“Watch out for Warner—he’s a real pain,” she tosses over her shoulder.
Olive branch accepted.
I get up and cross over to the dresser, hoping that something’s tucked away for me. Sleeping in jeans I’ve been wearing all day doesn’t sound appealing. I tug open the first drawer and freeze.
Pajamas. The same pattern I wore last December.
“Wow,” I whisper.
I can’t decide if the house is showing off or our hearts set the decor. For the first time since October, hope knocks. She still loves me. That’s enough to keep breathing.
We need to talk about Colorado. About Sweet Treats. About what she’s really building now. I could tell Quinn didn’t mean to let it slip that she’d paid rent for the apartment over the coffee shop, but does that mean she wants to stay? She wants to try?
Questions stack like cooling racks. I don’t need all the answers tonight. I just want to be part of the figuring out.
When Laila reappears, she knocks the breath out of me.
She’s always been beautiful. But her blonde locks are swept into a simple ponytail, and her face is scrubbed clean of makeup. It’s not a side Laila allows many people to see, and I know this is a big deal for her. But this is all I’ve wanted. I want her to let me all the way in. I’m tired of getting her in pieces.
But here she is, padding across the room in Christmas pajamas—red and white stripes, soft as candy canes, ridiculous and perfect.
Her cheeks color when she catches me looking. “What?”
“Nothing,” I manage. “Just… didn’t expect the wardrobe upgrade.”
She glances down at herself and shrugs, tugging at the hem of the top. “Maybe a brand sent them to me. I’m testing them out for a post.”
“Did they?” I ask, not bothering to hide my smile.
“Why are you making this a thing? They’re just pajamas.”
“Because you look good in them,” I say simply.
Her blush deepens, and she busies herself straightening Trevor the Pillow instead of meeting my gaze.
You wouldn’t think one weekend a year teaches you this much, but I know her routines. Shoes in every season because bare floors feel wrong. Fuzzy everything.
Tonight it’s white slippers with gingerbread men. Gumdrop would approve.
I settle back against the headboard, pretending to focus on the fire even though my eyes keep finding her. She climbs under the blankets and, for just a second, the room feels like it did last December, with the same quiet hum of magic in the air and snow softly pelting the windows.
Her eyes flick to mine, and I know she feels it too.
“You know, you didn’t deny they matched someone’s.”
She wiggles beneath the covers a little more.
“Maybe they do,” she whispers.
I nod. “Ella and Bridget?”
She hesitates before confirming. “It’s a tradition we started when her dad was still alive,” she says softly. “Ella was so excited to have sisters. He gave us packages the night of Thanksgiving—he couldn’t even wait until the next morning. Said it made the season last longer.”
I move like I’m handling spun sugar—slow, careful.
“And you’ve kept it going?” I ask quietly.
“They had their own family traditions, but we tried to start our own. They didn’t last very long, of course.” The happiness on her face flickers, like a short in an electrical fuse. “Ella, Bridget, and I all lived together in Colorado. When we found our place, we restarted old traditions, and this one stuck.” She shrugs.
