9. Christian
Christian
I walked back to my room, the sight of Claire's fake smile still etched in my mind.
I hated that smile.
I never wanted her to feel like she had to fake anything with me.
Her grandmother’s forgetfulness had gnawed at me more than I cared to admit. I had seen enough in my life, but this—this was a different kind of pain. It dug deep into places I thought were long buried.
I closed the door behind me; the click echoing in the small space.
The room felt colder than before, as if the warmth from being near Claire had been sucked out.
I slumped onto the edge of the bed, running a hand through my hair.
For a moment, I just sat there, staring at nothing, feeling more than I expected.
My chest ached with a dull throb. I'd faced enemies, conquered fears, but Claire's grandmother’s fragile state was an enemy I couldn’t fight. The way her eyes clouded over, how she struggled to remember names—it left me feeling powerless.
I was a doer. And right now, I couldn't do a damn thing.
The thought twisted in my gut like a knife. In the SAS, there was always a mission, always something to fix or someone to save. Here, there were no clear enemies, no battle plan to follow. Just an old woman losing pieces of herself and a granddaughter trying to hold it all together.
I wanted to help them. God knew I did. But what could I do? Fixing broken Christmas lights was one thing; fixing this was another beast entirely.
My gaze fell on the worn duffel bag by the foot of the bed. It held all my worldly possessions now. Among them was a small photo album. I hadn’t opened it in years.
I reached for it but stopped short. No point in dwelling on what was lost when there were battles still to be fought—even if they weren’t mine to fight.
Instead, I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. It felt like an abyss threatening to swallow me whole. For now, all I could do was exist in this limbo of helplessness and hope that tomorrow brought some clarity or purpose.
The room remained silent except for my steady breathing, each exhale feeling heavier than the last.
I stood up and glanced out the window. The night stretched out, a black canvas dotted with faint stars. The cold glass felt like ice against my fingertips. From here, I could see the town's tree, an enormous fir that dominated the small square.
Its dark outline loomed large, waiting for the ceremony that would bring it to life. Lights dangled from its branches, half-hidden in shadow, waiting to burst into color and warmth.
An idea sparked in my mind. I didn’t bother to think it through; instinct took over.
I turned away from the window, grabbed my coat, and headed for the door. My boots echoed softly in the hallway as I made my way to the lobby.
The inn’s lobby was quiet, the fireplace casting a soft glow across the room. Claire stood behind the counter, flipping through a ledger with a furrowed brow.
I cleared my throat, unsure how to begin. “Do you have access to the roof?”
“The roof?” Claire looked up from her ledger, eyebrows raised in surprise.
I nodded, feeling my pulse quicken. My heart hammered in my chest, a wild rhythm I couldn’t control. This wasn’t a battlefield; there were no enemies here, yet I felt a strange kind of anxiety.
“Yeah,” she said slowly, still studying me with curiosity.
“Can you… Can I go to the roof?” My voice almost cracked, betraying the nerves I tried to keep hidden.
“You smoke?” Claire asked, tilting her head slightly. “I think I have a key?—”
“I want you to come with me.” The words tumbled out before I could second-guess them. It was the most awkward conversation I'd ever had in my life.
She blinked, clearly taken aback. For a moment, she didn’t move, then she closed the ledger and nodded.
“Okay,” she said softly. “Let me grab the key.”
I watched as she disappeared into the back room, my mind racing. Why was this so difficult? I’d faced down worse odds without flinching. But this—this was different. There were no clear rules or objectives here, just raw emotion and uncertainty.
Claire returned with a small brass key and motioned for me to follow her. We moved through the inn quietly, our footsteps muffled by thick carpet and holiday decorations that seemed too cheerful for the moment.
We reached a narrow stairwell at the end of a hallway. She unlocked the door, and we began to climb. The steps were steep and creaky, but we soon emerged onto the flat expanse of the roof.
The cold night air hit me like a splash of water, clearing my head somewhat. The town below was peaceful, twinkling lights casting a warm glow over everything. It felt like another world up here—one where we could breathe without constraints.
Claire walked to the edge of the roof and leaned against the railing, her breath visible in small puffs of white. I joined her, unsure how to start this conversation or even what I wanted to say.
“So,” she began softly, looking at me with those perceptive eyes of hers. “What’s on your mind?”
I swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. The truth was, I didn’t know what I was doing up here; all I knew was that I needed her presence to anchor me somehow.
"Here," I said, pointing to the edge of the roof. "You can still see the tree."
"What?" Claire furrowed her brow, following the direction of my finger.
We moved closer, and her eyes widened. "We can see the tree!" she exclaimed. "I… I can't believe I didn't notice."
She leaned forward, gripping the railing. The dim lights from the Christmas tree sparkled below us, casting a warm glow against the dark night. I could only imagine what it looked like when it was truly lit up.
I watched her, both amused and slightly bewildered. She had this way of making everything seem new and exciting. Like a kid discovering something for the first time. And it was infectious—I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
"You're in for a treat," she said, turning to me with a bright smile. "You've never seen this, have you?"
