Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Gia
On Christmas Eve, the snow outside had settled into that soft, steady drift that made the whole world feel muted, like the cabin existed in its own quiet snow globe. The tree lights glowed softly in the corner, and the warm smell of cinnamon and ginger filled the kitchen.
I’d woken up with a strange combination of emotions. I was sad that I wouldn’t be with my family for the first time ever, but I was also excited to be sharing my favorite holiday with Enzo.
I stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, staring at the mess we’d made.
“Well,” I observed, eyeing the bowl in front of me. “I think we’re missing something.”
Enzo looked up from the baking sheet he was prepping. “Missing what?”
“I don’t know. Directions? A trained pastry chef? Divine intervention?”
A ghost of a smile touched the corner of his mouth—rare, soft, the kind I’d started to crave without meaning to. “You wanted to make a gingerbread house.”
“I didn’t expect structural engineering to be part of it. My mom always made gingerbread men, not a house.”
“Well, it’s a house,” he said, deadpan. “Structure is important.”
“Oh my God, you’re taking this too seriously.”
“You said this was part of your Christmas tradition,” he replied as though it were obvious, sliding the gingerbread pieces into the oven with quiet precision. “Traditions are important.”
Every year on Christmas Eve, my mom and I baked gingerbread men for Santa. Since I wasn’t able to spend Christmas with my family this year, I wanted to keep up the tradition but alter it a little bit. A gingerbread house seemed like the perfect idea.
But Enzo’s OCD was making me reconsider.
The oven door shut with a soft clink. He stood, wiping his hands on a towel, completely unaware that watching him do even simple things like that had somehow become dangerous for my heart.
While the gingerbread baked, I mixed the icing, humming along to the quiet holiday music playing from Enzo’s tablet. At some point, Enzo drifted behind me—close enough that I could feel the warmth of him at my back, the solid presence that always made me feel steadier than I wanted to admit.
Now that we’d been intimate, I didn’t know how to act around him. It had been almost a week and things were weird to say the least. We’d spend the days acting like nothing was going on between us, but once we got ready for bed, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.
“You’re making that too thin,” he murmured near my ear.
I froze, the hairs on the back of my neck rising. “No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I am not.”
He reached around me—slowly, carefully—and took the bowl. His hand brushed mine, just lightly, but it scattered my thoughts like the powdered sugar on the counter.
“Here,” he said. “Let me thicken it.”
“This is my mom’s recipe” I muttered.
“Well, structural integrity is at stake. It needs to be able to hold the walls together.”
I snorted and bumped his shoulder with mine. He didn’t move away.
When the gingerbread finally came out, we set up all the components at the table, then let the cookies cool. Once they had, Enzo held the front piece of the house while I piped icing along the edge.
“Hold it steady,” I said.
He narrowed his eyes at me. “I am.”
“You’re tilting it.”
He huffed in annoyance. “No, I’m bracing it. There’s a difference.”
“It looks crooked.”
“You’re crooked,” he countered flatly.
I snorted. That subtle warmth in his eyes deepened even though he fought a smile.
We got the second wall on, then the third. The roof was a whole different story. I tried to hold one side while he balanced the other, and the whole thing wobbled so violently. “It’s falling!” I gasped.
“It’s fine,” he argued, sounding far too calm for someone lying.
“It’s definitely falling!”
“Just hold—”
The whole roof slid, tilting dramatically before slumping down onto the table in a sugary collapse.
We stared at it.
Then at each other.
Then I burst out laughing.
Enzo didn’t laugh. But he did exhale a quiet breath that felt very close to one. Or it could’ve been exasperation.
“Okay,” I declared when I finally caught my breath. “Plan B.”
He arched a brow.“A new house?”
“No.” I scooped a chunk of gingerbread from the broken roof. “Christmas ruins.”
He stared at me. “You’re serious.”
“Extremely. Look.” I positioned the fallen pieces into something that vaguely resembled an ancient, festive archaeological site. “Artistic. Rustic. Historically significant.”
“That’s not a house.”
I shrugged. “It’s a vibe.”
Enzo clicked his tongue. “It’s a disaster.”
“It’s our disaster,” I shot back.
Our eyes met and he paused, just long enough for the meaning of the word “our” to settle between us, warm and delicate and terrifying.
Then he quietly replied, “Yeah. It is.”
We decorated it anyway—peppermints lining the broken wall, gumdrops circling the ruin like little guardians, powdered sugar snow drifting over everything. By the end, the table was a mess, our sleeves were dusted in sugar, and the gingerbread house looked… not great.
