Josh
. . .
I wake up to the smell of Kait’s shampoo—vanilla and something that makes my chest ache in the best way—and the soft weight of her leg thrown over mine.
The cabin is quiet except for the faint clink of dishes in the kitchen and Jack’s off-key humming of “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” It’s time to head out of the cabin, the Friendsgiving bubble is about to pop.
Everyone’s packing up to head to their respective family obligations before real life slams back in on Monday like a hangover.
Kait stirs, her nose scrunching in that adorable way that used to make me cancel plans just to watch her wake up. She blinks at me, hair a wild halo, and smiles sleepy-slow. “Morning,”
“Morning,” I lean in to kiss her, because I can now—because we’re trying—and she tastes like sleep and mint toothpaste.
The kiss starts soft, then deepens until she’s half on top of me, my hands sliding under the hem of her sleep shirt to trace the warm dip of her spine.
We’re two seconds from getting lost in one another, when a quick knock and a head peaks into the bedroom.
“Rise and shine, lovebirds! Ainsley’s making cinnamon rolls and I will fight you for the corner piece!”
Kait groans into my neck. “Gah, the timing.”
“We will have more time to do more,” I murmur, stealing one more kiss before we untangle. She swats my ass as I roll out of bed, and I’m pretty sure my grin could power the cabin for a week.
Packing is a chaotic symphony of zippers and passive-aggressive debates over who left the half-empty wine bottle in the fridge.
Micah’s trying to Tetris his laptop into a backpack that’s 90% energy drinks.
Hope’s color-coding luggage tags like she’s running airport security.
Jack’s attempting to stuff an entire leftover pie into his duffel “for the road.”
Kait and I are the last ones out, hands linked as we haul my bags to my rental SUV and hers to her Volkswagen.
The group gathers on the porch for the obligatory group hug and photo to chronicle our weeks adventures.
There’s teasing, promises to text, and Jack’s dramatic declaration that “next year, we’re doing Vegas Friendsgiving, baby!
” While Ainsley threatens to revoke his invitation.
We all laugh, but there’s a bittersweet edge.
This cabin, this week, it’s been magic. And now it’s over.
Except for Kait and me, it’s not over. It’s just beginning.
Kait and I stand at the drivers door to her rental car. Kait’s scrolling through my phone’s playlist, declaring that she gets to pick my music home to make me think of her. She lands on some throwback John Mayer, and I groan.
“Really? Joh Mayer? Am I a chick?”
She smirks. “It’s romantic. Deal with it.”
I reach over, lace my fingers through hers. “So, I meet you at your parents place first. We do a proper family tour?”
She bites her lip. “Together?”
“Together,” I say, squeezing her hand. “Kait Jamison and Josh Daniels, taking on the parents. Like a buddy cop movie, but with more passive-aggressive side-eye.”
She laughs, but there’s nerves in it. “My dad’s gonna love this.”
“Sarcasm?”
“Bucketloads.”
An hour or so later, we both pull up to the curb of Kait’s parents house first, a cozy colonial with icicle lights and a wreath the size of a monster truck tire.
Her mom’s car is in the driveway, which means her dad’s probably lurking with a shotgun and a grudge.
I park, kill the engine, get out of the SVU and briskly walk to the drivers side of Kait’s car and open it for her.
“Ready?”
“Nope.” She unbuckles, squares her shoulders like she’s about to storm a castle. “Let’s do this.”
I grab her bag— a sensible duffel—and trudge up the salted walkway. Kait’s got her key out, but before she can unlock the door, it swings open and her brother, