Page 142 of End Game

There’s nothing particularly sad about buying Christmas ornaments for yourself. People do it every year. But hers all came in the same cardboard box.

No kindergarten handprint with chipped paint. No ugly ornament from an aunt that she has to hang because someone will notice if she doesn’t. No stupid souvenir from a vacation ten years ago. Nothing that comes with a story everyone in the room has already heard fifteen times.

Now she’s standing on the arm of the couch while Griffin tells her for the third time she’s going to fall, stretching to hang a glittery d20 near the top of the tree.

Maybe stories have to start somewhere.

“Micah?”

Dex’s voice pulls me out of my head, and I look over to find him holding the other end of the garland.

“Uh, you gonna help me with this?” he asks. “Or stare dramatically into the middle distance?”

“I wasn’t being dramatic.”

“Your face was doing a thing.”

“My face doesn’t do things.”

Dex gives the garland a tug, pulling me toward him, and grins. “Your face does a lot of things.”

I let him reel me in, and his hand settles at my waist when I reach him, fingers hooking briefly through my belt loop.

“Decorate outside next?”

A glance toward the windows tells me it’s already getting dark. “Tomorrow.”

“Coward.”

“It’s twenty-eight degrees.”

“Coward with weather facts.”

I lean in and kiss him, which shuts him up for approximately three seconds.

“I still think we need inflatable dragons,” he says as soon as I pull away.

I shake my head.

“You didn’t even consider it.”

Taking a step back from him, I shake my head again.

Dex sighs like loving me is an incredible burden, and I kiss his temple before moving further away.

“Okay,” Cami says from behind us. “We need to talk about actual Christmas.”

I think we all go still and hold our breath.

She looks around the room, blinking. “Why did that sound like I just said we need to talk about our relationship?”

“Because figuring out these logistics and keeping us and all of our families happy might nearly require a congressional subcommittee,” Dex says.

We all laugh.

Ronan looks at us over the rim of his coffee mug. “It shouldn’t be that difficult.”

Griffin pulls his phone from his pocket. “I’m working Christmas Eve.”