Chapter 8 Gregory
Gregory
After dinner, we settle into our respective corners of the great room like boxers retreating to opposite sides of a ring.
She’s claimed the sectional near the fireplace, curled up with her usual man-chest book. The one she’s reading openly like it’s a badge of honor. Or defiance.
Not that I care.
I’m not jealous of a fucking fictional character.
That would be insane.
Yes. Completely insane to feel in competition with some airbrushed model on a book cover.
I’m not thinking about it.
Not at all.
Not about how she sometimes gets a little smile when she reads those pages.
Not wondering what the hell those fictional bastards do that’s so much better than what I can do.
Christ, I need to get a grip.
I take the wingback chair on the opposite side. Maximum distance while still benefiting from the fire’s heat.
The silence stretches between us. It’s not comfortable, at least not for me. But it’s not quite hostile, either. It’s something in between that I don’t really have a name for.
Outside, the blizzard continues its relentless assault. The wind howls against the windows, and the snow piles higher. We’re getting buried deeper with each passing hour, and part of me wonders if we’ll ever dig our way out.
Or if I even want to.
That last thought pisses me off.
I grab a book at random from the stack beside my chair. Don’t even look at the title. Just need something to focus on that isn’t her.
It doesn’t work.
Because she starts humming.
Soft at first. Barely audible over the fire’s crackle. Just this unconscious melody that flows out of her like breathing. She’s completely unaware she’s doing it, her eyes tracking across the pages of her book while her voice creates this gentle backdrop.
It’s the kind of sound that makes you think of summer.
Of sunshine and lazy afternoons and things that don’t exist in my world.
I watch her over the edge of my unread book. Painted by the firelight, and still wearing my Columbia hoodie. Her own clothes must be dry by now, and yet here she is... seeing her in my clothes like that does things to me that are completely inappropriate given the circumstances.
Given everything.
Her lips move slightly as she hums. I keep noticing her bottom lip. The one she chews when she’s thinking.
She looks up suddenly. Catches me staring.
Her humming stops mid-note.
“Sorry.” Her cheeks flush. “I... didn’t realize... it’s a bad habit. I do it when I’m reading. Or working. Or basically any time I’m concentrating on something. My roommates complain about it constantly.”
I should look away. Should go back to pretending to read.
Instead, I hear myself say, “I didn’t tell you to stop.”
Her eyes widen slightly. Those brown eyes with the gold flecks. She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, then closes it again.
The words just hang there between us.
Shit. Why did I say that?
She finally looks back down at her book.
And doesn’t start humming again.
Fuck.
I just made it weird.
I force my attention back to my own book. Try to focus on the words. They blur together into meaningless shapes. I have no idea what the fuck this book is about. Something about a tailor and a tiger and some fucking coins.
All I can think about is the absence of her humming.
How much I liked that sound.
How much I want to hear it again.
Time passes.
Maybe an hour.
Maybe more.
Hard to tell when every moment stretches on.
I can’t read my own book worth shit. My eyes keep drifting to her... to Sorrel.
She finally shifts on the sectional and sets down the book. Then she pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them. She stares into the fire.
“Christmas Eve,” she says quietly. Not to me specifically.
Just to the room. “It’s Christmas Eve. I can’t believe.
.. you know, my parents are probably losing their minds right now.
I always spend Christmas Eve with them. Always.
Every single year since I was born. This is the first time I’ve ever missed it. ”
Her voice cracks on that last part.
Something in my chest cracks with it.
“We always opened all the presents on Christmas Eve,” she continues.
“Not Christmas Day. That’s our tradition.
We’d pile them all under the tree, and it didn’t matter that most of them were cheap.
My mom would wrap chocolates separately.
My dad would put ties in individual boxes.
Anything to make the pile look bigger.” She laughs, but it sounds wrong.
Hollow. And breaks my heart. “We’d make this huge mountain of presents, and it always felt so magical. Like we had everything in the world.”
She wipes at her eyes quickly. Trying to hide it. “It’s one of my favorite holidays. Was. Is.” She shakes her head. “And I’m sitting here in the middle of nowhere, wearing someone else’s clothes, and mom and dad don’t even know if I’m alive.”
“We’ll call them tomorrow,” I say. “Once the storm clears. We’ll find a way to let them know you’re safe.”
She looks at me. “You think it’ll clear tomorrow?”
I shift in the chair. “If not tomorrow, then the day after. It has to eventually. Storms like this burn themselves out. Two days. Three at most.”
I’m making that up. I have no fucking idea how long this will last. Hell, she’s the environmental sciences student. If anyone would know, it’s her.
And yet, she’s asking me.
Because she needs hope right now.
And I find myself wanting to give it to her.
Even if it’s bullshit hope.
“Thank you.” She says it so quietly I almost miss it. “For saying that. Even if you’re just being nice.”
“Don’t get used to it.” I try for my usual gruffness. But it comes out softer than intended.
She smiles. Just a small thing. But it makes her look... less burdened.
And makes me want things I have no right wanting.
“What about you?” she asks hesitantly. “Do you have family waiting on this Christmas Eve? People who are worried?”
I smile wistfully, and look away.
“No one,” I tell her. Just those two words.
Two words that contain a decade of choices. Of prioritizing empire over connection. Of pushing people away before they could get close enough to hurt me. Of building walls so high that nobody bothered trying to scale them anymore.
“Can I ask you something?” she asks.
I merely look at her.
Taking that as a go-ahead, she continues: “How come you don’t have a Christmas tree? Or any other holiday decorations?”
I shrug. “I don’t celebrate Christmas.”
She frowns. “Well yes, I got that. But... why?”
I stare into the fire.
“My parents both died around Christmas,” I hear myself saying.
“Different years. My father when I was twenty-eight. Left me a struggling mining company and a lot of debt. Christmas with him was always... board meetings. Conference calls. Him drilling into me that family was just another resource to extract value from. He’d been that way since. .. since mom died.”
I risk a glance at her and see her expression shift. It softens with an understanding that pisses me off because I don’t want her pity.
Thankfully she doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask the obvious follow-up questions.
Just nods once and looks back at the fire.
“I’m sorry,” she says eventually. “That Christmas is so full of... bad memories. And that you’re alone.”
“Don’t be.” My voice comes out harsher than I mean it to. “It’s my own fault. Every bit of it. The alone part, anyway.”
She doesn’t argue with that.
We fall back into silence.
The fire crackles and a log shifts. I should add more wood soon. The temperature’s already dropping as the evening goes on.
I glance at the small stack of logs beside the fireplace. Maybe a day’s worth left before I’ll need to brave the cold and bring more in from outside.
Thomas stocked three cords in the covered wood storage on the north side. Should be plenty.
Except we’re burning through it far faster than I expected. This massive room requires constant heat. The floor-to-ceiling windows bleed warmth like a sieve. At this rate, three cords might last a week.
Maybe less.
Another problem. Another resource limitation. Another reminder that all my billions can’t conjure firewood out of thin air.
I push the thought aside. We’ll deal with it later. The storm will probably break tomorrow, and the main power could come back online at any time after that. So five days of wood is hardly a problem.
Sorrel yawns, stretching like a kitten. The movement makes my hoodie ride up, and I look away before she notices me staring at the exposed skin of her waist.
“I should probably try to sleep,” she says. “Long day.”
“Yeah.” I don’t move from my chair. “Good idea.”
She grabs her sleeping bag from earlier and spreads it out on the sectional. Then she climbs inside still wearing my clothes.
I watch her settle. Watch her adjust the cushion she’s using as a pillow. Watch her pull the sleeping bag up cover to her chin.
She looks so small in it. So vulnerable.
And every protective instinct I thought I’d buried years ago roars to life.
Fuck.
“Goodnight, Gregory.” Her voice is already drowsy.
“Night.” I stay in the chair. Tell myself I’m just making sure the fire doesn’t die down. That I’m being practical.
Not that I want to watch her sleep.
Not that I’m thinking about how her hair looked when I washed it last night. How it felt between my fingers. How she made that soft sound when I massaged her scalp.
Definitely not thinking about any of that.
She’s asleep within minutes. Her breathing evens out. Becomes deep and steady.
I sit there in the dark, watching her chest rise and fall.
Eventually, my own exhaustion catches up. I grab a blanket from the storage chest. Forgo the wingback chair, and instead go to my spot at the opposite end of the sectional.
We’re maybe six feet apart.
Might as well be miles.
I close my eyes and try not to think about how easy it would be to close that distance.
I wake to cold.
The fire’s died down to embers. The room temperature has dropped at least ten degrees.
Shit.
I check my watch. Three in the morning. Christmas Day, technically, though it doesn’t feel like it.
Outside, the storm rages. The wind howls, and sleets of snow scrape against the glass.
Before I get up, I notice something...
We’ve moved.
During sleep, we’ve both shifted closer. The six feet of careful distance has shrunk to maybe two feet. Our blankets are nearly touching.
She’s still asleep. Curled on her side. Facing me.
Her face is peaceful in sleep. So soft and unguarded.
This close, even though the firelight is dim, I can still see details I missed before. The small mole near her left eyebrow. The way her lashes fan against her cheeks. The slight parting of her lips as she breathes.
She’s so fucking beautiful, it’s heartbreaking
I’ve been trying not to notice. Trying to focus on the ideological chasm between us.
But right now, watching her sleep by firelight on Christmas morning, I can’t pretend anymore.
This woman has gotten under my skin.
She makes me want to be someone worth knowing.
Someone worth forgiving.
Her blanket has slipped. Exposing one shoulder to the cold air.
Before I can stop myself, I reach out and tuck the blanket back around her.
My fingers brush her shoulder. The skin there is warm. Soft.
She doesn’t wake. Just makes a small sound and burrows deeper into the sleeping bag.
I reluctantly drag myself up and add logs to the fire.
It needs to be warm.
For her.
I arrange the logs carefully...
For her.
And blow on the embers until flames lick up the sides...
For her.
When it’s done, I stay there a moment. The heat feels good against my face.
I turn around.
My blanket is still lying on the sectional where I left it.
Close to her.
I should grab it and move back to my side of the sectional.
Should maintain that careful distance.
But... I don’t.
I settle back down. Grab the blanket, and shift even closer than before. Not close enough to touch, but...
Close enough that I can hear her breathing.
Close enough that the smell of her coconut shampoo reaches me.
Close enough that if she opened her eyes right now, she’d see exactly how I’m looking at her.
Like she’s something precious.
Like she matters.
Like maybe I’m not as alone as I thought I was, if I can find it in me to lower my walls.
For her.
Outside, the storm continues its relentlessly assault.
But in here, by this fire, with her sleeping peacefully beside me, the world feels smaller. More manageable.
Maybe even... salvageable?
I close my eyes and let her steady breathing lull me back to sleep.
Tomorrow we’ll go back to our corners. Back to the antagonism and the careful distance.
But tonight, on Christmas morning in the dark hours before dawn, I let myself have this.
This closeness.
This warmth.
This dangerous, impossible thing that I should be smart enough to stop but can’t seem to resist.