Chapter 6
Chapter Six
ROMAN
The smell of chili hits us the second we step into my house, rich and spicy, the slow heat clinging to our skin. I set it up this morning, knowing I’d be dragging her here one way or another.
Willow shrugs out of her coat and pauses in the entryway, just like she always does—like she’s still trying to convince herself this place is real.
Her gaze drifts upward to the vaulted ceilings, then across the wide windows framing the snow-covered yard.
She trails her fingers along the banister as we move deeper inside, her steps unhurried, soaking everything in as if she didn’t help bring half of it to life.
We pass the kitchen with its long farmhouse table, the living room where the Christmas tree waits, half-dressed in lights. Then she slows down.
The library.
Her library.
The room I pretended was just “extra space” when we sketched the blueprints at her kitchen table, but we both knew better.
It’s tucked behind glass-paned double doors, with warm light spilling out as if it had been waiting just for her.
Already, her fingerprints mark the shelves—first editions lined up beside my sci-fi paperbacks, signed romance novels she swore I couldn’t judge until I read them, thrillers she pushed into my hands with the warning, “Don’t you dare spoil the ending. ”
She steps inside, her hand brushing the spines like greeting old friends, her smile soft and fleeting.
And I let her linger, because this room was always hers—always meant to be hers.
One of the four bedrooms upstairs is hers, too.
Not officially. Not that she’s ever slept in it.
But it’s there, waiting—just in case it gets late, just in case she ever needs somewhere else to land.
She trails her fingers along the spines of a row of books as we pass, her mouth curling like she wants to smile but doesn’t quite trust herself. Her thumb brushes over the worn cover. Dune. She shoots me a look over her shoulder, half amusement, half disbelief.
“Still trying to make me a sci-fi convert?”
“What? You love it,” I say automatically, because she does—even if she won’t admit it.
Her lips curve, soft, almost wistful. “You only read Persuasion because I shoved it into your hands. Don’t think I didn’t notice you dog-earing every other page.”
The truth is, she’s right. I’d read anything if she told me to. And I think she knows it.
She slides the book back into place, fingertips lingering on the spine like she’s reluctant to let it go. The air between us swells with something I can’t name, something that lives on these shelves in the room I carved out for her long before I admit why.
“Tree first,” I say, needing to break the quiet before it swallows me whole. “Chili’s not going anywhere.”
She arches a brow. “You really planned this out.”
“Damn right I did.”
I pull her into the living room where the tree waits, tall and green, with the scent of pine curling through the air. Boxes of ornaments are stacked beside it—some new, some old enough to still smell faintly of her mother’s attic. I’d dug them out for her, because of course I did.
She kneels by the boxes, lifting a glass ornament between her fingers. Her face softens in that way that always kills me—like she’s caught between nostalgia and grief, light and shadow.
“You kept these.”
“Of course I did.” My voice comes out rougher than I want. “They’re yours.”
“They were Mom’s.”
“Which means they’re yours.”
She doesn’t argue. Instead, she carefully places the glass bauble back in its box and pulls out another. A ceramic Santa, his paint faded, with one mitten long gone.
“This one survived three moves,” she says, her laugh soft and edged with wonder. She holds it in her palm like it’s something fragile, priceless.
I can see it too—the way her mom used to hang that same Santa front and center every year, mitten or no mitten, swearing it was good luck.
I remember Willow pouting when it cracked in the box after one move, her mom crouching beside her, promising that broken things could still be beautiful if you cared enough to mend them.
It’s impossible not to hear her voice in the room now, warm and certain, stitched into every ornament we touch.
Willow swallows hard, her thumb gliding over the chipped ceramic. Her laughter softens into something quieter, as if she’s holding her mom's memory right there in her hands.
“I hot-glued it back together. Twice. Thought for sure you’d toss it.”
Her eyes lift to mine, bright with something I can’t quite name. “Yeah, you kept fixing it.”
“Couldn’t let you lose him,” I murmur, reaching out to take it from her and hook it on a branch. My fingers brush hers, and suddenly it feels less like hanging an ornament and more like hanging a piece of us—every year, every season, every way we’ve pieced each other back together.
