10. Claire
Claire
T he chill seeped through Christian's jacket, but I couldn't bring myself to move. The tree glowed in the distance, each twinkling light a beacon in the cold night. Beside me, Christian shifted, the roof creaking under our weight.
I watched as children ran around the base of the tree, their laughter carrying up to us. Families huddled together, sharing hot cocoa and stories. It was a scene I'd seen countless times, yet it never lost its charm.
But tonight felt different. My thoughts drifted to the man next to me, his brooding presence lingering at the edges of my mind.
The wind nipped at my cheeks as I stood by the tree; the lights reflecting in my eyes. "Thank you," I murmured, turning to Christian. "For bringing me here."
He shrugged, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. He looked uncomfortable, his gaze darting away from mine. The crowd’s cheer filled the silence between us.
"I wish my grandmother had seen it," I continued, unable to stop the words spilling out. "She was the one who started taking me to the lighting ceremony. When my parents died..." My voice trailed off, the memories sharp and vivid. "It was hard. But she always made Christmas feel like magic."
He remained silent, his face unreadable in the glow of the Christmas lights. Yet, somehow, his quiet presence comforted me. I didn’t need him to speak; knowing he was there was enough.
The tree sparkled above us, each light a tiny miracle in the night. The chatter and laughter of the townspeople swirled around us, a festive cacophony that felt oddly distant.
"I haven’t missed a ceremony since," I admitted, glancing up at him. "It’s like holding onto a piece of her, you know?"
The cold bit into my cheeks, but the warmth from the tree’s glow seemed to wrap around us like a blanket. Christian stood next to me, a solid, silent figure in the crowd.
"My grandmother was big on Christmas too," he said softly, his voice almost lost in the festive noise.
I turned to him, my curiosity piqued. "Oh, yeah?"
He nodded, a faraway look settling over his features. "Yeah. She had this old farmhouse out in the country. Every year, she’d go all out—decorations, food, everything. The whole place would smell like pine and cinnamon for weeks."
I could see his face softening as he spoke, his usual guarded expression melting away. It was like seeing a different side of him, one that was hidden under layers of past hurts and secrets.
"She used to tell us stories," he continued. "On Christmas Eve, we’d sit by the fireplace with mugs of hot chocolate. She’d spin these incredible tales about her childhood, growing up during the thirties, and how they made do with what little they had.
But they always found a way to celebrate Christmas. "
His voice took on a wistful tone. "One year, she told us about this Christmas when they didn’t have money for presents.
Her father—my great-grandfather—went out into the woods and chopped down this scraggly little tree.
It wasn’t much to look at, but they decorated it with handmade ornaments and bits of ribbon. "
He chuckled softly at the memory. "She said it was the most beautiful tree she’d ever seen because it was filled with love."
My heart skipped a beat as I watched him. His face had transformed, lit up from within by the memories he shared. It was beautiful, seeing this vulnerable side of him.
"That’s why Christmas always mattered so much to her," he said quietly. "It wasn’t about the gifts or the decorations—it was about family and love."
For a moment, we stood there in silence, letting his words settle between us like snowflakes gently falling to the ground. The bustling sounds of the crowd faded into the background as I felt an unexpected connection with him—a shared understanding of what Christmas truly meant.
His eyes met mine for a fleeting moment before he looked away again, his expression inscrutable.
The night air grew colder, but neither of us moved. The warmth of shared silence wrapped around us like an old blanket.
"It's beautiful," I finally said.
Christian nodded slightly.
And we stayed there, side by side in quiet companionship, letting the magic of Christmas settle around us like freshly fallen snow.
I glanced at Christian, noticing the way he hunched against the cold. Without thinking, I began to shrug off the jacket. "Here," I said, holding it out to him.
He shook his head. "Keep it. I'm fine."
"Are you sure?" I pressed, my concern deepening. "You mentioned being used to it, but still..."
His gaze turned distant. "I used to sleep in the cold," he said quietly.
It took a moment for his words to sink in. The realization hit me like a ton of bricks—he was talking about his time in the military.
"What was it like?" I asked before I could stop myself.
He hesitated, a shadow crossing his face. The air between us felt heavy with unspoken memories.
"It's okay," I added quickly, "You don't have to tell me."
The silence stretched on, and I found myself wishing I hadn't pushed him. The last thing I wanted was to make him uncomfortable.
But then he spoke, his voice low and measured. "One night stands out," he began, staring into the distance as if seeing something far away. "We were on a mission in the mountains. Snow was falling hard, and the temperature dropped way below freezing."
His words painted a vivid picture, each detail sharp and clear in my mind. "We'd been trekking for hours," he continued. "Our gear was soaked through from the snow, and we hadn't eaten in over a day. The wind cut through us like knives."
I listened intently, hanging on every word.
