Page 95 of Break Me

Grabbing the bag of seed from the cupboard, I step onto the porch, surprised by how cool the morning still feels. The feeder is lighter than it should be. As soon as I twist the lid open, an impatient chirp sounds behind me.

I glance over my shoulder to find the same little bird perched on the railing, staring at me with the unmistakable expression of someone whose service has been unacceptable.

“I know. Breakfast is late,” I murmur as I pour the seed in. “You’re getting greedy.”

It chirps back, louder, unmistakably scolding. I can’t help but laugh.

I stay where I am, curious to see what it'll do. After a moment, it gives a tiny hop in my direction. Then another. Soon, it's standing only a few feet away, completely unconcerned by my presence, as though I've finally proven I'm worthy.

I linger for a moment, breathing in the quiet and the small trust of this small animal. For a heartbeat, I see a hundred ordinary moments like this, before the moment slips away.

“I was wondering where you disappeared to,” Sam murmurs from the open door, hair rumpled, shirtless, looking unfairly good for someone who just woke up.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I don’t mind,” he says as he wraps his arms around my waist. “You’re the only thing I want to wake up to.”

I rest my head against his, and he tightens his arms. We stand there together, quiet, the way people do when they don’t need words to fill the space.

“The weather is changing,” I say. “The mornings are getting colder.”

"They are," he agrees, his chin brushing my temple. "Feels like the season's turning."

I smile at that. "I can't wait."

"For what?"

"Our first Christmas."

A soft laugh vibrates against my back. "A real tree?" he asks.

"The biggest one we can find."

He chuckles. "In this little cottage?"

"I didn't say it had to fit."

He laughs again, shaking his head. "Guess I'll be the one crawling under it every morning to water it."

"And cursing when you step on pine needles until February."

"I'll definitely be cursing."

I grin. "I want lights everywhere. The tree. The porch. Garland on the railing."

"And one of those little Christmas villages," he adds.

I turn to look at him, surprised. "Really?"

He shrugs, a little sheepish. "My mom used to put one out every year. I always liked it."

My heart squeezes. "Then we're getting one."

He smiles, and this time it's quieter.

"We'll drink hot chocolate until we're sick of it," I say. "You'll complain when I make you watch cheesy Christmas movies."

"I won't complain."