Her gaze lingers, and for a moment, the years slip away.
It’s just us, sitting cross-legged on a floor somewhere, surrounded by broken ornaments and too many memories, trying to piece everything back together with glue and stubbornness.
The moment stays, fragile and full—until she blinks, clears her throat, and reaches for the next box.
We fall into decorating again, silence growing between us—alive with everything we don’t say. She fusses over the placement of ribbons while I try not to stare every time she stretches to reach a higher branch, her sweater riding up to reveal a sliver of skin.
When she hangs the last ornament, I plug in the lights. The whole tree glows—gold, red, and a little lopsided, but perfect anyway. Willow presses her lips together, staring at it with an expression I know too well. She’s fighting tears.
I move without thinking, brushing my hand against hers where it rests at her side. She doesn’t pull away.
We stand like that for a beat too long, the room washed in light, my pulse pounding in my ears.
If I leaned down now, if I just closed the inch of space…
Her breath hitches. Her lashes flutter.
I clear my throat and step back before I do something I can’t undo. “Chili’s ready.”
Her laugh comes out shaky. “Right, food.”
We eat at the kitchen island, bowls steaming, her hair falling in her face as she bends over the spoon. She moans when she tastes it, and I nearly choke on my food.
“Roman,” she says, pointing her spoon at me, “this is actually good.”
“Actually?”
She grins, cheeks flushed from the heat. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
I want to tell her she has no idea what she does to me.
That this—her, here, eating my chili, laughing in my kitchen—is all I’ve wanted since the day I walked away from the city.
She comes sometimes, not nearly enough, and always with an excuse tucked into her pocket.
A stack of invoices waiting at the shop.
A friend she promised to call. A dozen reasons to leave before it gets too late, before it starts to feel like more.
Every time she goes, I tell myself not to care. Every time, I fail.
Instead, I load the dishwasher. Because that’s safer. Safer than blurting out that I could live like this forever—her at my table, at my bed. Her voice spilling into these rooms I built with her in mind.
Once the bowls are rinsed and the counters are wiped down, she lingers near the couch, hesitant, as if she’s testing how much of me she’s allowed to take tonight. “Movies?”
I flip the remote in my hand, casual as I can manage. “You’re not going anywhere until you’ve seen It’s a Wonderful Life again.”
She groans, head tilting back. “Roman. . .”
“You love it.”
Her lips curve. “You love it.”
“Same thing,” I mutter, tossing the remote onto the cushion.
We end up under the same blanket without ever deciding it.
The tree glows in the corner, soft light spilling across her face, making her look like she belongs here more than any ornament on those branches.
Pine and cinnamon linger in the air, woven into the warmth of her shampoo, and when she curls against the cushion, I swear I feel her body tilt just slightly toward mine.
Like gravity’s working in my favor, just this once.
Halfway through, she falls asleep. Her head tips onto my shoulder, her breath brushing my neck. I stare at the screen but see nothing.
The movie plays on, black-and-white shadows dancing across the room, but all I see is her—soft, warm, so close it’s torture.
The glow of the tree makes her seem like she belongs here, like this house was always meant to hold her.
Like all the rooms I built were waiting for her laughter, her silences, her stubbornness.
I remember her breath catching in front of the tree earlier, the almost that left me wrecked, and I know I’m standing on that same edge again.
I’ve been standing here all night—when her fingers brushed mine on the ornament, when her laugh shook through my kitchen, when her blush made me forget how to breathe.
Every time, I pull back. Every time, it costs me.
My chest is a riot—wanting to turn, to kiss her, to say it all. But I don’t. Because if I lose her, I'll lose every good thing I’ve ever had.
I don’t move. Not for the whole damn movie. Not even when the credits roll and my arm goes numb.
Because this—her warmth against me, the sound of her soft breathing, the glow of the tree washing over us—feels like the closest I’ll ever get to everything I’ve wanted.
And God help me, I’m not ready to let go.