Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Cal
The timer on the oven dings just as I finish setting two plates on the counter.
Chicken, roasted potatoes, and something green just to balance it all out.
The apartment smells like rosemary, butter, and nerves.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel and glance around.
Candles lit, check.
Music low, an old R&B station humming soft through the speakers.
Check.
My heart’s doing this steady, traitorous pound that’s got nothing to do with cardio.
She’s been here nearly every night since that first night back.
She leaves a toothbrush in my bathroom, half her skincare on the counter, and a cardigan on the back of my couch.
But tonight feels different.
Christmas Eve.
Something about it hums under my skin like expectation.
I walk to the window, watching the snow fall in lazy flakes over the parking lot lights.
But this time, it doesn’t stick. It’s just a little dusting that will melt by tomorrow, but it’s enough to make everything look softer.
I pace in front of the windows for a few minutes before heading back into the kitchen.
I adjust the temperature on the oven just to have something to do.
Cooking used to be functional—fuel before practice, nothing fancy.
Now I catch myself worrying if she’ll like the seasoning.
I still don’t recognize the guy I’ve turned into around her.
Less guarded.
Still rough around the edges, but wanting to be better, if only because she looks at me like I already am.
There’s a soft knock at the door, causing me to swear under my breath and swipe my palms on my jeans before rushing over to open it.
She’s standing there bundled in her red wool coat and black jeans, cheeks flushed from the cold, a small smile tugging at her mouth.
Her hair’s pulled up, tendrils falling loose around her face.
Every time I see her, something in me steadies and unravels at the same time.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean for it to, and all I can do is stare.
Which is what I seem to do every time I see her.
Her smile widens. “Can I come in?”
I blink. “Yes, of course.”
Stepping aside, I let her in, but as she brushes by me, I grab her wrist, spin her around, and pin her to the door.
I lower my forehead to hers. “I missed you.”
The simple contact—soft skin, faint perfume, the warmth of her under all that wool—lights me up from the inside out.
“You just saw me yesterday,” she says with a smirk. She’s playing coy, but I can see in her eyes that she missed me too.
“Yeah, but that was too long ago. I need my Noelle fix.”
My mouth slants over hers and she opens under me, letting our tongues tangle and curl together until we’re breathless.
“Hmmm…” she murmurs, her eyes opening slowly. “Happy to provide your fix.”
She sniffs the air. “It smells amazing in here. Present company not withstanding.”
“Figured I’d cook. Didn’t want to risk the takeout place closing early.”
“I didn’t know you cooked.”
“I do now,” I say, and when she looks up, I lean in to kiss her temple.
Her fingers find the lapel of my shirt. “You look nice.”
I shrug, suddenly warm. “You bring enough light in here, I had to try and keep up.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, and my chest does that stupid tight thing again.
I take her coat, hang it up, and pour her a glass of wine while she toes off her boots.
“You said I couldn’t see the surprise until after dinner,” she says, glancing toward the covered corner of the living room. “You hiding a puppy back there?”
“Better,” I tell her. “Trust me.”
She cocks a brow, teasing. “That’s a bold claim, Reid.”
“Yeah, well.” I hand her the wine, fingers brushing hers. “Guess you’ll have to stick around and see if I’m right.”
She lifts the glass and takes a slow sip, eyes on mine over the rim.
“Pretty sure you already know the answer to that.”
The heat in my chest spreads lower, deeper.
Home doesn’t feel like walls anymore—it feels like this.
She sets her wineglass on the counter, the sound of glass on quartz soft and final. Then she leans back, arms braced behind her, her toes curling against the hardwood like she’s trying to stay grounded in the moment.
“Do I really have to wait?” Her voice dips playful, but there's something gentle beneath it. Something like hope.
A smile tugs at my mouth, slow and warm. “Come on.”
The air shifts as I walk ahead of her, the buzz of string lights humming low from the living room. My pulse kicks the closer we get.
I’m not nervous exactly, but there’s a weight to this—like offering up something fragile and hoping she won’t break it.
She lets out a soft laugh when she sees the sheet I rigged in the corner like some DIY magician. “Really? A dramatic reveal?”
“It’s tradition now,” I say, trying for dry but feeling like a live wire.
I reach for the edge and tug it down. The sheet falls with a soft whoosh, revealing the tree behind it.
It’s small, a little bit crooked, but real. The scent of balsam pine fills the air.
Her breath catches. One hand drifts up to cover her mouth.
“You got a tree,” she whispers.
Something cracks open in my chest. Deeper than I was ready for.
My fingers twitch at my sides, like they want to reach for her, to steady both of us.
“I haven’t wanted to have a tree since…my mom died.” My throat feels thick. “Thought maybe we could change that.”
She turns to me slowly. Her eyes are shining. Not crying—but close enough that my ribs ache from the sight.
“I love it.” Her voice catches and breaks. “It’s perfect.”
“It’s not even decorated yet.”
“I don’t care. It’s perfect because you got it.”
The words hit somewhere under my sternum and don’t let go. I swallow, nod once, afraid if I open my mouth, I’ll say something too big for this room.
She steps closer, close enough that the hem of her sweater brushes the back of my hand. Her fingertips skim a branch like it might vanish if she touches it wrong.
Then she tilts her face up to mine, eyes soft and steady. “You know what this means, right?”
I shake my head, unable to speak around the knot in my throat.
She grins. “You’re officially not allowed to act like a grinch anymore.”
The laugh that slips out of me is rougher than it should be. Realer. “Guess that means you’ll have to keep coming over.”
She lifts onto her toes and presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth—slow and lingering, like it’s meant to stitch something in place.
“I’m already here more than I’m not,” she says, so quietly I almost miss it.
“Not complaining.”
The air around us changes.
I feel it in my shoulders, in the spot behind my eyes that always goes tight when I’m holding too much in.
We spend the next half hour unwrapping boxes of ornaments and bows that I picked up on a grocery run.
When the box is empty, I step back and take in the tree. Still crooked. Still imperfect. Still perfect.
She sighs, happy and soft, then squints at the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. “What’s that?”
I follow her line of sight to the tiny bunch of mistletoe I hung above there earlier. She didn’t notice it when she came in.
I cross the room and pluck it down, then turn toward her.
She watches me, cautious now. Curious.
“A beautiful, intelligent woman once told me that if two people stood under the mistletoe it meant they were safe together.”
She glances up at me, her voice even softer than before, a smile playing on her lips. “That’s beautiful. But did she tell you the Hallmark version?”
“No, she did not.”
“Here, let me show you.”
And then she steps in, lifts her chin, and kisses me.
Her lips meet mine like we never stopped. Like we’ve always been this.
My arms wrap around her waist before I can think twice. Her body presses clos,e and something deep in me exhales.
The lights from the tree flicker behind her.
And I swear—if there’s a better kind of peace than this, I don’t need it.