Chapter 7 Ellie
Ellie
I’ve never felt more like a guest in someone else’s life than I do standing barefoot in Micah’s kitchen, sipping coffee from a mug the size of my face, and watching him sharpen a knife like we’re not just… casually surviving a stalking situation.
He’s so at ease in his space—silent, focused, completely unaware of how devastatingly attractive he is when he’s doing something as simple as slicing an apple with precision that should be illegal.
And despite the tension that lingers under every breath we take, like we’re both waiting for the other shoe to drop… this cabin feels safe.
It feels like a little world.
His world.
And I’m starting to realize how badly I don’t want to leave it. Or him.
He glances over, catching me staring. “You okay?”
I smile, even though my stomach flips like a gymnast. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“You would know,” I shoot back.
He huffs quietly and goes back to his task, but I can tell—he’s listening. Always is. Like he’s tuned into me at a frequency no one else bothers with.
And I can’t keep doing nothing. I’ve been here for days, eating his food, hogging his hot water, napping with his dog, and making his floor my personal trauma confessional.
I need to give something back. Anything.
“You know,” I say, trying to sound casual, “for someone who lives in a literal postcard, your cabin’s kind of… emotionally barren.”
He pauses mid-slice. “What?”
I gesture vaguely to the walls. “It’s December, Micah. Your house has no Christmas vibes. None. Not a single twinkle light. Not even a pine-scented candle. It's like living inside a brooding lumberjack’s soul.”
His brow lifts. “That’s… oddly specific.”
“I call it like I see it.”
He leans against the counter. “You want to decorate?”
“I do want to decorate. Let me Christmas-ify this place. It'll be like emotional CPR.”
His silence says he’s debating whether this is a trap.
Then, finally: “There’s a box in the attic. Hasn’t been touched in years.”
My heart leaps. “You’re serious?”
He nods, then jerks his chin toward the hallway. “Attic’s above the closet in the spare room. I’ll get the ladder.”
The attic smells like dust and old memories.
Micah hands down a single box, sturdy and taped shut like it’s been in storage since dial-up internet. I take it like it’s treasure.
By the time we’re back downstairs, I’m already sorting through garlands and a tangle of ancient string lights that may or may not be a fire hazard.
I find ornaments—some rustic, some clearly handmade, and one little felt Santa with a crooked beard that makes me ache for a version of Micah who might’ve once laughed over hot chocolate.
He crouches beside me, watching me like I’m a strange but fascinating phenomenon.
“You really like this stuff,” he says.
“It’s not about the stuff,” I murmur, holding up the Santa. “It’s about what it meant. Holidays meant family. Warmth. Even when the year was hard, Christmas was like this little miracle bubble. Magic you could count on.”
He doesn’t say anything, just holds my gaze.
“You haven’t decorated since...?”
“My dad died,” he says. Quiet. Blunt. Honest.
The air shifts. I look at him, my chest tight. “I’m sorry.”
He nods once, like he accepts the apology even though I know he doesn’t need it.
“I didn’t mean to push,” I say gently.
“You didn’t.”
But still, I slow down. Touch each item like it might break. I don’t want to crowd his space. I want to honor it.
“Okay,” I whisper. “We’re doing this.”
I hang the garland over the mantle. I find a tiny plastic mistletoe ornament and wedge it just barely above the doorway. I string the lights up and put the ornaments on a bowl by the fire because there’s no tree, but it still feels like Christmas is starting to seep in.
Micah watches the whole thing in quiet stillness. Not annoyed. Just… observing.
And then he says, “Thank you.”
I blink. “For what?”
“For trying to bring something good in.”
I smile at him, heart tight and warm in a way that makes me feel stupidly fragile. “You deserve something good.”
He takes a step closer. “You keep saying things like that.”
I swallow. “I mean them.”
“I know.” His voice is a rasp now. A low rumble that lights something molten under my ribs.
We’re standing under the mistletoe. I forgot it was there until now. He notices too, gaze flicking up, then back to mine.
“I didn’t put that there to be weird,” I blurt. “It was just tradition. I wasn’t trying to—”
He steps in, close enough that I feel the heat of him, smell the cedar soap and woodsmoke on his skin. His hand brushes my cheek, rough and warm, and I stop breathing altogether.
“I’ve been trying not to want you,” he says.
I whisper, “Same.”
“But I do.”
He kisses me.
It starts slow—controlled, careful—but that control slips fast. He presses in, mouth parting mine, one hand sliding to the back of my neck, the other curling around my waist like he can’t bear the thought of space between us.
I melt. Completely. Boneless. My hands are on his chest, then his shoulders, then fisting in the flannel like I might fall if I let go.
Micah kisses like he lives—quiet intensity, full-body focus, no wasted motion. It’s all heat and need, but there’s reverence there too. Like he’s been starving and is terrified to ruin it by rushing.
He pulls back just enough to murmur against my lips, “You sure?”
“Yes,” I breathe, voice trembling. “God, yes.”
He kisses me again, deeper this time. His tongue brushes mine and my knees buckle, heat rushing through me like a match to gasoline.
We stumble backward, only half-aware of where we’re going until the back of my knees hit the couch and I collapse into it, pulling him with me.
His weight settles over mine, heavy and perfect, and I feel every line of him, every breath.
His hand slips under my sweater, palm dragging up my side like he wants to memorize me.
But then he stills.
I know the moment the wall comes down between us again. It’s not cold—it’s careful. Controlled.
He leans his forehead against mine, breathing hard. “I need you,” he whispers like he’s lost all control.
Before we can go any further, there’s a loud crash outside and Micah is off and out the door before I can even say, mistletoe.