Chapter Seven
ETHAN
I shouldn’t have touched her.
That’s the first coherent thought I manage as I force myself to step back into the crowd, looking for the guy who called my name. But he’s already distracted, both because he’s tipsy and because someone else has engaged him in conversation.
I walk toward the bar, the echo of her warmth still humming through my hand like static. One careless brush of fingers. One absent-minded stroke of my thumb over her knuckles.
I felt her inhale.
I felt myself hesitate.
And then, because I’m an idiot, I walked away.
I know it’s the right move. The only move I could have done without causing gossip that would get her in trouble with HR.
But why doesn’t feel like I made the right decision?
The party continues around us, loud and bright and aggressively festive.
Someone laughs too hard near the bar. The DJ switches tracks, sleigh bells bleeding into a bass line that doesn’t deserve them.
I nod at a few people as I pass, offer polite smiles, pretend I’m not acutely aware of where Liz is every second.
I am. My body is uniquely tuned to her frequency, and I know exactly where she is with no need for visual confirmation. I’ve experienced nothing like it before. It’s a little overwhelming, and a lot wonderful.
I take a drink I don’t really want and station myself near a high-top table, putting physical distance between us like that might quiet the tension curling low in my spine. My pulse is still off-kilter. My hand still remembers the exact shape of hers.
Get a grip.
This is a party. A work function.
Wednesday night masquerading as cheer because venues are cheaper and no one questions it anymore.
I can do this.
Across the room, Liz laughs at something Sara says, head tipped back just slightly. The blue dress catches the light when she moves, soft, understated, and utterly devastating. I’m not the only one who’s noticing. Other guys are throwing appreciative gazes her way.
I want to punch everyone of them.
She looks more relaxed than when I arrived, but not completely at ease. She keeps her shoulders angled inward, like she’s bracing for the noise.
Instinctively, my body shifts toward her.
But before I can head her way, someone clinks a glass, calling for attention, corralling us all into a loose circle near the tree they’ve set up in the corner.
It’s real, somehow, a full evergreen dragged into an industrial venue and decorated with white lights and minimalist ornaments.
It’s tasteful and pretty, and I hate it.
Boxes and bags are piled underneath, chaotic and mismatched. An excited murmur spreads through the crowd when they see all the presents.
Merry fucking Christmas, everyone.
Liz drifts closer to me as the crowd tightens. Not touching. Just close enough that I can feel the heat from her arm through the thin space between us. I immediately feel better.
I don’t look at her.
If I do, I won’t look away. My hands curl into fists as I force them to stay where they are and not touch her. I desperately want just a small contact. Would anyone notice if I curled my pinkie around hers? If I just accidentally brushed my hand against hers?
I don’t dare to do either, because it wouldn’t be enough. The air between is so charged I swear I hear it spark.
Sara steps up to start the gift exchange. As she calls out names and people open their gifts, laughter ripples through the crowd.
Someone gets novelty socks. Someone else gets a bottle of wine that’s immediately inspected like it might be fake.
When Liz’s name is called, everything in me sharpens.
She startles slightly, still endearing, still her, and steps forward, smoothing her hands down the sides of her dress like she’s steadying herself.
A few people clap. Someone whistles, and she startles, ducking her chin to hide her blush.
I take a step forward, but Sara pegs the whistler with a stink eye, and he steps back, hiding behind his coworkers.
I watch, heart pounding far harder than it should.
She crouches to pick up her gift. It’s medium-sized, wrapped simply, with a small tag with her name written in careful block letters. My handwriting.
She turns it over once, curious, then opens it.
Paper tears softly.
She pauses.
Her brows knit as she pulls out the envelope first. She opens it, reads, and then her breath catches, not dramatically, just enough that I notice.
She looks up.
Finds me immediately.
I hold her gaze, steady and open, but keep my face bland.
Then, she reaches back into the box and pulls out the voucher.
A few people lean closer, curious.
“What is it?” someone asks.
Liz blinks, then laughs, a surprised, genuine sound. “It’s… a Wreck Room session.”
A beat, and then, “Oh, that’s the best,” Sara exclaims, and laughter erupts around us.
“You get to smash stuff!” someone calls.
“Stress relief,” Sara adds knowingly.
