Then takes another.
Slower.
He stares at the mug like it unlocked a memory he does not want to admit he missed.
His shoulders drop a fraction.
Barely noticeable.
But I see it.
I open the cookie tin.
"Want one now?"
He hesitates long enough to make my stomach twist.
Then he reaches in.
Takes a gingerbread cookie.
Bites.
Everything in him stops.
His eyes flutter shut.
His breath leaves him in a quiet, almost shaky exhale.
He tries to recover.
Fails.
"They are fine," he mutters.
I smile, soft and smug.
"You can say you like them."
He glares, but it’s useless now. He still reaches in for another.
The fire warms our faces.
The twinkle lights glow soft above us.
The storm rages outside, but inside the cabin a small, impossible bubble of safety grows around us.
And Ryder Pierce, the grumpiest, most guarded man I have ever met, keeps glancing at me like he cannot decide whether he wants to push me away or pull me closer.
Something warm curls low in my belly.
I dare to look back.
"Merry Christmas, Ryder," I whisper.
He goes still.
Breath caught.
