Colt sucks in a breath and for a moment, the air between us crackles with tension. Then he steps back, putting distance between us.
"I should make breakfast," he says.
"Let me," I say, moving toward the kitchen. "It's Christmas, and I love cooking. Besides, you've done so much already."
As I work, scrambling eggs and finding ingredients for pancakes, I can feel his eyes on me. "Tell me about Christmas at your house growing up," I say, needing to fill the charged silence.
His jaw tightens. "Nothing special. Mom always tried to make it nice, but Dad worked a lot. After he died and I moved out, well. It was different."
"You stopped celebrating?"
"Hard to feel festive when you're responsible for other people losing their families."
The pain in his voice makes my chest ache. I turn from the stove to face him fully. "Colt, what happened?"
For a moment, I think he might tell me. His walls seem to crack, and I see the raw hurt underneath. Then he shakes his head.
"Doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
My eyes drift to the guitar in the corner, and suddenly I have an idea. "Play for me," I say, nodding toward the dusty instrument.
"I told you, I don't play anymore."
"Please." I move closer, placing my hand on his arm. "It's Christmas Day. Music is part of Christmas magic."
He stares at the guitar like it might bite him. "I haven't played in three years."
"Maybe it's time." I give him my most encouraging smile. "Just one song? For Christmas?"
After a long moment, he walks over and picks up the guitar. His fingers find the strings automatically, muscle memory taking over as he checks the tuning.
"What do you want to hear?" he asks, settling into the chair by the fireplace.
"Something Christmassy. Something that makes you think of good memories."
He's quiet for a moment, then begins to play. The melody is soft, haunting. "Silent Night" rendered in gentle fingerpicking that fills the cabin with warmth.
"Sing," he says quietly, not looking up from the strings.
I don't need to be asked twice. My voice joins his playing, soft and sweet: "Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright."
When I reach the chorus, Colt's deep voice joins mine, rusty from disuse but rich and beautiful. Our voices blend together perfectly, creating something magical in the quiet cabin.
As the last notes fade away, we sit in comfortable silence. There are tears in Colt's eyes, and something has shifted between us. The walls are coming down, hearts opening.
"Thank you," he says finally, setting the guitar aside.
"Thank you for sharing that with me." I move closer, and this time he doesn't step back. "You have a beautiful voice."
"So do you." His eyes search mine. "It's been a long time since I've felt good. Or peaceful."
We stare at each other across the small space. Then he's moving, closing the distance, framing my face with his hands.
Then he's kissing me, and it's nothing like the gentle kiss from yesterday. This is desperate, hungry, three years of loneliness and longing poured into the connection of our mouths. I kiss him back with everything I have, my hands fisting in his shirt.
He groans against my mouth, and the sound sends heat spiraling through me. His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. He tastes like coffee and something uniquely him, and I want more.
