And right now, watching her under the soft glow of the Christmas lights, I knew damn well I was in trouble.
The fire popped again, throwing a wash of warmth over her face. Her sweater sleeve was pulled down over one hand, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug absentmindedly.
That dreamy look was creeping in. It was the one she got when she forgot to be defensive.
I couldn’t help myself.
“Don’t do that,” I said softly.
“Do what?”
“Look at me like that.”
She blinked, startled. “I’m not—”
“You are.” I took a slow step closer. “It’s the same look you gave me before you kissed me that night at the river.”
Her breath caught. “You remember that?”
“Mel, you don’t forget something like that.”
She swallowed hard, eyes darting to the window where snow swirled under the streetlight. “That was a long time ago.”
“Eight months isn’t long.”
“It feels like it.”
“Not to me.”
She set the mug down, the clink too loud in the quiet. “You can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“This,” she said, gesturing vaguely between us. “Whatever this is. You act like nothing happened, like we can just—”
“I’m not acting like nothing happened.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Trying to figure out why you walked away. Why you ghosted me this last time.”
She let out a short laugh, sharp and tired. “Because it was a mistake.”
“Don’t do that,” I said. “Don’t rewrite it now that it scares you.”
“Scares me?” she repeated, incredulous. “I’m not scared.”
“Then what are you?”
She didn’t answer. Her jaw tightened, and she went back to rearranging ornaments like she could hang her excuses on the tree, too.
I took another step closer, close enough that the heat from her skin met mine. “You know what I think?”
“No,” she said flatly. “And I’m not asking.”
“I think you’re scared because this place, the quiet, the snow, the fact that you can actually breathe here, it’s getting under your skin. Just like it did with Lydia.”
She froze, her hand hovering over a branch.
