“That’s not what I meant,” I say softly.
He knows that. I can tell he does. His fingers drum once on the mug, then still.
“Do you hate me?” I blurt because, apparently, tonight my mouth has no filter.
A muscle jumps in his cheek. He doesn’t answer right away.
The silence stretches so long I want to crawl into my borrowed flannel and hide.
The last time I was in this house, we were almost eighteen and on the verge of splitting paths. I’d stood in this kitchen in cutoff shorts and a tank top, sunlight slanting through the window, and told him I was leaving to live with my dad. That I was going to the city. That I’d call, that I’d visit, that nothing between us would change.
A thousand broken promises wrapped up in one.
He’d looked at me the way he’s looking at me now. Too closely. He could see through all my excuses to the fear underneath. He’d said, “People don’t just leave, Faith.” I’d laughed it off then.
I hadn’t understood what he’d meant until I did the thing he’d never forgive.
“Cryin’ shame,” he says finally. “Hate takes energy I don’t have.”
Ouch again.
He sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. Some of the sharpness leaves his posture.
“Look,” he says. “I’m not gonna lie. I missed my best friend when you left. When you stopped calling. You were important. To all of us. To me.” His gaze flickers to mine and away. “But that was a long time ago. Life’s… complicated now.”
I nod, throat burning.
“I’m sorry,” I say. The words feel small but truthful. “I was a coward. I thought if I just let go, if I focused on what my dad wanted, it’d be easier. Out of sight, out of mind.”
“How’s that working out for you?” he asks.
I let out a shaky breath. “I’m sitting in your kitchen in my underwear under your clothes after crashing my car in a ditch on Christmas Eve. So, not great.”
“The storm’s supposed to get worse overnight,” Dallas says, shifting the subject rapidly in the way he does when he’s uncomfortable. “Road’s already a mess, and your car isn’t going anywhere until we get a tow out here in daylight, assuming someone in town wants to come out on Christmas.”
“So I’m stuck,” I say.
“For tonight?” He nods. “Yeah. You are.”
Panic flares briefly, then fades. Stuck. The word should terrify me. Weirdly, it doesn’t. Maybe because the alternative, going back, is worse.
“I can sleep on the couch,” I say quickly. “Or the floor. Or the barn. I’m small, I can fit in a hay bale. I don’t want to be in the way or make things weird with your family. I know they’re probably not thrilled to see me, and I’m also very aware that it’s the literal night before Christmas and you probably had plans that didn’t involve… this.”
“Faith.” His voice carries that exasperated edge again. “Stop. You’re not sleeping in the barn.”
“Why not? It’s festive. The whole nativity vibe?—”
“Because you’re not a cow.”
I blink. “Is that the only reason?”
“It’s the main one.” He pushes back from the table, chair scraping softly. “We’ve got a guest room. It’s not fancy, but it’s got a bed and blankets. You can stay there tonight. We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”
“You… sure?” I ask. “Your mom won’t mind?”
“She’ll probably start knitting you something before breakfast,” he says. “She has a soft spot a mile wide. Especially for strays that show up on Christmas Eve.” His mouth tilts. “We’ll tell her in the morning. No sense waking everybody now.”
He stands, collects the empty mugs, and rinses them in the sink. I watch his broad back, the easy way he moves in this kitchen. There was a time I could read his every mood from theslope of his shoulders. Now he feels like a book I used to know by heart that’s been rewritten in a language I’m just relearning.
