His eyes lock onto the twinkle lights first.
His chest lifts.
Falls.
Tight.
Then he sees the cocoa mugs.
The glow.
Me in my oversized red snowflake sweater, cheeks warm from the stove and firelight.
His expression doesn’t change at first.
But something shifts behind his eyes.
Shock.
Confusion.
A strange vulnerability he crushes almost instantly.
Then irritation.
Then nothing at all. A shuttered blankness that feels like armor.
He definitely hates Christmas. I canfeelit in the way his jaw tightens.
I panic.
"I can take them down."
The words tumble out in a messy rush.
"I know you probably don't want decorations and the lights fell out and I just wanted it to feel less sad in here and I promise I was not trying to invade your space, I can turn them off or hide them or throw them outside in the snow if you want."
"Leave them."
The voice is rough.
Unfiltered.
A little too sincere.
I blink.
He swallows and says it again, quieter.
"They are fine."
He looks away fast, like the admission cost him something he cannot ever get back.
But his eyes drift toward the lights again.
Once.
Twice.
