Epilogue
The first rule of decorating Zane's Christmas tree was apparently that the lights had to behave like irrigation tubing: straight, untangled, and corrected before they developed character.
I stood in his living room with a cardboard ornament box against my hip, watching him frown at a strand of white lights like it had personally betrayed the season.
Snow tapped softly against the front windows.
A fir wreath leaned against the wall by the coat hooks, still waiting for the ribbon I'd bought in town, and the whole house smelled like pine needles, coffee, cinnamon, and the laundry Zane had folded after looking at the chair and saying, "Temporary system. "
Temporary systems, I had learned after five months of living with the man, could last three days if I didn't intervene.
"Are you measuring that?" I asked.
Zane glanced down at the light strand stretched between his tattooed fingers. He wore faded jeans and a dark thermal shirt pushed up at the forearms, which was rude of him considering I was trying to be useful with ornaments and not stare at the way ink disappeared under cotton.
"No," he said.
"You paused before answering."
"I was deciding whether you needed the truth."
"That means yes."
His mouth moved at one corner. "It means this tree is going to look right."
"It's a Christmas tree, Zane. Not a municipal project."
He looked at the half-lit branches, then at me. "You say that like municipal projects don't benefit from planning."
I set the ornament box on the coffee table beside our two mugs. Mine had a chip near the handle. His had black coffee in it, because Zane believed flavored creamer was dessert wearing a disguise.
Outside, the porch steps were salted, the shovel was by the door, and my gloves were drying over the heating vent. I knew winter. I knew slick roads, wet cuffs, stubborn ice, and the exact second a person should stop pretending bare hands were fine.
"Plan the tree," I said. "I'll supervise emotionally."
"You're good at that."
"I'm excellent at many kinds of supervision now. I've learned from a stern professional."
Zane looped the strand around a branch with maddening competence. "That stern professional remembers you negotiating with bean vines."
"That stern professional kissed me after sign-out."
His eyes came to mine across the branches, and the room warmed by several degrees without any help from the thermostat.
"That stern professional waited until after sign-out," he said.
"Yes, and he's been impossible about rules ever since."
"Rules kept you coming back."
"Court kept me coming back."
Zane's gaze dropped to the ornament box, then to the chipped mug beside mine. "Court got you through the gate."
My throat tightened. I looked down into the ornament box because cardboard and tissue paper seemed safer than the way he looked at me when he said things like that.
There were plain glass balls from the hardware store, a set of red wooden stars from the P-Patch holiday swap, and one tiny ceramic carrot with Tyler's paper tag tied to the stem: SEASONALLY FLEXIBLE. SNOWMEN HAVE NOSES.
I lifted the carrot. "I still can't believe you let Tyler contribute to Christmas."
"I didn't let him. Birdie did."
"That explains the confidence."
Zane stepped around the tree and took the ornament from my fingers.
His fingers brushed mine, warm and rough, and five months of waking up in this house hadn't made that touch ordinary.
Now his palm at my hip meant coffee, laundry, the porch light left on when I worked late, and him checking the road before I drove into town after snow.
He hung the carrot on a low branch with a straight face.
I stared at it. "That is terrible."
"It's a reminder."
"Of vegetables?"
"Of where you started."
I pointed at the branch. "I didn't start as root produce."
Zane's mouth curved. "You started mad at weeds."
"I was under legal and botanical pressure."
"You got better."
His smile stayed, but his eyes held me a little longer. I looked around the room before my face gave me away.
My green scarf hung on the hook beside his black coat.
A stack of mail sat on the entry table, two holiday cards addressed to both of us tucked under the little stone paperweight Zane used for everything from bills to seed packets.
My paperback was facedown on the arm of his chair.
His spare flannel had ended up over the back of the couch because I'd worn it while making coffee that morning and then pretended I planned to give it back.
I had moved in by inches at first. A sweater in his dresser.
My favorite mug in the cabinet. A bottle of vanilla creamer in his fridge, where it sat beside his black coffee like a scandal.
Then September became October, October became November, and one morning Zane had opened the hall closet, stared at my coats taking up half the bar, and said, "We need more hangers. "
He hadn't asked if I wanted to stay. He hadn't announced that we were getting serious. He had looked at the closet as if the life had already made room and the only problem left was hardware.
