Chapter 4 Lucy
Lucy
The first snowflake hits my window around four in the afternoon.
By five, Pine Hollow is buried under a white curtain so thick I can't see the neighbor's house. Wind rattles the windows and howls through the eaves like something alive.
"Power's going to go," Dad says from his spot by the window. He's holding his coffee mug with both hands, watching the storm the way he used to watch Mom's moods. Reading the signs. "I'll check the generator."
Connor helps him. Emma herds Maisie away from the windows and starts pulling out candles. I move through the house on autopilot, checking locks, drawing curtains, making sure everything's secure.
Ryder watches me from the doorway. I can feel his eyes tracking my movements.
Can feel the heat of his attention even from across the room.
Last night at the shop, pressed against the bookshelves with his mouth on mine, his promise of "tomorrow" still echoing in my head.
The memory makes heat pool low in my belly.
"You're staring," I say without looking at him.
"I know."
The lights flicker once. Twice. The house goes dark.
Maisie squeals with delight. Dad mutters something colorful from the basement. Connor appears with a flashlight, beam cutting through the sudden blackness.
"Old-fashioned night it is," he says. "Everyone to the living room."
We gather like pioneers. Dad builds the fire while Emma lights every candle she can find. Connor drags blankets down from the linen closet. I make hot chocolate on the woodstove, stirring with the old wooden spoon Mom used, steam dampening my face in the firelight.
By seven, we're settled. Dad in his chair telling stories. Connor and Emma on the couch with Maisie between them, half asleep against her father's shoulder. And me on the floor by the fire with Ryder beside me because there's nowhere else for him to sit.
Our shoulders touch. He doesn't move away. Neither do I.
"Remember the storm when you boys were eight?" Dad asks. "Martha made a fort down here. You kids camped out for three days."
"Connor thought the house was haunted," I say. "Made Ryder check the basement twice."
"You made me sleep between you," Ryder points out. "Said you'd protect me from the ghosts."
"I was six. I believed in protective magic."
His mouth tips up at the corner. That almost-smile that makes my stomach flip.
Dad tells more stories. About Mom and Christmas mornings and summer barbecues. About the scrawny kid Connor brought home who never wanted to leave. His voice is warm, rich with memory, and I lean into Ryder's shoulder without meaning to.
He shifts closer. Not obvious. Just enough that more of us is touching. Hip to shoulder to knee. Heat radiating through layers of clothing.
Around nine, Maisie climbs into Ryder's lap. She's already half asleep, thumb in her mouth, bunny tucked under one arm. He holds her carefully, like she's made of glass. Something soft moves through me watching him with her. Something dangerous.
I rest my hand on his forearm. Just touching. Just there. His pulse jumps under my fingers.
Connor and Emma take Maisie up around ten. Dad follows with a yawn and a warning to bank the fire before we come up. The house settles into quiet. Just wind and snow and two people who should go to their separate rooms but don't.
We were supposed to go somewhere private tonight. His promise of "tomorrow" still echoing from last night at the shop. But the storm had other plans. Now here we are, alone by firelight with his family sleeping upstairs. Not what either of us planned. Maybe more dangerous because of it.
I add another log to the fire. Orange light spills across Ryder's face, catches in his dark hair, shadows the line of his jaw. He's watching me with an expression I can't read.
"I should go up," I say.
"Probably."
Neither of us moves.
The wind howls. Snow builds on the windowsills. We sit in the warm circle of firelight, and I think about all the ways this could go wrong. About Connor's warning. About Ryder leaving in two weeks. About how much it will hurt when he goes.
"Can I ask you something?" My voice barely rises above the crackling fire.
"Yeah."
"What really happened with your ex?"
He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. Then he shifts, staring into the flames instead of at me.
"Sienna wanted the lifestyle. The money. The access." His voice is flat, careful. "When I tried to set boundaries, she went public. Told everyone I was cold and controlling." He pauses. "Maybe she was right about the cold part."