But it was ours.
And it was somehow ridiculously charming.
I stepped back to admire it. “Be honest. It’s adorable.”
“It’s something,” Enzo replied, but there was this softness in his voice that wasn’t there an hour ago.
I bumped his arm gently. “We started a tradition.”
He looked at the gingerbread ruins, then at me; really looked, and for a heartbeat, the air changed. Warm. Charged. Something new blossoming between us. Not just sex, but more.
“I guess we did,” he murmured.
I wanted, desperately, to lean in. To close that small space between us and kiss him. But the moment was too sweet, too fragile, and I was afraid to tarnish it with something sexual.
So instead, I picked up a gumdrop and popped it into my mouth. “Merry almost Christmas, Enzo.”
He reached out and dusted my cheek, fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary. “Merry almost Christmas, Gia.”
By the time we finished cleaning up the kitchen: brushing powdered sugar off the counters, gathering gumdrops from impossible corners, arguing about whether our gingerbread ruins deserved a place of honor or should be thrown in the trash, the cabin had settled into a soft, comfortable quiet.
The quiet I’d come to love and treasure.
We placed the gingerbread creation on a small wooden board by the tree. I straightened the peppermint pieces one last time before stepping back.
“It’s perfect,” I said.
Enzo crossed his arms, studying it with the deep seriousness of a man evaluating a tactical map. “It’s… unique.”
“That’s basically the same thing.”
He glanced at me sidelong, the corner of his mouth lifting. “If you say so.”
The fire had burned down to embers, warm and glowing, and the lights on the tree reflected in the windowpanes like tiny stars trapped in the glass. Something in the room felt suspended, like the world was holding its breath just for us.
It was hard to believe that danger was right around the corner. Any day now, we could be ambushed.
“You tired?” Enzo asked gently, breaking me from my thoughts.
“Not really. We need to wrap our presents.”
“Okay.” He nodded, slow and thoughtful, before taking a step toward the kitchen. “I’ll make some hot cocoa.”
And maybe it was silly, but my heart squeezed. That simple gesture—quiet, steady, him—meant more than all the holiday clichés in the world.
We both wrapped presents in our respective rooms, although we were basically staying in my room all the time. As I wrapped the silly gifts I’d gotten him, I wondered what he picked out for me.
By the time I finally stood, stretching my stiff limbs, it was late. I carried Enzo’s five wrapped gifts to the tree and stacked them underneath. The fire had faded to a sleepy glow, but the cabin still felt wrapped in warmth.
A few seconds later, Enzo came out of his room with five messily wrapped boxes.
I fought a laugh and he frowned. “Don’t start.”
“They look great. I can’t wait to open them,” I replied with a giggle.
He set his under the tree next to mine.
“Perfect,” I stated.
He snorted. “Whatever you say, princess.”
I smiled up at him. “Are you coming to bed with me?”
I asked the same question every night. And every night, he came with me.
“Not tonight. I have some things I need to take care of for tomorrow.”
I pouted. “You’re going to make me go to bed all by myself on Christmas Eve?”
Sighing, he rolled his eyes. “Gia.”
I smacked my teeth. “Fine. I’ll sleep alone tonight.”
He pressed a quick kiss to my lips. “I’ll be in there later.”
I smiled, the little compromise lifting my spirits. “Okay.”
I went to bed with my heart thudding in this ridiculous, soft way that made it impossible to fall asleep quickly. I lay awake for what seemed like hours, replaying the sound of his laugh, the brush of his fingers on my cheek, the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.
At some point, sleep pulled me under—slow, warm, and full of cocoa and gingerbread ruins.
When I woke up, Enzo wasn’t in the bed with me. He had kept his word and came to bed with me some time after I’d fallen asleep, but I knew he’d be up before me.
He was somehow an early bird and a night owl. I wasn’t sure how he functioned on such little sleep, but you’d never be able to tell unless you saw his sleeping habits firsthand.
I started to go back to sleep, but it hit me. It was Christmas morning. My eyes sprang open and I hopped out of bed, eager to open the presents Enzo had gotten me.
As I brushed my teeth, I wondered what he had picked out for me a few weeks ago when he barely knew me. I felt like what I had picked for him were pretty spot on, but also a little generic. I’d get him a couple of different things if I had the chance.
Then, I remembered the special gift I had hidden from him. It wasn’t much, but I’d sketched a picture of him over time when he didn’t know I was watching him. It had turned out better than I expected, and I really hoped he liked it.