We stand there, fire glow painting his jaw bronze, snowflakes catching in his hair. I can’t stop looking.
He glances at me. “You’re staring.”
“You’re pretty.”
He huffs. “I’m not pretty.”
“Then stop having cheekbones.”
He shakes his head, amused despite himself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re so repressed you squeak.”
His gaze snaps to mine. “I don’t squeak.”
“You squeaked when I kissed your cheek.”
His jaw ticks. “That was surprise.”
“That was interest.”
“That was me remembering rule two.”
I smirk. “You’re really clinging to the rules.”
“Someone has to.”
“Or…” I slide a little closer, lifting his flannel to smell him shamelessly, “we could admit this is fun.”
He stares down at me.
“You think this is fun?”
“Don’t you?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
He exhales, long and slow, breath fogging white. “You make it…less not fun.”
I grin. “High praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
We’re interrupted by Marta, who wants a photo for the Gazette follow-up. Clay groans under his breath, but he pulls me in anyway, arm firm around my waist.
“Closer,” she says.
I press to his side.
“Smile,” she says.
He doesn’t.
I do.
