"I know." I reach out, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers linger against her cheek. "You're giving kids the magic of Christmas. That takes a big heart."
She leans into my touch, just slightly. "You're doing the same thing, you know. With the toys."
"That's different."
"How?"
I drop my hand, turn back to the stove because it's easier than looking at her when I admit this. "Because I'm hiding up here. You're down there, in the mess of it, actually connecting with people. Making a difference."
"Beau—"
"My dad died when I was twenty-four," I say, the words coming easier than I expected. Maybe because she shared first. Maybe because the storm outside makes this cabin feel like a confessional. "Cancer. The aggressive kind that doesn't care how strong you are or how much you want to live."
I hear her move closer, feel her presence at my back.
"We built things together," I continue. "He taught me woodworking, taught me to see the potential in a block of wood. To be patient. To create something that would outlast us both." I stir the chili, watching the steam rise. "After he died, I couldn't be in town anymore. Every Christmas decoration, every carol, every person offering sympathy—it all just reminded me he was gone. So I came up here and... stayed."
"For how long?"
"Five years."
Her hand settles on my lower back, warm through my flannel. "That's a long time to be alone."
"Felt safer than being around people who reminded me of everything I lost."
"And now?"
I turn to face her. She's so close I can see the gold flecks in her eyes, count the freckles across her nose. "Now I'm starting to think maybe I've been missing out."
Her smile is gentle, understanding. "You haven't missed out on anything, Beau. You've been healing. That takes time."
"Five years is a lot of time."
"There's no timeline for grief." She reaches up, her palm cupping my jaw, thumb brushing across my beard. "You do it at your own pace. And when you're ready to rejoin the world, you do. No one gets to judge that."
Something in my chest cracks open wider. "You're pretty wise for someone who wears a pompom hat."
She laughs, the sound bright and unexpected. "The pompom is essential. It's where I store all my wisdom."
Before I can think better of it, I lean down and press my lips to her forehead. Just that—nothing more. But the gesture feels more intimate than anything I've done in years.
"Thank you," I murmur against her skin.
"For what?"
"For not treating me like I'm broken."
"You're not broken." Her arms slip around my waist, and she rests her cheek against my chest. "You're just healing. There's a difference."
We stand like that for a long moment, holding each other while the chili bubbles and the fire crackles and the storm continues its assault on the cabin walls. I can feel her heartbeat against my ribs, steady and sure.
"Beau?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm really glad I came up here."
I tighten my arms around her. "Me too."