"I've never been here before," I admitted. The cold air bit at my skin, my breath visible in small clouds. But standing here with Claire made it all feel… different.
We stood there for a moment, just taking it all in—the lights, the silence of the night, and each other's presence. It was a rare kind of peace, one I hadn't felt in years.
Claire's eyes sparkled with a mix of joy and nostalgia as she gazed at the tree below. "This was my mom's favorite spot," she said softly, almost to herself. "She always said it gave her perspective."
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just stood there beside her, sharing the moment in silence.
The lights twinkled like distant stars, and for once, I felt like maybe—just maybe—I could find some semblance of peace here too.
And for that brief moment on the roof with Claire, I let myself believe it was possible.
The cold had a way of creeping in, finding the gaps where warmth should be. As I stood there with her, I noticed her shoulders trembling slightly. Her breath puffed out in small clouds, her hands rubbing her arms in a futile attempt to ward off the chill.
I realized then that I had hurried her out of the lobby without giving her a chance to grab a jacket. The thought gnawed at me, a sudden pang of guilt.
Without a word, I shrugged off my coat and draped it over her shoulders. The fabric enveloped her, almost comically oversized. It was then I realized just how petite she really was.
She looked up at me, surprise widening her eyes. "Oh, no, it's okay?—"
"You're shivering," I said simply.
She paused, then buried herself deeper into the coat. "And you?"
"I'm used to it." I shrugged, dismissing the cold as best as I could.
She studied me for a moment, her eyes searching mine. "Just because you're used to something doesn't mean it has to stay that way," she said softly.
We shared a look then—a silent understanding passing between us. For a brief moment, it felt like all the walls I'd built around myself were made of glass, fragile and see-through.
At that moment, a low cheer drifted up from the square below.
Claire turned quickly, eyes wide with excitement. "Oh, it's going to start," she said, her voice tinged with a childlike wonder that made me almost forget the cold. She reached out, grabbing my wrist and pulling me closer to the edge of the roof.
Her touch was light but firm, a gentle pressure that surprised me.
I didn’t like being touched—too many memories, too much pain associated with physical contact—but there was something about Claire's touch that didn’t make me flinch away.
It was warm and reassuring, grounding me in a way I hadn’t felt in years.
I found myself liking it.
Her fingers wrapped around my wrist were small and delicate, yet there was strength in them.
It was as if she could anchor me to this moment, keeping the ghosts of my past at bay.
Her touch spoke volumes without words—offering comfort, connection, and a sense of belonging that I had long forgotten existed.
We moved closer to the edge, her hand still holding onto me as if afraid I might slip away. The anticipation in the air was palpable; the crowd below seemed to hold its collective breath as they waited for the tree to light up.
The moment stretched out as we stood together on that roof, watching and waiting.
The cheer from below grew louder, a wave of sound that seemed to lift us both higher.
Claire's grip tightened slightly, not out of fear but excitement.
Her joy was infectious, seeping into my bones and thawing the cold that had settled there.
I looked down at her hand on my wrist once more and realized something important: I didn’t want her to let go.
Not now.
Not ever.
But for tonight—for this brief moment under the stars and above the twinkling lights—I allowed myself to simply exist beside her, enjoying the warmth of her touch and the promise of something brighter ahead.
The moment seemed to stretch on forever as we stood there, waiting. The air was crisp and cold, but Claire's hand on my wrist kept me anchored in the present.
Then, with a collective gasp from the crowd below, the tree burst into light. Thousands of tiny bulbs blinked to life, cascading down the branches like shimmering droplets of gold. The tree stood tall and proud, its vibrant colors painting the night with warmth and joy.
Claire's eyes widened, her face illuminated by the glow. "Isn't it beautiful?" she whispered, her breath visible in the cold air.
I glanced at her, feeling a strange tightness in my chest. Her expression was one of pure wonder, a real smile spreading across her face. It wasn't the polite smile she had given me earlier—it was genuine, unguarded, and radiant.
"Yeah," I said softly, unable to look away from her. "It is."
Claire's smile outshone every light on that tree. It was a beacon of hope and warmth that I hadn't realized I needed so desperately.
She turned to me, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Thank you for bringing me up here," she said, her voice filled with gratitude.
I nodded, my throat tight with unspoken emotions. "You're welcome."
We stood there in silence for a few moments longer, taking in the sight of the lit-up tree and the town below. But my attention kept drifting back to Claire. The way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, the way her hair caught the light—it all seemed so surreal and perfect.
I realized then that no Christmas tree could ever hold a candle to one of Claire's real smiles. It was a revelation that hit me like a ton of bricks—unexpected and powerful.
As I stood there beside her on that rooftop, I felt something shift inside me. For the first time in years, I felt a glimmer of hope—a sense that maybe, just maybe, there was something worth holding onto.
And as Claire's smile continued to light up the night, I knew that whatever came next; I wanted to be part of it.
For now, though, I allowed myself to simply exist in this moment with her—content to bask in the glow of both the Christmas lights and her smile.