Since Diane’s house is on the way, I stop at the library first. I grab the stack of books from the passenger seat—two on living with MS, a cookbook, and one on dating and relationships—and head inside. My gaze flicks instinctively to the front desk. Maggie isn’t there. The tension in my shoulders eases a notch. I cross the room and slide the books into the return slot, listening as they disappear with a muted thud. A different librarian rounds the corner and smiles at me, and my shoulders drop the rest of the way. It’s not that I’m avoiding Maggie. I’m just… conflicted. If she asks for another date, what do I even say? I’m not dating Nora. She’s helping me so I can date Maggie. That’s the whole point. Still, the answers don’t come. When I step back outside, the air feels lighter. Like a hard reset.
Nora’s directions take me a few blocks over to a row of townhouses already glowing with white Christmas lights along the porch railings. I balance a paper bag against my hip—three Mediterranean chicken bowls—and ring the bell. The snowflakes have barely a second to swirl around me before the door swings open. Nora stands there in a soft green sweater and jeans, her hair pulled into a messy bun. She brightens when she spots the bag.
“Did you bring dinner?” she asks, stepping aside.
“I did. Unless you already ate, then you can save it for tomorrow.”
From the living room, Diane calls, “Is that Miles?”
“Yes,” Nora answers, grinning at me. “And he brought dinner.” She turns to me. “We were waiting for you to arrive before we ordered delivery, so this is perfect.”
Diane appears in the entryway with her cane in her hand and a bright scarf wrapped around her neck. Her smile is warm, maybe a little tired, but unmistakably kind. “You didn’t have to bring dinner.” She takes the bag from me.
“I wanted to. I hope you enjoy chicken and couscous.”
She briefly glances at Nora before returning her attention to me. “Sounds delicious.” After setting the bag on the counter, she leans in and gives me a brief hug that smells faintly of lavender. “Thank you, Miles. Really.”
Before I can respond, Nora steps forward and wraps her arms around me in a full-body hug. I can’t help smiling at how easily she fits against me.
After dinner, we drag boxes from the hall closet into the living room. Ornaments clink softly, tinsel spills everywhere, and the artificial pine scent from the tree hits me full force.
Diane settles onto the couch, immediately directing operations like a general. “Careful with that box—those angels are fragile. And I don’t think we’ll need the snowman this year.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Nora salutes her before dragging the ladder toward the large living room window, garland looped over her arm.
I steady the ladder with one hand. From this angle, her jeans curve perfectly over her hips, the denim pulling just enough to make my grip tighten. When she reaches the top, her sweater lifts, revealing a narrow strip of skin at her waist. I quickly redirect my attention to something safer—her hands, the ladder, literally anything else—and remind my lungs to keep doing their job.
She loops the garland over the curtain rod and then freezes. “Uh,” she says, glancing back. “Problem.” She tugs lightly. “My sweater’s caught on one of the ladder hooks. If I yank it, I’m going to rip a hole. I need both hands.”
“I’ll hold you so you don’t fall,” I say, stepping onto the ladder behind her.
There isn’t much room. There’s no way not to be close. My chest brushes her back, and she smells faintly of vanilla and clean laundry. As I reach for the ladder, my fingers skim her sides by accident, boxing her in, and she stills.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
“It’s fine.” Her voice is a touch too even as she eases the sweater free. For a second, neither of us moves. The ladder creaks softly. My breath grazes the back of her neck.
“I’ve got it,” she says quietly.
And still, I don’t step away right away. “Okay.” I step down first, offer her my hand, and she takes it without hesitation.
Once she’s back on solid ground, she exhales, then laughs, the tension dissolving. “I didn’t have heroic ladder rescue on my Christmas list. Turns out it’s a very attractive skill set.”
From the couch, Diane watches us with a knowing smile. “You two work very efficiently together.”
Nora shoots her a look. “We’re only decorating.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Not long after we finish tidying up the last of the decorations, Diane drifts off to sleep in the armchair, a half-finished mug of tea still in her hand. Nora gently takes it from her, tucks a blanket around her shoulders, and dims the lamp.
We retreat to the kitchen and make hot cocoa like two kids pretending we’re not emotionally vulnerable adults. She adds cinnamon. I add far too many marshmallows, and she lets it happen. We settle onto the living room floor, backs against the couch, mugs balanced on our knees. Christmas lights blink softly around us, reflected in the ornaments overhead.
Nora exhales, long and slow. “Thanks for today.”
“You already thanked me.”
She shakes her head. “Not like this.” She nudges her shoulder against mine. “You didn’t have to come. Or bring dinner. Or… be good at all of this.”