I pressed my thumb into the edge of a red wooden star until the corner bit lightly into my skin.
Zane picked up another ornament and held it out. "You're thinking too loud."
"I'm admiring your tree-management style."
"You're staring at the coat hooks."
"They're very festive."
His palm slid to my waist, and he tugged me closer. The ornament box pressed lightly between us until he took it from me and set it on the coffee table.
"Daphne."
"Yes?"
"You get quiet when something's too big for a joke."
I rested my hands on his chest. His heart beat steady under my palms, beneath thermal cotton and ink and all that stubborn tenderness he tried to pass off as practical sense.
"I was thinking about the closet," I said.
His brows drew together. "The closet?"
"We have enough hangers now."
His face changed slowly. His hand covered mine on his chest, holding it there while the quiet settled around us.
"You live here," he said.
"I do."
"You know that, right?"
I looked toward the windows, where snow turned the dark glass soft. Beyond the porch light, the pines stood white at the edges, and the slope disappeared into winter shadow. Somewhere below the house, the dock and shoreline were tucked under cold and quiet until summer came back around.
"I know," I said. "I'm still catching up to how much I know it."
His hand tightened at my waist.
The front windows reflected the room back at us: the crooked half-lit tree, the mugs, the ribbon still coiled on the table, Zane standing behind me with his arm around my middle.
In the reflection, I looked like a woman who belonged in the middle of the mess.
Brown hair loose over one shoulder. Soft sweater sleeves pushed up. Green eyes a little too bright.
Five months ago, I'd walked through the P-Patch gate with court paperwork and shame trying to crawl out of my skin.
Now Birdie's pictures of frost on the raised beds landed on my phone with messages like the latest one:
BIRDIE:
Winter workday next Saturday. Voluntary help gets better snacks.
Gus had built new frames for the south row before the ground froze. Tyler had learned three actual tool names; the hand cultivator remained "the stabby rake," which Zane counted as progress.
The P-Patch had survived the summer. More than survived. The garden rested under snow with its beds repaired, its fence line quiet, and its future no longer being used as cheerful decoration for someone else's access plan.
Cascadia had survived too, though Monica would have objected to the drama of that phrasing.
The West Ridge file had been rewritten without Zane's parcel, McCrae Land Brokerage was nowhere near anything tied to his land, and Monica's version of reassurance had been one dry sentence over a corrected packet: "You handled the conflict correctly, Daphne. "
That was Monica's version of a parade.
Fletcher hadn't been part of one.
His name came up less now. When it did, Zane's face still closed, and I held his hand a little tighter. He hadn't forgiven his brother. He hadn't pretended betrayal became smaller because the project route died before it could do real damage.
I didn't push. I just covered his hand with mine and let the quiet stay where he needed it.
Zane's thumb moved once against my sweater. "Where'd you go?"
"P-Patch. Cascadia. Your brother. The usual cheerful holiday topics."
His jaw tightened at the last one.
I turned in his arms before he could step back into that old cold place alone. "I'm not trying to fix it."
"I know."
"I'm also not secretly inviting him to Christmas dinner because I saw that movie once and everyone needed therapy."
That got me the rough edge of a laugh. "Good."
"I like a peaceful holiday. I'm wild that way."
Zane brushed a loose piece of hair back from my cheek. "You came into my life with a court order."
"Yes, but I've grown."
"You slashed two tires."
"Again, personal growth."
His smile was small and real. "You're not inviting Fletcher."
"I'm not inviting Fletcher."
His hand cupped the side of my neck, thumb brushing under my jaw. "Thank you."
The words were simple. I swallowed around them anyway.
I rose onto my toes and kissed him.
Zane let me start it softly. He usually did, for about three seconds, before his hand slid into my hair and his mouth took over like kissing me was another practical task that deserved full attention.
The tree lights glowed against my closed eyelids.
His other arm locked around my waist, pulling me against him, and I made a sound that had nothing to do with Christmas spirit and everything to do with the fact that this man could still ruin my train of thought with one hand.
The ornament box bumped my hip.
I broke the kiss with a laugh against his mouth. "The decorations are attacking."
"They're in the way."
"You're the one who wanted the tree to look right."
"I changed my mind."
"You have strong seasonal priorities."
"My priorities are fine."