Chapter 27
twenty-seven
HOLDEN
I think something is interfering with the cabin’s charm.
This rental should have a minimum of four bedrooms, and so far, I’ve found one. The bed is set up in the coziest room in the house—fireplace, flannel quilt, and fairy lights she’s going to love—but since there’s no way I can make it back to town tonight, it’s a problem.
I can sleep on the couch, but it won’t matter. Laila will hate this.
The air smells faintly of cinnamon and pine again—the house reacting to her, not the other way around.
When I find her, she’s in the living room. Christmas music fills the space at a low volume, an oldie playlist—Ella Fitzgerald crooning about snow. It’s usually pop remakes for her; classics mean she’s feeling things.
“There’s a small thing.” I hold my thumb and forefinger up, leaving just a sliver between them. “Super small.”
Her eyes lift from the snow globe she’s holding. “Out with it.”
“Well, there’s supposed to be several bedrooms.” I pause. “There’s only one with a bed in it, though.”
“One?” Her eyes widen. She sets the piece down on the table with a thud. “In the whole house?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“There’s no way,” she says, brushing past me.
A few minutes later, she’s leaning over the stair railing, lips pressed into a tight line. “You weren’t kidding.”
“I told you, La.”
“What are we supposed to do?”
“Obviously, you take the bed. The couch doesn’t look bad,” I jerk a thumb toward it. “I can take that.”
“It’s your turn to be the guest,” she fires back. “You drove me here. You should get the bed.”
“Let’s get one thing straight: I didn’t ‘chauffer’ you anywhere,” I say, sure to emphasize the word with finger quotes.
“Semantics,” she says, crossing her arms. “I don’t need the bed.”
“Well, you’re not sleeping on that couch.”
“Why not? It’s beneath me?”
“That’s not it at all,” I huff. “I’m well aware you’d sleep in a treehouse in this weather just to prove a point.”
Her head tilts. “Is there a treehouse?”
I grin. “It’s the bed or the couch. I’m not taking the bed while you sleep out here.”
“And I’m not taking the bed so you can.” She starts down the stairs again, chin high.
The fire snaps in the hearth, throwing gold over her hair as she passes me.
“We can settle it with a snowball fight?”
Her eyebrow arches. “Why not a coin toss?”
“More lively.” I grin and shove my hands in my pockets. The coin in there hums like it heard its name.
“Fine. You win. We’ll share. But there will be a pillow wall.”
She threatened me with one last year, but never followed through with it. Purely on principle, tonight she will.
“Are you sure you didn’t want to share a bed with me? Remember, the house just does what you’ll be comfortable with!” I call after her.
There’s a frustrated shout as a pillow sails out the door and narrowly misses me.
I laugh, ducking out of range. “Guess that’s a no.”
I shove my hand in my pockets and wander toward the kitchen, eager to find either tea to help me sleep or something warm. The moment I step into the kitchen, the air fills with the scent of warm chocolate, and the string lights over the cabinets flicker, like the house is laughing at me
“Fine,” I tell it. “Cocoa for one.”
The kettle hums to life on its own. Figures. Even the magic’s on her side.
Laila made good on her pillow wall threat… or promise. Whichever way she meant it.
There’s a line of pillows that could stop a cavalry charge. It looks like a siege.
Last year, we joked about boundaries and forgetting which side belonged to whom. Tonight, there’s no joking. She’s taking this wall seriously, adjusting and straightening like her life depends on it. She’s building a fort because words feel dangerous.
“I like how you staggered the pillows,” I say. “Very architecturally sound.”
Her mouth twitches. “Some of them are load-bearing.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to shift the mattress too much.
If I hadn’t been in this cabin before with Logan, I’d assume it always looked this way.
Logan and I crashed here once during the fall festival when the truck broke down—same bed, fewer decorative obstacles.
But this room is a near-twin to the one in Sweetheart Springs—same recipe, different purpose.
Across from the bed, Gumdrop slumps against the chair by the hearth—the same gingerbread plush I won for her at Peppermint Pines two years ago. Seeing him here knocks the breath out of me. She brought him. After everything, she still brought him.
The house is doing its part, but in doing so, it’s putting her vulnerability on full display. I can see how much that weekend meant to her simply by sitting here, but I won’t draw attention to it.
And she knows I’m aware of it, judging by the way she tugs her sleeves down until her hands disappear.
For most people, this setup would feel charming. Cozy.
The quilt splayed across the bed is soft, the storm whispers at the windows, and the fire roars in the hearth: all the same recipe from before. But the purpose has changed. Back then, it was meant to draw us closer.
Now it feels like something we have to survive.
I wonder what we’d be doing right now if her mother hadn’t come here in October and blown it all the pieces. It’s not fair. We’d made progress. Sitting here in this familiar echo hurts in all the old places.
Laila lets out a soft sigh, and it physically hurts not to touch her.
“I can sleep on the couch,” I say, shifting to stand. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
“No, I don’t—I don’t want you to do that,” she whispers. “I feel safe with you.”
“Then what’s with the pillow wall, La?” I ask gently.
She shrugs, lips pressed tight.
Message received: when inner walls wobble, she builds outer ones.
I’ve learned to read Laila’s silence like bakers read dough. Mom always says bread needs time, warmth, and space to rise. Too much or too little, and it falls flat. Laila’s the same recipe.
I also know when it’s best to distract her, like in the car with the Christmas CD.
“We can name them, you know. Give them personalities. Maybe act out a little play.”
It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever said out loud, but if it loosens some of the tension she’s carrying, it’s worth looking like an idiot.
“We will not be doing that.” Then, a beat later. “Although that big one sort of looks like a Trevor.”