Liz looks back at the voucher, then at the note in her hand again. Her throat bobs as she swallows.
“This is—” She stops, breathes. “This is perfect.”
Her gaze meets mine, and an emotion fills her eyes that I can’t quite interpret. Understanding? I hope it is. I want her to know that I get her. That I see her.
That she’s perfect.
The next few gifts pass in a blur until my name is called.
I step forward, acutely aware of her watching me now.
My gift is soft and medium-sized, wrapped in black paper with a silver bow that looks faintly sarcastic. But that might just be my imagination.
I rip the paper open to reveal black knitted fabric covered by snowflakes stitched in uneven lines. There’s a cartoon Santa crossed out in red embroidery. Across the chest, bold white letters spell, I HATE CHRISTMAS (EXCEPT THE DAYS OFF).
The room loses it.
I stare at the sweater for a long second, then laugh. A deep, spontaneous laugh, one that I haven’t emitted in a long time, pours out of me.
I look at Liz.
She’s biting her lip, clearly braced for judgment.
“This,” I say, holding it up, “is the most accurate thing anyone has ever given me.”
Her shoulders sag in relief. “You don’t hate it?”
“I love it,” I correct. “It’s honest.”
She smiles, slow and brightly. I hold her gaze and can’t stop looking at her.
Around us, the party surges back into motion. People drift toward the bar again. Someone suggests shots.
Liz and I don’t move.
We stand there, the noise fading into a distant hum. I walk toward her until I’m right in front of her. A strand of hair has come loose, caressing her cheek. I force myself to not tuck it behind her air like I desperately want to. “Thank you,” I say instead.
“I didn’t know if it was too much,” she says quietly.
“It’s perfect,” I reply.
Her fingers curl around the gift certificate to the Wreck Room, and she nods, eyes shining. “So is this.”
The moment stretches.
I’m aware of too many things at once. The scent of pine from the tree.
The warmth of her presence.
The way her gaze flicks briefly to my mouth and back up.
I clear my throat. “I should—” I gesture vaguely. “Do the rounds.”
She immediately takes a step back and nods. “Of course.”
I regret breaking the moment, but force myself to mingle again, every instinct protesting that I’m far from her.
I talk to people. I smile. I make jokes. I accept a drink and abandon it after two sips.
All the while, I track her.
She’s doing better than she thinks she is. Talking to a small group and laughing.
But she checks the exits more often now. Her energy’s dipping.
The party thins. Coats come out. Conversations soften. The DJ switches to something slower, mercifully less aggressive.
When I find her again, she’s near the door, coat pulled tight, fingers fidgeting with the buttons.
“Ready to escape?” I ask.
She exhales, relieved. “Very.”
I grab my own coat, and we step outside together.
The cold hits immediately, sharp and clean. Snow dusts the sidewalk, catching in the glow of the streetlights. The city feels hushed now, like it’s settled into itself.
Liz tips her head back, closes her eyes, and takes deep breaths.
“You okay?” I ask gently.
She nods. “Yeah. That was… a lot. But manageable.”
“I’m glad,” I say. “You did great.”
Her eyes meet mine, searching. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.” I shift my weight, heart thudding, now that the moment has finally come. The moment when I put it all on the table. “There’s something else,” I say.
Her breath fogs the air between us. “Okay.”
“I have another gift for you,” I continue, keeping my tone light, careful. “A follow-up.”
Her brows lift. “Another?”
“For more stress relief,” I add, lips quirking. “This one’s… private.”
The word hangs between us.
She doesn’t look away.
“I can’t give it to you here,” I say. “But if you’d like… come home with me?”
Her pulse jumps visibly at her throat. She studies me for a beat. “To be clear,” she says softly, “You’re inviting me to go home with you because you want something more than friendship.”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “More than friendship. And a gift.”
A moment stretches while I hold my breath, waiting for her answer.
Then she smiles broadly. “Okay,” she says.
I order a ride-share through my app. One thing that Wednesday night parties have going for them is that it doesn’t take long for the car to arrive. I open the door for her, the cold nipping at our heels, and as she slides inside, I know, absolutely, that this is where everything changes.
Not loudly. But deliberately. And exactly the way it should.
From now on, my life’s timeline can be divided into before and after my night with Liz.