He brushed a strand of hair from my face, fingers brushing my jaw. “We should go inside. You’re freezing.”
“Not back to the ball,” I whispered, tightening my coat around myself. “I can’t walk in there after–after this.”
His eyes softened with understanding. “Where then?”
I hesitated only long enough to breathe.
“My flat.”
Something changed in his expression. Interest, surprise, a quiet, hopeful heat. But he didn’t move until I did.
I turned toward the path, snow crunching beneath my shoes. He walked beside me, silent except for the soft rhythm of our footsteps. Pine Hollow at night was its own kind of enchantment: chimneys steaming into the star-scattered sky, wreaths glowing on every door, windows lit with warm lamps and Christmas trees.
The entire town seemed wrapped in storybook stillness.
“Everything looks different tonight,” Oliver said quietly.
“How so?”
He glanced toward the rows of cottages. “Brighter. Like it’s alive. I never noticed it before.”
“That’s because you weren’t looking before.”
He didn’t argue. He simply threaded his fingers through mine, as if the gesture belonged there. When we reached my front door, he paused, watching as I fumbled slightly with my cold-numbed fingers to get the key into the lock. His hand lifted, hesitant, then gently closed around mine, steadying it.
His fingers were warm. Grounding.
The door creaked open, releasing the faint scent of lingering bread, a scent that always lived in the walls.
“Brianna…” he murmured, stopping me before I took the first step inside.
I turned back to him. Snowflakes clung to his dark hair and eyelashes, melting into tiny droplets on his skin. His gaze searched mine with a kind of fear and wonder tangled together.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret.”
Regret. The word stung in a way I didn’t expect.
“I don’t regret anything,” I whispered. “Not tonight.”
I let him follow me inside. The narrow entryway light flickered on as I pushed it open, spilling a soft golden glowacross the small hall. A cluster of my shoes sat beside the radiator, and the faint scent of vanilla and pine drifted from the living room upstairs.
I stepped inside, holding the door gently so it wouldn’t bang in the quiet. Oliver followed, brushing snow from his shoulders as he shut out the cold.
The flat was warm in a way the bakery never could be at night. Lived-in warmth, memory warmth. The faint hum of the old heater filled the silence along with the distant creak of the building settling in the cold. A string of fairy lights ran along the banister, casting a soft amber shimmer up the narrow staircase.
We moved toward the stairs together. I gathered my skirt slightly, careful not to drag it on the first step, the soft fabric whispering around my legs.
Halfway up, Oliver slowed behind me.
I felt him before I heard his quiet shift of breath, the subtle hesitation. Then his fingers brushed the fabric at my hip, the lightest touch, as though asking permission without words.
My heart fluttered, but I didn’t pull away. I didn’t stop him.
The fairy lights reflected gently off the varnished wood of the stairs as we reached the top landing. I turned toward him, breath catching when I found him so close, close enough that the warmth of him wrapped around me in a soft, dizzying wave.
The snow melting in his hair left tiny droplets on his temples. His chest rose unevenly, as if he were fighting to steady himself. The faint glow of the living room behind me painted his face in warm shadows.
He looked… wrecked, hopeful maybe. And he wasn’t the only one. His breath touched my lips, seconds later I reached out, fingers curling around his lapel, tugging him forward just enough.