"You're not cold." I take his hand without thinking. His fingers are warm, calloused from years on the ice. "You held Maisie for an hour tonight. You helped at the market even though you hate crowds. That's not cold."
He laces our fingers together. Stares at our joined hands like he's trying to solve an equation.
"What scares you?" he asks.
The question catches me off guard. I could deflect. Could keep the conversation light. But something about the darkness and the fire and his hand in mine makes me want to tell the truth.
"Disappointing people," I say. My voice cracks on the words. "Being too much or not enough to make someone stay." I pull my knees up, wrapping my free arm around them. "When Mom died, I wasn't there. I canceled that afternoon because the shop was busy. And then she was just...gone."
"Lucy." He shifts closer, thumb tracing circles on my palm.
"I know it's not my fault. Everyone says that.
But I keep thinking if I'd just been there.
.." I swallow hard. "Now everyone sees me as little miss sunshine.
As the girl who's always happy. And I'm terrified to show them anything else.
What if they're disappointed? What if being real makes them leave? "
The words hang between us. Vulnerable and raw and more honest than I've been with anyone in a long time.
Ryder sets down his mug. Turns to face me fully. The firelight catches in his eyes and for a moment he just looks at me. Really looks. Like he's seeing past the smile I wear like armor.
"I like all of you," he says. "Not just the sunshine part."
The words hit me square in the chest. Something cracks open there; some wall I didn't know I'd built. My throat goes tight, and my eyes burn, and I don't know what to say to that. To someone seeing me and not running.
"You don't know all of me," I manage.
"I want to."
The air between us shifts. Charges. His hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His thumb grazes my cheek, and electricity shoots through me. We're leaning closer. So close I can count his eyelashes. Can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. Can feel his breath on my lips.
"Connor would kill you," I whisper.
"I know."
"This is a terrible idea."
"I know that too."
But neither of us pulls away. His thumb traces my bottom lip, and my mouth parts. His other hand slides into my hair, and I'm leaning in, and he's leaning in, and we're a breath apart when he stops.
Just stops. Forehead pressed to mine. Eyes closed. Breathing hard.
"Tell me to go upstairs," he says.
"I can't."
"Lucy." My name sounds like a prayer and a curse. "If I kiss you right now, I won't be able to stop. And your brother is asleep twenty feet above us."
"I don't care."
"You should." But his hand tightens in my hair. "You should care that I'm leaving in two weeks. That this can't go anywhere. That I'll hurt you."
"What if I hurt you?"
His eyes open. Dark and intent and burning with want.
"Then we'll be even," he says.
We stay like that. Foreheads touching. Breathing each other's air. Balanced on the knife-edge between restraint and giving in.
Finally, he pulls back. Puts six inches of space between us that might as well be six miles. His jaw is tight, and his hands are shaking, and I can see the war playing out behind his eyes.
"You should go to bed, Lucy."
It's not a suggestion. It's a plea.
I stand on shaking legs. Wrap the blanket around my shoulders because I'm cold without him next to me. He stays on the floor by the dying fire, watching me with an expression I can't name.
"Goodnight, Ryder."
"Goodnight."
I make it to the stairs before I look back. He's still watching. Still wanting. Still holding himself in check for reasons I understand even if I hate them.
In my room, I climb into bed and pull the covers up to my chin. My heart is hammering. My lips are tingling from a kiss that never happened. And I can hear him moving around downstairs. Hear the creak of the stairs as he finally comes up. Hear his door close.
The bathroom between our rooms feels like both a barrier and a promise.
I lie in the dark and replay every word. Every touch. The way he looked at me when he said he liked all of me. Not just the sunshine part.
Something fundamental shifted tonight. We acknowledged the want. The danger. The impossibility of this. And neither of us walked away.
I don't know what happens next. Don't know how to want something this badly when it's wrapped in so many reasons why I shouldn't. But I know I'm in trouble.
We both are.