Ryder is good at this.
His hands are steady as he rolls out dough with even pressure. Confident. Sure. I watch those hands and think about them on my skin.
"You're staring," he says without looking up.
"Just surprised. Didn't peg you for domestic."
"I have hidden depths." He glances up. The corner of his mouth tips. "Want to find out what they are?"
Yes. God, yes.
"Lucy, pass the cinnamon!" Connor's voice breaks the spell.
We cut out shapes—stars and trees and bells. The first batch goes into the oven, and the smell of butter and sugar fills the house. Emma puts on Christmas music. Maisie sings off-key.
For a moment, it feels like Mom never left.
Decorating happens at the counter. Ryder and I end up across from each other with a tray of cooled cookies between us. His star is perfect—precise piping, even lines. Mine is an enthusiastic disaster.
"Yours has character," he says, studying my lopsided tree.
"That's a nice way to say it's a mess."
"It's not a mess." He glances up. "It's happy. Like you actually enjoyed making it instead of trying to make it perfect."
I busy myself with frosting before he sees how much those words affect me.
I reach for the white icing and misjudge the distance. Get a glob on my nose.
Ryder makes a sound—almost a laugh. "You've got—"
His thumb brushes across my nose. Warm. Gentle. Removing the frosting with a touch that makes my breath catch.
Our eyes lock.
His thumb doesn't move. Stays there. Then slides down to trace my bottom lip in one slow pass.
My lips part. I taste sugar. Feel the faint callus on his thumb.
"Lucy." My name is gravel in his throat.
I lean forward. Just an inch.
"Hey Blackwood!" Connor's voice shatters the moment. "Quit making googly eyes at my sister and pass the red frosting."
Ryder jerks back as if I burned him.
Connor laughs, already moving on to help Maisie. But the words stick with me. Making googly eyes at my sister. Like it's a joke. Like the idea is ridiculous.
I focus on my cookie. Spread green frosting too thick. Ryder doesn't look at me for the rest of the afternoon.
Later, after Maisie's nap, I see Connor pull Ryder aside in the living room. They talk quietly. I can't hear the words, but I see Connor's face—that big brother smile that isn't entirely joking.
When they're done, Connor claps Ryder on the back and heads upstairs.
Ryder stays. Runs his hand through his hair. His eyes find me in the kitchen doorway.
For a second, I see it. Want. Frustration. Regret.
