Chapter 8 Frankie
Frankie
Who are you, and what have you done with Sam?
My Christmas tree lights fill the room, softening the edges of the scattered mess on the counter and the piles of wrapping paper I abandoned earlier. It’s warm and cheerful, the way it should have felt all along, but tonight, it just feels... hollow.
Sam hasn’t left. He’s still here, standing in the middle of my living room like some kind of Christmas ghost who can’t decide if he’s past, present, or future. His hands are stuffed in his coat pockets, which he still hasn’t removed yet, and his eyes, usually so guarded, flicker with something new.
“Do you have food?” he asks suddenly, breaking the silence.
I blink, jerking my head to face him, hoping he isn’t expecting me to host right now. “What?”
“Food,” he repeats, his tone as matter-of-fact as if he were asking about the weather. “Do you have enough for the next few days?”
I can’t help it—I laugh. It’s soft and breathless, but it’s real, and it startles me as much as it seems to startle him. “Are you serious?”
His brow furrows slightly, the corners of his mouth tightening. “Of course I’m serious.”
“Why?” I ask, crossing my arms and tilting my head at him. “You’ve never cared about whether or not I have food before.”
He shrugs, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “It’s a snowstorm. People should have food during a snowstorm. It’s common sense.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to figure out if his concern is genuine.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair.
I’m being difficult, I know, and nothing about what’s happened today is his fault.
He doesn’t have to be nice to me; it’s not his responsibility to cheer me up.
And yet, something about him being here at all, is exactly what I needed.
Company. Even his Grinch-y self. “Do you have food or not, Frankie?”
“I have ramen noodles in the pantry. Maybe some bad for you snacks.” I gesture vaguely toward the kitchen, even though I know there’s not much in there. “Probably an old cucumber in the refrigerator.”
His lips twitch, and for a second, I think he might smile.
Instead, he steps past me, heading into the kitchen.
I follow him, leaning against the doorframe as he opens said refrigerator and peers inside.
The light casts his face in light and shadows, highlighting the strong line of his jaw.
He mutters something under his breath as he surveys the contents.
“What?” I ask, a little saltier than usual. “Not up to your standards?”
He pulls out a half-empty carton of milk and a sad-looking cucumber. “This is it?”
“I wasn’t planning to be here, remember?” I say, swallowing hard. “I was supposed to be in Boston, stuffing my face with turkey and pie. Not eating... moldy vegetables.”
He places the carton into the trash, then closes the fridge door and turns to face me. “This isn’t enough.”
“Thanks for the reminder, Captain Obvious,” I say, rolling my eyes. “What do you want me to do about it? It’s not like I can go grocery shopping in a blizzard.”
His gaze narrows slightly, and I’m sure he’s going to argue.
He opens his mouth, then closes it, his fingers twitching like he’s caught between staying silent and saying something he doesn’t want to admit.
Finally, he sighs, the sound low and resigned, and rubs the back of his neck.
The movement is quick, almost self-conscious, and his hand falls back to his side as he finally looks at me again.
“Come to my house,” he says, the words rough and clipped, as if forcing them out has cost him something.
I blink, caught off guard by the invitation and the fact that he doesn’t particularly look like he wanted to extend that offer at all.
His posture is stiff, his shoulders squared like he’s bracing for me to throw it back to him.
That’s usually our playful back and forth. But I’m stuck this time. “W-what?”
“You can’t stay here with nothing to eat,” he says, his tone firm. “Come to my house. I’ve got food.”
I stare at him, dumbfounded. “You’re... inviting me over? To your house?”
“Don’t make it weird,” he mutters, looking away.
“Oh, it’s already weird,” I tease. “You, of all people, inviting me into your fortress of solitude? I’m honored, maybe a little scared.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound makes my tummy flutter. “Are you coming or not?”
I hesitate, glancing back at my tree. My house still feels empty and cold; the festive lights only serve to be a contrast to the inevitable loneliness pressing down on me. And as much as I hate to admit it, the thought of spending the night alone is almost unbearable.
“Fine,” I say, walking to the closet to get a coat. “But I’m warning you, I’m not responsible for any Christmas cheer that rubs off on you.”
He gives me a look that’s equal parts surprised and smug as he opens the door, snow swirling in behind him. “Don’t get your hopes up, Frankie.”
We trudge to his house, which is as dark and uninviting as ever, with no lights, no decorations, nothing to suggest that Christmas is even a thing, and I wonder how offended he’d be if I offer to bring the food to my house.
“You know,” I say as we reach his porch, I suppress a shiver, “you could at least put up a wreath or something. It wouldn’t kill you.”
He unlocks the door and pushes it open, glancing at me over his shoulder. “I think your lights are enough for both of us.”
“Hey,” I protest, stepping inside. “They’re the best part of Christmas.”
