Chapter 13
BENJAMIN
Hazel lands in my arms with a thud that knocks the breath out of us both.
For a beat, the world narrows to the press of her, the jingle of broken lights, and the hiss of a pile of snow sliding from the roof and burying us in a wet, sparkling blanket.
I clutch her to my chest without thinking, arms tightening until I can feel the hitch of her breath against my collarbone.
We stay like that—stunned and still—until the absurdity breaks us.
She starts to laugh, high and incredulous, and then I lose it too.
Snow drips down my neck, her hair tickles my jaw, and tears leak from the corners of her eyes from laughing and cold and the absolute ridiculousness of the moment.
She lifts a bare hand to wipe her face and somehow manages to tangle her arm in another strand of lights.
They cinch tighter around us, and we both erupt all over again.
“You’re a walking catastrophe,” I grumble fondly as I work one hand free, brushing wet flakes from her cheek. Her skin is warm under my fingers; the butterscotch smell of her makes something low and hungry coil in my chest. She inhales sharply at my touch, and her gaze hooks mine, bright and raw.
“How did you know where I was?” she breathes, her voice a puff of white in the frigid air.
I will always sense you, mate.
“Do you mean—how did I know you’d be falling after foolishly climbing a ladder on an icy sidewalk?” I say, half teasing, half lecturing. My voice is steadier than I feel. I can’t remember the last time I’d moved so fast.
She shoots me a look. “I wouldn’t have fallen if you hadn’t been distracting me.”
“You never should’ve been up there in the first place.” I take a step closer, close enough to hear the quick rhythm of her pulse beneath the cotton of her sweater. “What if I hadn’t been here to catch you?”
She tucks into my side and rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t try to wriggle free of my hold. “What are you even doing here? I already said thank you for rescuing me from the blizzard.” Her cheeks flush a faint, stubborn rose.
I breathe her in again. The scent of cinnamon and butterscotch and cold clings to her and loosens something in me I didn’t know I had: an ache that isn’t about the storm.
My fingers find the line of her jaw and tilt her face up until her eyes meet mine.
Up close, every freckle, every tiny breath reads like a promise.
“I actually did come hoping I’d find you,” I admit, my voice low. The words feels vulnerable and honest in a way I haven’t been in years.
“You did?” Her head tilts, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The small movement—the way she licks her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue—sends something hot, dangerous, and primal right through me.
I shut my eyes for a second, steadying myself.
I’ve known Hazel for days, not years, and still the memory of her mouth on mine under that damn sprig of mistletoe fractures me every time.
I’ve replayed it so often my teeth ache.
How do you tell someone you hardly know that they’ve become the measure for everything you want?
How do you tell someone they were fated to be your perfect other half—your mate?
Just kiss her already, you dolt.
“Would you—” I clear my throat, fighting the stumble in my words. “Would you like to spend Christmas with me and my family?” The question tumbles out clumsy and hopeful.
Her expression tightens for a beat, like I’ve asked her to walk across a line she didn’t know existed. “Your family?” The words come out small and wary.
“Yes.” My chest hammers so hard I can feel it under my palms. “You don’t have to.
I know you have your life here—your job, and you just moved—but my mother said no one should be alone at Christmas.
” I try to make it sound casual, but the earnestness leaks through. I’m not good at this. Not even close.
That’s putting it mildly.
“So your mother invited me to Christmas. Wait—you told your mother about me?” Her eyebrows knit. She looks amused and a little scandalized all at once.
“Yes—well, not like that.” I blink. “It’s just, when I came home that morning…”
How do I explain I’m from a family of shifters and they smelled her on me the moment I walked through the door?
She’s a smart witch. I’m sure we aren’t the first shifters she’s ever met. Hell, half the town is magical beings.
“They what?”
“They asked why I’d left and where I’d been all night. You kind of… came up in conversation.” The admission makes me sound ridiculous, but the truth is simple: the house is full of nosy bears, and they noticed your scent.
“You might have rescued me twice,” she says, shaking her head as if to dislodge the absurdity, “but you’re inviting me to drive hours out of town to a remote farm where my cell phone barely works, where I nearly ran off the road and died, to spend Christmas with a man I just met and his family because his mom invited me?
” Her voice is teasing, but I hear the caution under it.
I growl, a low, involuntary sound that vibrates in my chest, and the world narrows until there’s nothing but her.
One hand slides into her hair, my thumb brushing the nape of her neck, the other pulling her against me—close enough that the proof of what she does to me presses between us.
I don’t think. I kiss her, hard and hungry, letting my bear’s instincts rise to the surface.
When we come up for air, both of us are breathless and grinning, cheeks streaked with melted snow.
“I’m not good at this, okay?” I mutter into her hair, words tumbling out in a rush.
“I’ve never had time for a relationship.
Hell, any relationship. But I like you, Hazel.
” My voice goes quieter, rougher. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since you drove that goddamn yellow car onto my tree lot. ”
She freezes for half a beat, then her laugh is sudden and bright and real.
“Oh, my yellow car,” she says, rolling her shoulders like she’s shrugging off something heavy.
“That car has a mind of its own, but it’s gotten me through some tough times.
Thank you for rescuing me—and it.” She hooks her fingers in my suspenders and tugs me closer, eyes searching mine.
“I’ve never really done this either. The whole relationship and Christmas thing with someone else. It’s usually just me and my parents.”
“You don’t have to be alone,” I whisper, my thumb tracing her jaw.
“So, Christmas in the mountains, huh?”
“Yes.” I can’t keep the want from pooling in my voice. “If you’ll have me.”
Her answer is a smile that makes something in my chest loosen.
“Only if you promise there’s pie and not, like, ritual sacrifice.
” She winks, but when she leans in and kisses me again, it’s not a joke.
It’s the kind of kiss that promises mornings together and a stubborn witch and a dozen small things I’d never let myself wish for.
Snow crunches behind us on the sidewalk; lights tangle and jingle above our heads. For the first time since I can remember, the ache in my chest doesn’t feel empty—just dangerous and deliciously necessary.