Chapter 2 Miguel
TWO
MIGUEL
The smell of warm champurrado still hangs in the cabin from me heating some up, and now I’m rummaging through the refrigerator, looking for something besides the massive Tupperware containers of tamales and birria.
Christmas Eve Eve—or as Caleb keeps calling it, “Christmas Adam”—is the perfect excuse to dive into some of the snacks before the big meal on Christmas Day.
Mom made sure to help me plan for four days' worth of food, plus extra because growing boys are always hungry, so I probably overpacked.
“You know,” I say, dragging out a container of cranberry-stuffed bread, “if you keep hovering over me, I’m going to assume you’re just trying to steal all the good stuff.”
Caleb appears at my elbow, smirking like he’s been caught in the act, but somehow he looks so innocent. “Maybe I am,” he says, voice teasing, in a tone too sweet to be entirely harmless.
Fuck, I love when he’s playful.
And happy.
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Because last I checked, you’re still a brat.”
He tilts his head, grin widening. “A brat? Me?” He slaps his chest. “Never.”
I chuckle, shaking my head as I pull out a container of tamales. “You keep that up, pretty boy, and Santa’s not gonna be the only one keeping track of naughty and nice.”
He gasps dramatically. “Excuse me?”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, wagging a finger. “If you keep bratting, I’m going to tie you up, and Santa,” I lean in close, letting my hand graze his side. “Won’t bring you any presents this year.”
He freezes for half a beat, wide-eyed, then lets out a low, playful growl. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, I would,” I say, sliding the lid off the tamales, “and I know exactly how to make you squirm while I do it.”
He shuffles back a step, mock horror all over his face. “I should’ve known the big, scary Christmas elf would get me first!”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He smirks, stepping closer, and I feel the familiar heat coil low in my stomach. “Cute got me you,” he says, nudging against me, “so maybe I like bratting just to see what happens.”
I press a hand to his chest, steadying him, letting the warmth of him brush against me. “Careful,” I warn softly, lips near his ear. “The way you’re acting, you might not make it to Christmas dinner. Then all the birria will be for me.”
He swallows hard, chest rising and falling a little faster than usual. “You’re mean,” he whispers.
“Am I?” I say, smirking against his temple. My hands drift lower, brushing the waistband of his jeans just enough to make him stiffen. “Or am I just… honest?”
He exhales sharply, cheeks flushing, eyes darting toward the cabin windows like he’s suddenly aware someone might be watching. “Maybe… maybe a little of both,” he admits.
I press a kiss to the side of his jaw, low and teasing, feeling the shiver that always follows. “Good. Because I like my brats a little honest, a little flustered, and,” I pinch his hip lightly. “A lot aware that Santa might skip them.”
He groans, leaning into me despite the playful threats. “You’re terrible.”
“And you love it,” I reply, tugging him closer by the waist, letting him press against me while I carry a plate of tamales over to the little kitchen table. “Now eat before you get distracted again. We need to relax before heading to bed. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
He grabs a tamale, peeling the husk and biting into it like he doesn’t have a care in the world, cheeks still pink from the heat between us.
I smile, watching him, knowing full well the bratty streak won’t last long, but the little sparks, teasing and playful, are exactly the fuel we need to keep the weekend rolling.
The tamales and the first round of snacks disappear faster than I expect, the two of us picking at the pile of crumbs and chocolate from the cranberry bread like kids sneaking dessert before dinner.
Caleb leans back, belly full, a satisfied smirk on his face, while I stack the plates in the sink, trying to keep a straight face as he hums a little tune under his breath.
“You know,” I say, drying a plate, “if you keep that up, I’m sticking something in that mouth of yours for humming all these damn Christmas songs, off-key at that.”
He gasps dramatically, waving a hand in protest. “Excuse me? You’ve been humming along too!”
I raise an eyebrow over the counter. “Yeah, but I can actually carry a tune.”
“That’s the biggest crock of shit I’ve ever heard in my life. Mom and Dad had to constantly bang on your bedroom door growing up when you went through your emo music phase.” He nudges me. “Our ears were bleeding.”
Sue me, Silverstein was life back then.
I roll my eyes, shaking my head, trying not to grin too much. He’s impossible, and I love it. “Fine. But if you keep this up, pretty boy, no Christmas presents.”
He freezes, then narrows his eyes in mock offense. “You wouldn’t deny me,” he says, crossing his arms, chest puffed out like a tiny warrior.
