I raised a brow. “Suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.”
She didn’t answer. Just smiled and kept working. The silence we slipped into didn’t feel heavy this time. It felt…shared. Lighter, even, with something softer underneath.
Then she turned to face me, holding a tray between us like a pause.
“I’m really glad you came,” she said.
And damn if she didn’t mean it.
I nodded once. “It was a good night.”
And it was. Not just the books and cookies and kids hyped on sugar—it was her. The way she looked in this space she’d made her own. The way it felt to be part of something she’d built, even for just one night.
She turned to tidy the cocoa station, and her eyes landed on the box near the donation table—the one I’d dropped off when I thought she wouldn’t notice.
“Hey,” she said, brow pinching slightly. “Where did this come from?”
My body stilled.
She moved closer, crouching near the edge of the box, her fingers brushing the faded spines. I didn’t answer. Not right away.
“You brought these, didn’t you?”
I could’ve denied it. Would’ve been easier. But she looked at me like she already knew. There wasn’t a lie in the world that would hold up against that stare.
I shrugged, voice low. “Thought they’d be better off here.”
She touched the corner of a book, soft and reverent. My mother’s books. Her favorites. She sent them to me when I was stationed in Egypt. The kind that got read until the pages curled and the covers wore smooth.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said.
“I know.” I shifted, resisting the urge to look away. “Still wanted to.”
Something flickered across her face—something I couldn’t name. Gratitude, maybe. Or something heavier. She straightened slowly, brushing her hands on her jeans, and looked at me like she saw something she wasn’t sure she was ready to believe in again.
Then, with a small smile, she said, “You sure you’re not secretly Santa?”
I let out a soft snort. “Don’t do red suits.”
She grinned, and for a second, it felt like maybe the past hadn’t ruined everything after all.
“Too bad,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, her smile casual but sharp enough to land. “You’d look good in one.”
A low laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it—unexpected and real. It caught me off guard. She always had that effect. One well-aimed quip and suddenly the air wasn’t quite so heavy. Just like it used to be—before everything got twisted and hard.
We kept moving around the shop, putting things back in their place. Wiping away the traces of joy we’d somehow managed to help create.
“So what’s next for you?” I asked, half to fill the silence, half because I genuinely wanted to know. “Planning more events like this?”
She shrugged, but her eyes betrayed the truth—there was a fire behind them, one that always sparked when she talked about this place. “Definitely—if tonight is any indication.”
I nodded, glancing around at the mess of empty mugs, crooked garlands, and forgotten mitten pairs. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”
Didn’t even mean to say it. But it came out honest. Clean. And I meant it more than I knew how to admit. After everything this town had taken from her, she still built something worth showing up for. Worth staying for.
Her gaze flicked to me, softer now, like she heard more than I said. “I appreciate that,” she murmured, fiddling with an ornament on the edge of the table like it held more importance than it did.
We worked in silence for a bit, just the quiet clink of dishes and rustle of ribbon. Comfortable. Familiar. Then she spoke again, breaking it with something that tightened the air between us.
