I winced. “Oh, no!”
I darted forward as Cavil let out the slowest, most exhausted exhale I’d ever heard, still holding onto the tree like he refused to let it win.
“Not my fault,” he said, perfectly deadpan.
I crouched beside the lamp, inspecting the damage. One crack, no shattered bulb. Nothing we couldn’t cover with a throw pillow and a little denial.
“It’s just a scratch,” I said brightly, glancing up at him. “We’ve done worse damage with less effort.”
Cavil didn’t respond. Just stood there, halfway inside the house, looking like he was reevaluating every life choice that led him to this very moment.
I rose to my feet, brushing glitter off my knees, and flashed him a grin. “We might need reinforcements.”
“Or,” he said, “a smaller tree.”
My laugh came easily now, and I didn’t bother hiding it.Thiswas what the holidays should feel like.
He shot me an exasperated glance, but then—finally—a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth as he twisted and pivoted the tree just right. It slid through the doorway without taking out any more decorations, like some kind of pine miracle.
“Yes!” I whispered, pumping a quiet fist as we cleared space for its majestic entrance into Edith’s ornament-stuffed living room.
“I swear,” Cavil muttered, brushing stray tinsel off his shoulder as we surveyed the festive wreckage around us, “next time, I’m picking up the smaller trees.”
Next time?
My heart gave a little flutter at those two simple words. Silly, maybe, but the idea of there being a next time—with him—snuck in and settled somewhere deep.
“Next time,” I echoed, softer than I meant to.
He nodded, resolute as ever, though there was a flicker of something lighter in his expression. We stood there for a beat—half-surrounded by fallen ornaments and snapped branches—an odd, chaotic stillness pressing in between cinnamon air and twinkle lights.
The scent of molasses wrapped around us the second we stepped into Mrs. Winslow’s kitchen—rich, warm, and oddly comforting. She moved like a holiday whirlwind, bustling from counter to cabinet without missing a beat.
“You two stay right here!” she chirped. “I’ll whip up some cocoa and cookies. Nothing warms the soul like a little sweetness.”
Cavil opened his mouth—probably to politely decline—but Edith just patted his arm with the authority of a woman who’d run every bake sale in town for three decades. “Darlin’, you can’t say no to cocoa. Not inmyhouse.”
To my surprise, he didn’t argue. Just nodded, slowly, like she’d short-circuited whatever reflex made him usually resist everything warm and fuzzy.
I bit back a grin. Of course it took a seventy-year-old with reindeer antlers to get Cavil Carter to sit still and drink hot chocolate.
We slid into seats at the small kitchen table, surrounded by snowflake garlands, glittered pinecones, and enough twinkling lights to rival the town square. I took it all in—every sweet, sentimental corner—like I was soaking up magic I hadn’t realized I’d been missing.
Edith poured steaming mugs and launched into stories like she’d just been waiting for an audience. “Oh, I remember when your class built that enormous snowman in second grade!” She pointed right at me, eyes twinkling. “Used half my scarves. I was pulling wool out of the bushes ‘til spring!”
I laughed, the memory foggy but real. A little girl in pigtails, too many jackets, laughing so hard her sides hurt.
Cavil didn’t say much, just cupped his mug with both hands and listened. He had that stillness about him again—the one that felt like he was watching everything and giving nothing away. But something in his eyes told me he wasn’t just being polite. He was absorbing every word.
Then Edith glanced between us, her expression turning sly. “You know, you two have that look about you—like snow and fire.”
I nearly choked on my cocoa. “Snow and… fire?”
She nodded, pleased with herself. “You’ve got a spark, sweetheart. And him?” She tilted her head toward Cavil. “Cool and unreadable, like a still winter morning. But I’ve lived long enough to know—those combinations are the ones that burn brightest.”
I blinked at her, cheeks going warm. “That’s… poetic.”
Beside me, Cavil didn’t flinch. Just kept swirling his cocoa like maybe the marshmallows were going to tell him how to get out of this conversation. I wondered if he was embarrassed—or just biding his time before redirecting the subject with one of his short, clipped comments.