“There she is,” I grin.
Her shoulders drop a fraction, and relief slides through me. The music shifts to Baby, It’s Cold Outside—our old off-key duet.
But she doesn’t sing.
“I’m going to change,” she says instead. “Keep an eye on them?”
I chuckle and nod. “I’ll make sure everyone behaves.”
“Watch out for Warner—he’s a real pain,” she tosses over her shoulder.
Olive branch accepted.
I get up and cross over to the dresser, hoping that something’s tucked away for me. Sleeping in jeans I’ve been wearing all day doesn’t sound appealing. I tug open the first drawer and freeze.
Pajamas. The same pattern I wore last December.
“Wow,” I whisper.
I can’t decide if the house is showing off or our hearts set the decor. For the first time since October, hope knocks. She still loves me. That’s enough to keep breathing.
We need to talk about Colorado. About Sweet Treats. About what she’s really building now. I could tell Quinn didn’t mean to let it slip that she’d paid rent for the apartment over the coffee shop, but does that mean she wants to stay? She wants to try?
Questions stack like cooling racks. I don’t need all the answers tonight. I just want to be part of the figuring out.
When Laila reappears, she knocks the breath out of me.
She’s always been beautiful. But her blonde locks are swept into a simple ponytail, and her face is scrubbed clean of makeup.
It’s not a side Laila allows many people to see, and I know this is a big deal for her.
But this is all I’ve wanted. I want her to let me all the way in. I’m tired of getting her in pieces.
But here she is, padding across the room in Christmas pajamas—red and white stripes, soft as candy canes, ridiculous and perfect.
Her cheeks color when she catches me looking. “What?”
“Nothing,” I manage. “Just… didn’t expect the wardrobe upgrade.”
She glances down at herself and shrugs, tugging at the hem of the top. “Maybe a brand sent them to me. I’m testing them out for a post.”
“Did they?” I ask, not bothering to hide my smile.
“Why are you making this a thing? They’re just pajamas.”
“Because you look good in them,” I say simply.
Her blush deepens, and she busies herself straightening Trevor the Pillow instead of meeting my gaze.
You wouldn’t think one weekend a year teaches you this much, but I know her routines. Shoes in every season because bare floors feel wrong. Fuzzy everything.
Tonight it’s white slippers with gingerbread men. Gumdrop would approve.
I settle back against the headboard, pretending to focus on the fire even though my eyes keep finding her. She climbs under the blankets and, for just a second, the room feels like it did last December, with the same quiet hum of magic in the air and snow softly pelting the windows.
Her eyes flick to mine, and I know she feels it too.
“You know, you didn’t deny they matched someone’s.”
She wiggles beneath the covers a little more.
“Maybe they do,” she whispers.
I nod. “Ella and Bridget?”
She hesitates before confirming. “It’s a tradition we started when her dad was still alive,” she says softly. “Ella was so excited to have sisters. He gave us packages the night of Thanksgiving—he couldn’t even wait until the next morning. Said it made the season last longer.”
I move like I’m handling spun sugar—slow, careful.
“And you’ve kept it going?” I ask quietly.
“They had their own family traditions, but we tried to start our own. They didn’t last very long, of course.
” The happiness on her face flickers, like a short in an electrical fuse.
“Ella, Bridget, and I all lived together in Colorado. When we found our place, we restarted old traditions, and this one stuck.” She shrugs.
I’m grateful that she’s sharing with me. But it hurts a little. Despite how tough she makes herself seem, she’s got a soft gooey center—just like our kolaches.
“I’m a little jealous right now,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her eyebrows lift. “You’re jealous of our matching sleepwear?”
“More the tradition, I think,” I correct. “That you’ll let people close enough to share things like that.”
She stays quiet, then sinks further below the covers. “We sort of do.”
“What do you mean?” Now it’s my turn to be surprised.
Her arm appears over the wall of pillows. “It’s plaid.”
“Laila, I might be pattern-challenged, but those are stripes.”
She huffs, and the bed slightly shakes as she raises up on her knees. She leans just far enough that she doesn’t cross the pillow wall, but sort of butts up against the line.
“It’s a super light pink—almost white. But see?”
“Huh,” I say. “So even though yours is a totally different plaid, it still counts since it’s the same pattern? Plaid is plaid?”
A smile plays around her lips. “Plaid is not plaid, Holden. They’re very separate, distinct patterns,” she says, but her voice is warmer now.
“Feels like a technicality, La.”
“You and your technicalities,” she sighs.
Silence settles. The house seems to exhale with us. I almost think she’s asleep until her voice threads through the pillows, so soft I almost miss it.
She peeks through a hole she’s made in the wall, her hazel eyes watchful but awake.
“We have another tradition that actually goes with the pajamas.”
I grin. Another olive branch.
“If it’s a Christmas movie night, I already know. You three have them for every major holiday,” I say. I only know because she’s freely offered this information to me before.
She shakes her head. “Dance videos.”
“You make dance videos in your pajamas? And post them on the internet?”
Her body shakes with silent laughter. “You really don’t understand how social media works, do you?”
“This is a thing? People really watch this?”
“Our last video got over a million views,” she says quietly. “It was technically branded content because yes—those pajamas were gifts. So I made a lot of money off of it. But I split it with Ella and Bridget.”
Another piece of Laila I tuck away for later.
“And if you’d been with Ella instead of stuck here?” I ask.
She smiles. “Then we’d teach Lucy the dance and include her, since Bridget isn’t coming for a few more days.”
“I’m sorry you missed that,” I say.
“It’s okay,” she whispers. “We have time.”
That’s one thing Laila and I have always had: time. And tonight, a house that seems determined to give us a little more.