"We found this small cave to take shelter in," he said. "It wasn't much—just enough space for the four of us to huddle together. We couldn't risk a fire, so we wrapped ourselves in whatever we had and tried to get some rest."
His expression grew somber as he recounted the experience. "I remember lying there, listening to the howling wind outside and wondering if we'd make it through the night."
The image of him and his comrades huddled together in that cave sent a shiver down my spine.
"But we did," he concluded with a small nod. "We made it through because we had each other's backs."
“That sounds like a great group of guys.”
"I remember Glenn," he said, his lips curving up in a rare smile. "Glenn hated the cold."
The way his eyes softened at the memory made me lean in, eager to hear more.
"There we were, freezing our arses off in that cave," he continued, "and Glenn starts cursing up a storm. He had this knack for turning even the most dire situations into comedy. So, he looks at us and says, 'If we make it out of here, I'm moving to Hawaii and never touching snow again.'"
I couldn't help but grin. "Did he ever make it to Hawaii?"
Christian chuckled, shaking his head. "No, but he did buy a ridiculously expensive heated blanket as soon as we got back."
The mental image of a tough soldier cocooned in a heated blanket brought a laugh to my lips. "Sounds like quite the character."
"Yeah," Christian said, the warmth fading from his voice. His face turned solemn, shadows creeping back into his expression.
I hesitated before asking the next question, sensing it might be a sensitive topic. But my curiosity got the better of me. "Do you still talk to them?"
He shook his head slowly. "No."
The single word hung heavy in the air between us. I immediately regretted asking, seeing the pain it brought to his eyes.
"I'm sorry," I said softly.
He gave a small nod, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the Christmas tree lights. The festive cheer around us felt muted, replaced by the weight of unspoken memories and loss.
I wanted to say something more, to bridge the gap between us, but words seemed inadequate. Instead, I reached out and gently touched his arm, offering silent support.
Christian's eyes flickered to mine for a moment before he looked away again. The connection between us was fragile yet undeniable.
We stood there in shared silence once more, letting the sounds of the celebration wash over us while we each grappled with our own thoughts and emotions.
An idea sparked in my mind. "Come on," I said, grabbing his wrist.
"Where are we going?" he asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.
"To get something warm."
I led him off the roof, down the narrow staircase, and into the inn. The moment we stepped inside, the warmth embraced us, a stark contrast to the biting cold outside. The air smelled of pine and cinnamon, familiar and comforting.
We made our way through the bustling common room and down the stairs to the kitchen. The glow from the fireplace cast a golden hue over everything, and I felt a sense of peace wash over me. The clatter of dishes and soft murmur of conversation filled the space, creating a cozy ambiance.
I headed straight for the stove where a pot of hot chocolate simmered gently. Grabbing two mugs from the shelf, I poured the rich, steaming liquid into each one.
Christian stood nearby, watching me with a curious expression. "You always have hot chocolate ready?"
I handed him a mug, our fingers brushing briefly. "It's a tradition around here," I said with a smile. "Helps chase away the cold."
He took a sip, closing his eyes for a moment as he savored the taste. "This is good."
"Secret recipe," I replied with a wink.
We settled at the small table near the hearth, the heat from the fire warming our faces. The flickering flames danced in his eyes, making them seem even more intense than usual.
"I needed this," he admitted after a few moments of silence.
"Everyone needs something warm now and then," I said softly. "Especially during Christmas."
His gaze met mine, and for once, there was no distance or guardedness in his eyes—just gratitude and something else I couldn't quite name.
We sat there for a while, sipping our hot chocolate and letting the warmth seep into our bones. The world outside seemed far away as we shared this simple moment together in the inn's cozy kitchen.
For that brief time, it felt like all the barriers between us had melted away like snowflakes on warm skin.
I took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of the kitchen wrapping around us. "I'm assuming your grandmother's back in England?" I asked.
I wanted to ask so many questions, but I didn't want to push him away.
He set down his mug, his fingers lingering on the handle for a moment longer than necessary. "Something like that," he murmured. "She passed when I was a kid."
"Oh." My heart squeezed at his words. "I'm sorry. Do you still have the farmhouse?"
He shook his head, a shadow crossing his face. "My mother had to sell it," he murmured. "We couldn't afford to keep it."
I didn't know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.
After a while, I stood up, my chair scraping softly against the wooden floor. "I should… I should check on my grandmother," I said, feeling a sudden need to move. "But… thank you for tonight."
He stood as well, towering over me with his presence. The kitchen seemed to shrink around him.
Before I realized what I was doing, I stood on my toes and kissed his cheek, my lips lingering for just a moment longer than they should have. The warmth of his skin sent a shiver down my spine.
"I'm glad you're here," I murmured before turning and heading down the hall.
My face felt like it was on fire, my heart racing with an intensity that took me by surprise. But for the first time in hours, maybe days, I was smiling.