"That explains the confidence."
Zane stepped around the tree and took the ornament from my fingers. His fingers brushed mine, warm and rough, and five months of waking up in this house hadn't made that touch ordinary. Now his palm at my hip meant coffee, laundry, the porch light left on when I worked late, and him checking the road before I drove into town after snow.
He hung the carrot on a low branch with a straight face.
I stared at it. "That is terrible."
"It's a reminder."
"Of vegetables?"
"Of where you started."
I pointed at the branch. "I didn't start as root produce."
Zane's mouth curved. "You started mad at weeds."
"I was under legal and botanical pressure."
"You got better."
His smile stayed, but his eyes held me a little longer. I looked around the room before my face gave me away.
My green scarf hung on the hook beside his black coat. A stack of mail sat on the entry table, two holiday cards addressed to both of us tucked under the little stone paperweight Zane used for everything from bills to seed packets. My paperback was facedown on the arm of his chair. His spare flannel had ended up over the back of the couch because I'd worn it while making coffee that morning and then pretended I planned to give it back.
I had moved in by inches at first. A sweater in his dresser. My favorite mug in the cabinet. A bottle of vanilla creamer in hisfridge, where it sat beside his black coffee like a scandal. Then September became October, October became November, and one morning Zane had opened the hall closet, stared at my coats taking up half the bar, and said, "We need more hangers."
He hadn't asked if I wanted to stay. He hadn't announced that we were getting serious. He had looked at the closet as if the life had already made room and the only problem left was hardware.
I pressed my thumb into the edge of a red wooden star until the corner bit lightly into my skin.
Zane picked up another ornament and held it out. "You're thinking too loud."
"I'm admiring your tree-management style."
"You're staring at the coat hooks."
"They're very festive."
His palm slid to my waist, and he tugged me closer. The ornament box pressed lightly between us until he took it from me and set it on the coffee table.
"Daphne."
"Yes?"
"You get quiet when something's too big for a joke."
I rested my hands on his chest. His heart beat steady under my palms, beneath thermal cotton and ink and all that stubborn tenderness he tried to pass off as practical sense.
"I was thinking about the closet," I said.
His brows drew together. "The closet?"
"We have enough hangers now."
His face changed slowly. His hand covered mine on his chest, holding it there while the quiet settled around us.
"You live here," he said.