He smirks faintly as he shrugs off his coat. “There’s the Mrs. Christmas I’ve seen. I thought you’d given up.”
I try to reply with something quippy, but I’m almost positive he’s being sincere this time, and a part of me isn’t sure what to do with that, yet.
The warmth of his house wraps around me, and I look around, surprised by how.
.. normal it is. The furniture is simple and understated, the walls painted in soft, neutral tones.
It’s neat, almost to the point of being sterile, but there’s something oddly comforting about it.
And it smells like him, all pine and musk with something else I can’t place yet… I like it.
As I make my way through the living area and into the kitchen, my eyes immediately blink because… am I seeing things? A tiny, two-foot-tall Christmas tree sitting on the kitchen counter, its branches uneven and sparsely decorated.
“Wait a dang minute. Is that...” I point, “a Christmas tree?”
He follows my gaze, his eyes wide. “Shit… It’s, uh, nothing.”
He makes a desperate grab for the blanket on his couch, throwing it over the tree. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him move so fast.
“Ah, yes, because now it’s invisible,” I deadpan, still staring at the now blanket-covered two-foot shape in his kitchen.
His head lolls backward on a groan, and he steps aside, allowing me access to the hidden tree. “Fine. I’m not going to live this down anyway.”
“I’m shocked,” I say, folding my lips over my teeth to stop the grin from escaping as I pull the blanket off. “I’m also... impressed. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“It’s just a tree,” he mutters.
“Am I in a different universe? Did the storm whisk me away to Oz?” I taunt, fluffing the branches. “First, you’re worried about me in the storm, then you invite me over. And now, I find out you secretly have a Christmas tree? Who even are you right now?”
His lips twitch, and for a second, I think a smile might break through.
Instead, he only shakes his head, and then disappears into the pantry.
A moment later, he’s back with a bottle of wine, a loaf of bread, a bottle of oil, and a dark glass of balsamic.
He works without hesitation, mixing the oil and vinegar until they shimmer in the small dish, movements practiced, precise.
I don’t mean to stare, but when he reaches for the bread knife, he pushes the sleeve of his shirt higher, baring the solid line of his forearm.
Muscles shift beneath his skin as he anchors the loaf, the knife gliding clean through.
Each slice looks effortless, and for some unknown reason, my mouth goes dry. Jesus. I need an intervention.
He sets the knife down and reaches for the corkscrew.
The twist of his wrist, the steady strength in his grip as he works the cork free, the clean pop that echoes through the quiet kitchen—it’s ridiculous how hot I find it.
I’ve clearly reached a new low if a man opening a bottle of merlot is doing things to me.
Or maybe it’s a kink unlocked, and I should be thankful.
Either way, I’m really hoping my social media algorithm can’t read my thoughts.
I’ll have thirst traps popping up before I can say Merry Christmas.
I lean against the counter, diverting my focus to his tiny, scrappy Christmas tree. “You know, this changes everything. I thought you hated Christmas, but deep down, you’re just a Grinch with a big ol’ heart after all.”
He gives me a long, measured look, the side of his lips twitching, as he reaches beside me for glasses. “It’s not a secret if you keep shouting about it.”
My breath hitches because his soothing pine scent washes over me, and then I get hit with the sweeter scent: it’s cinnamon. He smells like Christmas. Does he know that?
Focus, Frankie.
“Oh, don’t worry,” I say, my grin widening, trying not to sniff him again. “Your secret’s safe with me... for now. But wait until next year. I’ll cover your house in lights for you.”
Sam raises an eyebrow as he sets down the bread and wine between us. “Is that so?”
Is Sam flirting with me? His tone is so soft, and there’s a twinkle in his eyes that’s not irritation, but… interest. Have I ever noticed that before?
I blink a few times to make sure I’m not imagining it. “You have no choice now. You’ve shown me your hand, and your poker face sucks. This tree is too small though,” I say, pointing at it. “And you’d better believe I’m going to remind you of this night every time you complain about my lights.”
He smirks, the faintest hint of amusement flickering across his face as he pours us each a glass of wine. “You’ve got some nerve, coming into my house and insulting my tree.”
“I’m not insulting it,” I say, holding up my hands. “It’s got character. Personality. Charm.”
“Like me?” he shoots back, his tone laced with just enough humor to make me feel warm all over. Bantering with him has always been easy, but making it playful? I don’t know this Sam. I could like this Sam.
I falter for a second, but recover with a laugh. “Let’s not push it. You’re still a work in progress, Mr. Grinch.”
He huffs a quiet sound that rumbles in my own chest, and I like it.
“Sit down, Frankie. I think you’ve had enough fun at my expense for one night.
” The way he says it seems more like a demand than a suggestion; my nerve endings dance with glee, and the little devil on my shoulder wants me to push a little more to see what else I can get from him.
I plop onto a stool at his kitchen breakfast bar, still smiling. “Oh, the fun is just getting started.”