb from the cold. A shiver ripples through me that has nothing to do with the temperature.
My breath hitches. The empty, snow-dusted plaza, the arch of lights, the man looking at me like I’m something worth looking at—it all really starts to feels like it belongs in one of those movies I roll my eyes at. My eyes flick to his mouth before I can stop them. For an insane second, I think he might kiss me.
Worse, I think I might let him.
His thumb strokes my cheek once, a soft pass. “Merry Christmas, Meredith,” he says, voice low, intimate in the quiet.
I swallow. “Merry Christmas,” I manage, barely louder than the wind.
He lets his hand drop. I realize I’m holding my breath and force a smile to cover the chaos inside me. “I should, um, shut down the rest. There’s a panel by the back gate for the last lights.” I slip his coat from my shoulders and hold it out. “You should put this back on before you freeze.”
He takes it, our fingers brushing. “I’ll meet you by the gate,” he says.
I nod and head toward the service gate, boots crunching on thin ice. My face feels hot, my skin buzzing where he touched it. Maybe it’s just the emotional hangover from the snow globe and the long day. Maybe it’s him.
The control panel is mounted on the fence post by the gate. I punch in the code with stiff fingers and flip the switches. One by one, the plaza lights wink out behind me, strings of bulbs fading into darkness. The music cuts mid-chorus, leaving only the wind and distant city hum. The sudden quiet settles over my shoulders.
For a second, with everything dark, the place feels less like a winter wonderland and more like a set after the cameras stop rolling. Pretty, but hollow.
You’re fine, I tell myself. You’ve done this a hundred times.
I glance over my shoulder to check. Nick is a tall silhouette near the end of the lot, close to the gate. Just a shadow in the half-light of the streetlamp, but there. Waiting. The sight is weirdly reassuring.
I close the panel, then pull the padlock from my pocket to secure the outer gate. The chain is looped through the metal bars, cold biting through my gloves as I grab it. My fingers fumble with the links; the lock always sticks in winter.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles. A little flicker of that same wrongness from this morning—the snow globe, the sense of something being out of place—slips up my spine.
You’re jumpy because of the cabin, I tell myself. Because someone reached into your past and put it in a box on your counter. Not because of the guy who just fixed your reindeer and offered you his coat. Don’t be ridiculous.
I shake off the feeling and wrestle the chain free.
Headlights flare behind me, painting my shadow long across the pavement. I turn my head just enough to see Nick’s SUV idling a few car lengths back, his lights trained on the gap in the fence.
I wave him forward. “Go ahead!” I call over the wind.
He hesitates, just for a breath. Then the SUV rolls toward me. As he passes, I catch a glimpse of him through the windshield—hands steady on the wheel, eyes on me instead of the road. He gives a two-finger salute off the steering wheel, something warm and conspiratorial in the gesture, then eases out through the gate.
He pulls over to the shoulder under a streetlamp just beyond the entrance and cuts his headlights. The SUV becomes a dark shape, engine still running. The protective part of my brain notes that he didn’t just drive off. The part of me still buzzing from his touch finds that…sweet.
“Hurry up,” I mutter to myself, turning back to the fence. I thread the chain through from the inside so I can lock it from the road side. The metal is icy, biting at my gloved fingers. The padlock is stubborn, and I curse under my breath as it refuses to cooperate.
The world has gone very quiet. Snow hushes the distant traffic. My breath is loud in my ears.
You’re fine. Finish, drive home, open the wine. Watch Bruce Willis and forget about glass cabins and kind-eyed strangers.
Footsteps crunch softly over snow behind me. Heavy. Unhurried. Close.
