I follow him, our boots crunching through the snow. The space between us feels fragile again—thin as the ice beneath our feet, one wrong move away from breaking.
Clay loads the bags into the trunk while I climb into the passenger seat. The leather is cold against my back as I stare out at the cabin. Every part of me hums with what we tried to leave behind.
The roads and the sky are both clear, making the drive easier this time, but the quiet between us feels worse. Without the storm or the wipers, there’s nothing left to fill the space. Every mile feels like it stretches a little farther between us.
The radio plays low until a slow, sultry version of“Santa Baby”comes on. The singer’s voice drips through the speakers, too intimate for two people pretending not to think about last night. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Clay’s hand tense on the gear shifter, his jaw clenching hard.
I turn toward the window, watching the snow-covered fields blur by. My eyes burn until the view goes hazy. I wonder if he’s thinking about it too—the feel of his hands on me, the sounds we couldn’t hold back, the way he said my name like it was a promise he shouldn’t have made.
By the time he slows onto the familiar street, relief hits fast and sharp. At least here, the noise and chaos will be enough to cover whatever’s still hanging between us.
Mom’s already on the porch, bundled in a red sweater and scarf, waving like she’s been waiting all day. The lodge behindher looks straight out of a postcard—wood beams dusted with snow, a wreath hanging on every window, garland wrapped around the railings with warm white lights woven through. A tree glows in the front window, its reflection flickering against the glass.
Clay shifts the car into park, but neither of us moves. For a second, the quiet hangs between us. Then he reaches over, his hand brushing mine in my lap. His thumb finds that spot at the base of my wrist and traces slow circles that make it hard to breathe.
“Hey.” His voice is low. “I’m sorry. I’ve been in my head all morning. I didn’t mean to shut you out.”
I turn toward him, and his eyes catch mine. The pull between us feels dangerous, like he’s caught between moving closer and forcing himself to stay still.
He exhales, thumb still rubbing my skin. “It wasn’t just one night, Tess. Don’t think that. I’ve been stuck on what people might say and how it would look, but that doesn’t change the fact that last night meant everything to me. I want you. Hell, somehow I think I want you even more now.”
Every word sparks against my skin, burning a path up my arm and into my chest. I grip the seat, pulse hammering, every inch of me aching to close the distance he’s still trying to keep.
For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me. He leans in, close enough that I can feel his breath, the air thick with everything we’re not saying. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering there, and my heart stumbles. Then his eyes flick past me, toward the porch.
Mom’s still there, waiting patiently—no idea she just stopped us from falling any deeper than we already have. His jaw flexes, and I see the moment he forces himself to rein it in.
His hand doesn’t move right away. His thumb traces my wrist one last time before he finally pulls back. The air between us feels charged, like something about to break.
His gaze flicks to my mouth, then to my eyes. “We’ll finish this later.” His tone drips with a promise I feel in my bones.
He kills the engine, the hum fading into the cold.
“Come on, Sugar,” he says, voice still rough, still burning. “Let’s go face the circus.”
“Finally!” Mom beams, pulling me into a hug. Her arms squeeze until my ribs ache, but I melt into it anyway. She smells like vanilla and home, familiar and safe. The weight of the past few days catches up to me all at once, sitting heavy in my chest.
When she lets go, her attention shifts to Clay. She pats his arm like he’s one of her own, fussing with his sleeve like it’s wrinkled, although it never is. Nothing ever is with him.
I glance at him, leaning against the entryway pillar, trying too hard to look relaxed. His coat’s gone, just a white button-down stretched across his shoulders, sleeves pushed to his forearms. The soft glow from the tree lights hits him in a way that makes it hard to look away. He looks calm, but I know better now.
Our eyes meet for a second—long enough for everything I’m trying not to feel to come rushing back. The air shifts, my pulse skips, and for just a moment, I see it. The same look he had when he kissed me like he couldn’t stop if he tried.
I look away first, afraid someone might see. Afraid he might not. But the heat sticks, crawling up my neck and settling low in my stomach.
Our moms keep talking about dinner and how Steven and Erica are getting the kids ready.
“Evan will be here too,” Clay’s mom says, giving me a knowing smile.
The name hits hard. My ex. His brother. The reason none of this will ever be simple.
When I glance back, Clay’s already watching me, his face unreadable but his jaw tight. The message is clear enough—don’t look at me like that here. Not with them. Not withhim.
His phone buzzes, cutting clean through the moment. He glances down, thumb swiping across the screen, and I see it—the way his jaw tightens, his shoulders lock, that small crack in him sealing shut. Whatever name flashed across the screen pulls him right back behind the wall he’d let slip.
The version of him I had is gone. But even from across the room, I can still feel it. The pull. The secret sits heavy between us, buried beneath the sound of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” playing and our moms’ laughter.
“I have a few calls to make,” Clay states, already mentally somewhere else. He slides the phone into his pocket like it’s something heavy he can’t put down. “I’ll catch up with everyone in a bit.”
