“Hold this,” she says, tossing the strand down.
I grab it. The cord jerks.
She yelps as the lights snag around her wrist, then her elbow, then her waist.
“Dax,” she laughs. “I’m under attack.”
I step closer. Too close.
The lights blink faster, framing her like she’s wrapped in heat instead of plastic.
“Stay still,” I murmur.
Her smile falters just a little.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Then stop tangling yourself up.”
She lifts her chin. “You’re the one who brought these.”
I reach for the knot at her wrist. My fingers brush her skin. Warm. Familiar. A mistake.
She inhales sharply.
I feel it.
Every damn time.
I work slowly, deliberately, unwrapping the cord like I’m unwrapping her patience. My knuckles skim her forearm, then her side.
She doesn’t move.
Doesn’t tell me to stop.
The air shifts. Thickens.
She scoffs. “I look like a human Christmas decoration.”
“You look like mine.”
Silence slams down between us.
Her jaw tightens. “You don’t get to say things like that.”
I step closer. Close enough to feel the heat coming off her.
“Why?” I ask. “Because it makes you uncomfortable?”
“Because you’re making this harder,” she snaps.
“Harder than what?” I fire back. “Pretending nothing’s been building between us for years?”
Her eyes flash. “This is not about you.”
I laugh once, sharp. “Everything between us is about me and you.”
She yanks at the lights. They tangle tighter.
