He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches while I wrestle the paper into something that barely looks like a gift. The silence hangs heavy between us. I reach for the scissors, and his hand lands there too. They’re cold and rough, both in a way that makes my breath hitch.
My gaze snaps up, meeting his. The light from the fire flickers across his face, catching the sharp lines of his jaw and the green in his eyes. For a beat too long, neither of us moves.
Then he jerks his hand back like my touch burned him, his knuckles grazing mine. He clears his throat, then mutters something about checking the firewood and leaves.
The moment’s gone, but my body hasn’t caught up. I force my eyes back to the mess in my lap.
I yank off another strip of tape harder than I need to and mutter, “If we’re stuck here together, the least you could do is pretend to like Christmas.”
I don’t have to look to know he’s still watching. I can feel it—the weight of his gaze, like he’s daring me to call him on it. And the worst part? I know I’m not the only one faking it.
I’m shoving leftover scraps of wrapping paper into a lopsided pile when my phone buzzes. The screen lights up with a FaceTime call from my mom, and I don’t have the heart to ignore it.
A lump rises in my throat. I can already picture it—our moms side by side, wineglasses in hand, my niece and nephews sprawled across the rug, stockings hung on the stone fireplace. The house filled with the smell of roast ham and sugar cookies. That’s where I’m supposed to be. Not snowed in here. Not stuck with him.
I glance toward the kitchen. Clay leans against the counter, arms crossed, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. His hair’s still damp from being outside, curling at the ends. He looks untouched by all of it. Meanwhile, my pulse hammers like I’ve just been caught sneaking out after curfew.
“You gonna answer that?”
“They’ll expect to see you, too,” I shoot back, sharper than I mean to.
He raises a brow but lets it go. Then he pushes off the counter and drops onto the couch beside me. The cushion dips under his weight, nudging me close enough that our shoulders brush. My breath catches, heart stuttering at the contact, and then I swipe to accept the call.
The cabin fills with noise in an instant.
“There they are!” Mom’s voice carries over everyone else, followed by a mess of cheers and hellos. The screen crowds fast—Clay’s mom, Sandra, in her bright red sweater, my nephews piled on the sofa behind her, Dad waving from his chair. The tree glows in the background, gold lights blinking against ornaments that catch the camera’s glare. For a second, it hits me square in the chest. I should be there.
“Snowed in, huh?” Mom’s smile stretches wide, relief written all over her face. “Oh, honey, I wish you two were here. It’s not the same without you.”
I force a smile. “We’re making do. The cabin’s… cozy.”
“Cozy?” Evan’s voice cuts in from somewhere off-screen before he leans into the frame, grinning like he’s been waiting for this. “Bet Clay’s loving that.”
My stomach tightens. I brace for Clay to laugh it off, to make sure everyone knows that whatever we’d hidden before is long gone. He has every reason to. But instead—
“Trying,” he mutters, gruff but even. “She’s turned the place into Santa’s workshop. I’ll be lucky if I make it out alive.”
The room bursts into laughter. Clay’s sister snorts, Evan shakes his head like he’s seen it all before, and Mom smiles, too amused to argue. Dad laughs, saying I’ve always been impossible at Christmas. It’s teasing, but it still hits somewhere deep.
I glance at Clay, but his face gives nothing away. Pretending comes easy to him.
The call carries on in its usual chaos—Sandra waving people closer, his dad trying to quiet the room, my brother talkingover everyone like always. Mom tilts the phone to show the table piled high with food, the house glowing warm and alive. Everything Christmas is supposed to be.
And me? I sit shoulder to shoulder with Clay, pretending we belong there too.
By the time the goodbyes come, my cheeks ache from holding the smile.
“We miss you both,” Mom says, her voice soft and lingering. “Be safe in the storm. We’ll see you soon.”
When the call ends, the quiet settles in. The fire pops, and the wind presses against the windows. I set the phone on the cushion, my throat dry, my chest tight.
For a beat, neither of us moves.
Clay breaks the silence first. “Hey,” he mutters, still rough around the edges but softer than before. “Could be worse.”
I turn, searching his face in the dim firelight. “How?”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. God, he’s not wrong. I love my brother, but a weekend trapped with him? I’d never hear the end of his old football stories or how healmostwent pro.
