Holiday cheer filled the car, but it felt like a joke—like the world hadn’t gotten the memo that I was unraveling by the minute. I pulled out onto the road, tires crunching over snow, my heart thudding like it was trying to catch up with what I’d just done.
WhatwasI doing?
He was Leo’s brother.Leo’s.The line I swore I wouldn’t cross. The boundary I thought would keep things simple. But Cavil’s kiss… it still tingled on my lips, soft and sure and impossible to forget. It hadn’t felt like a mistake. It had felt like coming up for air.
AndCavil—he wasn’t like Leo. Not even close. He was quieter, steadier. He didn’t fill space for attention; he filled it with presence. The kind that made me feel seen without needing to explain anything.
I gripped the wheel tighter, eyes on the snowy road ahead. Streetlights flickered past in golden bursts, and each one lit up a new piece of my spiraling doubt. I shouldn’t want him like this. Not when everything between us was tangled in the wreckage Leo left behind.
But there was a pull—an ache that went deeper than attraction. Something about Cavil feltsafe, even when everything about this should’ve felt dangerous.
As I turned onto my street, I felt that familiar twist in my gut. Was I really going to invite him in? Let this moment stretch into something more? Would it ruin everything we hadn’t even started?
I pulled into the driveway and let the engine idle, fingers tightening on the steering wheel as I watched the rearview mirror. Cavil’s headlights swept over the snow-dusted yard before his truck eased in beside mine. Only then did I exhale.
I waited until he opened his door, and we stepped inside together, boots crunching against the thin layer of ice on the path. The moment the front door closed behind us, the house welcomed us in with familiar warmth—the kind that seeped into your bones and softened the edges of a long day.
In the kitchen, cinnamon still lingered in the air, mingling with the comforting scent of toasted bread from earlier. The soft glow from the pendant light overhead bathed the room in a golden hue, casting shadows that felt more like an embrace than anything eerie. It was the kind of space built for quiet conversation and shared silences—something safe, something mine.
I moved to the radio, fingers spinning the dial until a crackly version of Bing Crosby’s voice filled the room. It sounded like it was playing off an old record, like something from another life. I let it settle around us as I turned to the counter and began pulling out the ingredients—cheese, turkey, butter, bread—clumsy distractions for the swirl of nerves still stirring inside me.
“So, uh,” I said, trying to sound casual as I buttered a slice of bread with more focus than necessary, “do you have any holiday traditions? You know, besides donating books and giving people black eyes?”
Cavil leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest. His gaze found mine—and stayed there. I looked away before I could forget how to breathe.
“Mostly just avoiding family gatherings,” he said after a beat, his voice low, like it wasn’t meant to echo. “Didn’t really have much of that growing up. Still don’t.”
I paused, knife hovering above the bread. “That sounds… kind of lonely.”
He shrugged, eyes drifting toward the window. “Maybe. Doesn’t feel that way.”
I nodded, turning back to the sandwich like it required delicate precision. The weight of his presence filled the room, steady and grounding—but it made my heartbeat feel like a runaway train. It was absurd, standing here nervous over grilled cheese, but there was somethingbigwrapped in the quiet between us. Something unspoken.
When the sandwich was done, I placed it on a plate and held it out with a grand flourish. “Careful. Culinary masterpiece incoming.”
Cavil accepted it with a faint smirk, biting into it with exaggerated seriousness. “Could win awards.”
I laughed—really laughed—and it lifted something in the room. He sat down at the table like he’d always belonged there, and I joined him, suddenly more aware of how small the space felt when it was shared. We talked—about nothing and everything, brushing past deeper topics like we were learning how to swim in this new current between us.
Then, in a pause that stretched just long enough to steal the air from my lungs, he reached across the table and brushed his fingers against mine.
It was barely a touch.
But it sent a jolt straight up my arm, warm and grounding andterrifying. I looked at him, and everything else—the music, the lights, the clatter of the world—faded. His eyes held mine like they already knew the answer to every question I was too scared to ask.
And for one suspended moment, there was only that quiet connection—undeniable, tender, and waiting for what came next.
I froze for half a second. The brush of his fingers against mine was so gentle, sounassuming, and yet it landed with the weight of something much bigger. It shouldn’t have caught me off guard—we’d kissed, after all—but this? This quiet, open offering of his hand felt even more intimate. Monumental in its simplicity.
And still… something inside me let go.
I turned my hand over, letting our palms meet. Warmth met warmth. No pressure. No urgency. Just contact. Just connection. His hand settled over mine like it had always belonged there.
The radio crackled softly in the background—old crooners serenading no one in particular—and the world outside kept moving, but inside this kitchen, time felt suspended. The soft twinkle of holiday lights filtered through the window behind him, casting tiny reflections across the countertops, the table, the curve of his jaw.
Our sandwiches sat forgotten. Crumbs scattered between us. The air felt thicker now, not with tension—but with awareness. Like we both knew we’d crossed into something we couldn’t uncross. And neither of us was reaching for the way back.
Cavil’s thumb brushed against the back of my hand—a small shift, but it stole my breath. Again. My fingers curled around his instinctively, and I leaned in just a fraction, like my body was already learning the language his presence spoke.
