Chapter 13 Cinnamon and Stillness #2
“I’m not here to take anything,” he says quietly. Firm. “Not your bed. Not your space. Not…” He trails off, jaw ticking.
My chest twists. “I know,” I say gently. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s not taking if I offer. It’s… sharing.”
His eyes soften at that, but he still shakes his head. “I’ll be fine out here.”
“You don’t have to be fine,” I murmur. “You’re allowed to be comfortable.”
He looks around the room, at the tree, at the little stack of letters on the side table, at the compass box next to them. He swallows.
“This is already more comfort than I know what to do with,” he says. “Let me work up to the bed.”
There’s a thread of something like humor in his tone, but it’s wrapped around something rawer. I nod. Pushing him now would be about me, not him.
“Okay,” I say. “Couch it is.”
I drape the blanket over the back of the sofa for him. He catches my wrist gently as I pull away.
“Hey,” he says.
I look down at his hand on my skin, then up at his face.
“Thank you,” he says simply. “For… all of this. The letters. The tree. The tea. The…” He gestures vaguely around the room. “The not looking at me like I might break your furniture.”
“I don’t think you’d break my furniture,” I say softly. “My heart, maybe, but not the furniture.”
His eyes flare, something hot and dangerous flickering there. He lets go of my wrist slowly, like he’s afraid he’ll hold on too tight if he doesn’t.
“I’ll try not to do either,” he says.
I force a smile. “Good plan.”
I tell him where the bathroom is, where the spare towel is, and where I keep an extra toothbrush.
Saying it out loud feels intimate in a weirdly big way.
Like I’m handing over pieces of my life, here is where I sleep, here is where I cry, here is where I brush my teeth and pretend, I have it together. He listens like it matters.
I head to my bedroom, heart pounding, and close the door most of the way, but not completely. A sliver of warm light falls across the hall. It makes me feel less like we’re strangers separated by wood and more like two people in the same place, figuring this out.
In bed, I lie on my side, eyes wide in the dark, listening. I hear the bathroom tap running. The soft thud of his duffel hitting the floor. The creak of the couch as he lies down. Silence. Then the rustle of the blanket as he shifts.
My mind is a mess of pictures. Him on my couch.
His hair mussed, scar softened in the glow of the tree.
The way his eyes went gentle when he smiled.
The way his voice dropped when he called my letters “the only clear thing.” I don’t know how long I lie there before sleep finally tugs me under. It feels like minutes. It’s not.
When I Wake, The Room Is Darker. The tree light glows from the living room and paints faint patterns on my wall.
My clock says 3:17 a.m. Something tugs at me.
A feeling, not a sound. I slip out of bed, the floor cold under my feet, and pad quietly down the hall.
The door is still ajar, enough that I can see the dim outline of the living room.
The tree is still on. The lights cast a soft halo over everything. The air smells like pine and the faintest hint of cinnamon that’s seeped into the fabric of the couch. And there he is. Still on the couch. But not lying down.
He’s slumped in the corner, back against the armrest, head tipped slightly to the side, chin tucked toward his chest. The blanket is wrapped around his shoulders, bunched in his fists as if he’s not sure he has the right to let go.
One foot is braced on the floor, like even in sleep, he’s ready to move.
The compass box sits on the table beside him, lid still closed, the little card with my handwriting tucked neatly under the twine.
It looks like a quiet promise. His face, in the glow of the lights, looks younger and older all at once.
Lines carved by worry smooth out a little.
His mouth is relaxed. His scar catches the light, a pale streak against tan skin.
He looks… peaceful. And somehow fragile. Like if I breathed too loud, he’d wake, and the moment would be gone. I step closer on silent feet, heart twisting at the sight of him. This man. This stranger who bled in the snow for me. This not-stranger who wrote me letters that made my chest ache.
He’s in my living room. On my couch. Asleep under my blanket.
A compass I chose for him within arm’s reach.
I want to touch him. Not in the way the world always assumes.
Not first, anyway. I want to brush the hair back from his forehead.
I want to tuck the blanket closer around him.
I want to smooth away that faint line between his brows that looks like it’s there even in dreams.
I settle for gently adjusting the blanket so it’s not slipping off his shoulder. As I pull it up, my fingers graze the curve of his neck where it dips into his collarbone. His skin is warm. He stirs, eyelids fluttering. I freeze.
He blinks once, twice, eyes focusing slowly on me. For a heartbeat, I see pure confusion there, like he’s trying to figure out which version of reality he’s in. Then recognition settles.
“Mara,” he says, voice rough with sleep.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to wake you. You just… You look uncomfortable. I thought you might want the blanket up higher.”
He glances down at the blanket, then back at me. A small, crooked smile curves his mouth.
“Old habits,” he murmurs. “Sleeping sitting up. Easier to wake up fast if you need to.”
My chest aches. “You don’t need to here.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment. Something in his eyes softens, gentles, like he wants to believe me and is scared to.
“I know,” he says eventually. Quiet. “I’m trying.”
I nod, feeling that answer all the way through me.
“Go back to sleep,” I say. “It’s late. Or early. Whatever 3 a.m. is.”
He huffs a soft breath. “What about you?”
“I will,” I promise. “Just wanted to check on you.”
His eyes flick to the compass box, then back to my face. “You know,” he says, “you don’t have to keep checking to see if I’m going to disappear.”
“I know,” I say.
But I also know I will anyway. He shifts, the couch creaking softly. For a moment, it looks like he might reach for my hand. He doesn’t.
“Thank you,” he says again, barely above a whisper.
“For what?” I ask.
“For the blanket. For the couch. For not making me feel like a project. For…” He trails off, eyelids drooping. “For the kind of Christmas, I didn’t think I’d ever have again.”
My throat tightens. “It’s just a tree and bad cinnamon rolls,” I say.
He gives me that sleepy half-smile. “It’s more than that.”
I watch him settle back, eyes closing, breath evening out. The compass box sits between us like a tiny, solid thing, proof of choices made, paths crossed, a future neither of us is ready to name yet. I stand there for another moment, memorizing the image.
Then I turn and tiptoe back to my room, leaving the door open just a little bit wider than before.
I crawl under the covers, my heart beating slower now.
It’s Christmas Eve. There’s a man on my couch who once stepped between me and the worst version of the world.
And for the first time in a long time, as sleep pulls me under again, I don’t feel alone.
I feel like maybe, just maybe, this story is only just beginning.