“Oh, baby,” I reply, smirking. “I have a very fun way of denying you. Keep playin’ with me.”
After a few more rounds of back-and-forth, we migrate to the couch, Caleb wrapped in a blanket like a little burrito.
I drape another over both of us, pulling him close so the heat of his body presses against mine.
The fire flickers, throwing shadows across the cabin, and the snow is falling harder outside.
It’s the perfect ambiance for a Christmas movie debate.
“So,” Caleb says, half serious, half teasing, “what are we watching first?”
I smirk. “Die Hard. Obviously.”
He nearly chokes on his sip of champurrado. “Die Hard? That’s not a Christmas movie!”
I let a slow smile spread across my face. “Uh, yes, it is. Set during Christmas, snow outside, John McClane is literally saving Christmas. It’s a classic.”
“No,” Caleb says, shaking his head. “Setting doesn’t make it Christmas. Christmas needs terror, suspense, that creeping dread of a killer in a Santa mask, like Black Christmas.”
I laugh, tilting my head back. “You mean the 1974 one?”
He nods, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Yes. That’s a real Christmas movie. People die, houses are creepy, you know, classic holiday vibes.”
I nudge him with my knee. “So your criteria is someone dies, and the killer wears a Santa mask? That’s your holiday spirit?”
“Yes!” he shoots back, leaning closer, eyes sparkling. “It’s scary, it’s festive, it’s… perfect. More Christmasy than a guy crawling through vents with machine guns!”
I snort. “McClane is iconic, and he’s wearing a Santa hat in at least one scene. That counts. Plus, explosions are festive too.”
“You’re insane,” he says, shaking his head, still smiling, biting the corner of his lip.
“And you love arguing with me,” I reply, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “Don’t you, baby? You wanna keep this going? I’ve got all night.”
He groans, rolling his eyes, but doesn’t move away. “Ugh… fine. But we’re doing both. Die Hard first, then Black Christmas.”
I grin, leaning back into him, letting his warmth seep through the blanket. “Deal. But if I’m holding you on the couch during Black Christmas… you’re not allowed to complain tomorrow when I watch The Long Kiss Goodnight. You and scary movies don’t mingle.”
“Lies,” he says, voice teasing, one eyebrow raised, and it makes me laugh. I know better than to believe him entirely, but the promise in the curve of his smile is enough.
The fire pops, spreading warmth through the small living room, and between his warmth, the blankets, and our quiet, playful sparring, I feel the weekend stretching out perfectly ahead of us.
I pull him a little closer, feeling his hip press against mine, and the smirk that never leaves his face softens when he rests his head on my shoulder.
“See?” I whisper against his hair. “Christmas already feels better with you here.”
He hums, nudging me in reply. “Okay, now shush. It’s movie time.”
I grab the remote and settle against the back of the couch, Caleb tucked against my side under the big wool blanket. The firelight dances across the room, and outside, the snow falls thick and fast. I hit play on Die Hard, expecting a little quiet background chaos while we watch, but I know better.
“McClane looks ridiculous with that Santa hat,” Caleb mutters, nudging my arm.
“Ridiculous?” I echo, tilting my head. “He’s heroic. Classic. Festive.”
Caleb hums, shifting closer, and I feel him brush against my chest. I glance down, a smirk tugging at my lips. “You’re distracting me already,” I murmur.
He grins innocently. “Am I?”
Oh, bratty Caleb wants to play.
“Yes,” I reply, voice low, and I try to focus on the screen, but his hand snakes under the blanket, resting lightly on my thigh. My pulse jumps.
“I’m just… making sure you’re paying attention,” he says, lips brushing against my ear in a whisper that makes me shiver.
I clear my throat, trying to keep my composure, but he’s bold, bold in a way that’s impossible to resist right now.
His hand drifts lower, the denim of my jeans resisting slightly under his fingers, teasing me without breaking contact.
I bite back a groan, tilting my head so my lips brush his temple.
“You’re poking the bear, baby,” I mutter, trying to sound stern, but the warmth of him pressed to my side, the brush of his hand, and the scent of his shampoo, it’s too much.
He hums against my neck, a low, satisfied sound, and presses his lips there again. “Maybe,” he says, nipping lightly at my skin, “but I like to see how distracted I can make you.”
I exhale sharply, hands instinctively going to his hip, then stopping myself. “So you’re testing me,” I question, my voice a little ragged.
Keep it together, Miggy.
“Maybe,” he says again, teeth grazing my jaw. “Maybe I’m testing Santa.”