“Cheyenne!” Mrs. Williamston breaks the spell, rushing over to envelop me in a hug that smells like vanilla and home. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart! We were starting to worry.”
“Merry Christmas.” I hug her back. “Sorry I’m late. The gifts needed last-minute wrapping.”
“Oh, you didn’t need to bring anything,” she says, though we both know I would. “Come, sit. Greg is about to take the cinnamon rolls out.”
Mr. Williamston—who insists I call him Greg even though it still feels weird after all these years—winks at me from the oven. “I’ll be sure to serve the gooiest one to you, Chey. I know they’re your favorite.”
“You’re the best.” I set my gifts down under the Christmas tree before taking my place at the table. It’s the same spot I sit every year—across from Dylan, next to Genna. The familiarity of it all should be comforting, but today it feels charged with new meaning. I’m painfully aware of Dylan’s presence, the way his knee barely brushes mine under the table as he sits down.
“Coffee?” he asks, already reaching for the pot.
“Please,” I say, my voice coming out softer than I intended.
He pours me a cup, adding exactly the right amount of cream. When he passes it to me, our fingers brush, and I nearly drop the mug.
“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that only I can hear it. “It’s hot.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about the coffee or something else entirely.
“Thanks,” I manage, taking a sip to hide my flushed cheeks.
“So,” Mrs. Williamston says as she sets a platter of bacon on the table, “who’s ready for presents after breakfast?”
“Mom, we’re not ten anymore.” Genna laughs, but her eyes gleam with excitement. Some traditions never get old.
“Speak for yourself.” Dylan grins, reaching for a cinnamon roll. “I’ve been up since six thinking about what’s under the tree.”
“You have not,” his mother scoffs. “You were still in bed when I called you at seven-thirty.”
“I was awake,” he insists. “Just strategizing.”
“Strategizing what? How to unwrap gifts the fastest?” Genna teases.
“Exactly,” Dylan deadpans with such seriousness that we all laugh.
It’s so normal, so familiar. The Williamston family banter has been the backdrop to so many meals I’ve shared with them. And yet, there’s an undercurrent of something new. Dylan’s gaze keeps finding mine across the table, lingering a beat too long.
“Can someone please pass the orange juice?” Mrs. Williamston asks, breaking my train of thought.
I reach for the pitcher, accidentally bumping Dylan’s arm as he reaches for it too. The contact sends a jolt through me.
“Sorry,” we both say at the same time, then laugh awkwardly.
“I’ve got it,” he says, taking the pitcher and filling his mother’s glass before offering it to me.
“Thanks,” I murmur, hyperaware of every movement.
Under the table, our knees touch as he shifts in his seat. Neither of us moves away. The contact, slight as it is, is electric. I stare intently at my plate, unable to look at him, though, I’m sure my face is betraying every confusing feeling running through me. Six weeks ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice if Dylan’s knee touched mine under a table, but now it feels ... intentional. Significant. Everything does.
But is it intentional? Or am I reading into a simple moment of contact?
“Oh, what a lovely bracelet!”
I look up to find Mrs. Williamston staring at my wrist. In reaching for my coffee, my sleeve has pulled back, revealing Dylan’s gift.
“It’s beautiful,” she continues, leaning closer to get a better look. “Is that a dog charm? It looks just like Jhett!”
I nod, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “It is.”
