He doesn’t answer immediately.
Holly pulls out a small felt stocking with her name stitched in crooked letters. “Mom made this!” she says proudly.
Ash swallows again, throat working.
Lucy, don’t stare. Don’t get attached. Don’t do the thing you always do—feel too much. But God, I’m already too close. I sit on the arm of his chair and lower my voice. “What happened when your sister left?”
His eyes flick up to mine—dark, guarded, storming.
Then he exhales slowly, shoulders sinking. “She called me the night before she shipped out,” he says quietly. “Told me she didn’t have anyone else. Told me she was scared Holly wouldn’t understand.”
His voice gets low, raw. “Told me she was trusting me with her kid. Her whole world.”
My chest aches. I whisper, “That’s a big thing to carry.”
“Yeah,” he says, defeated. “It is.”
He watches Holly lift ornaments with that focused, innocent joy only kids have.
“She cried on the phone,” he says, voice barely above a breath. “Told me she didn’t want Holly to see her leave. Said she couldn’t do it. So she put her on a plane to me the next morning.”
Oh, God. “Ash…”
“She said it was better that way,” he mutters. “Cleaner. Easier.”
“For who?” I whisper.
He shakes his head again. “She misses her. Badly. Won’t say it. But she does.”
“She’s six,” I say softly. “She feels everything.”
He looks at me—finally, fully.
“And I can’t… I can’t replace her mom.”
“You’re not trying to,” I tell him gently.
“I am,” he says, voice thick. “I’m trying every damn day.”
And then I understand. Why he doesn’t decorate. Why he looks at Christmas like it’s something he wants to run from. Why he’s building walls so high around himself he can’t see over them. He’s terrified of Holly getting attached. Terrified of losing her. Terrified of failing her.
And maybe…maybe terrified of letting himself care too much. For her. For me.
Holly waddles over with the stocking, holding it high. “Uncle Ash, can we hang this?”
He clears his throat. “Kid?—”
She frowns, lip wobbling. “Mommy made it.”
Something cracks in his expression—not a break, not a crumble, but a single fracture in the armor he wears like a second skin. He kneels down to her level. “Okay,” he murmurs. “We can hang the stocking.”
Holly squeals and runs to find tape. When she disappears into the kitchen, Ash stands slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Thanks for the cookies,” he mutters. “You can go now if you want.”
I stare at him. Go? After that? Absolutely not.
I step in front of him. “No.”
He looks startled. “What do you mean, no?”
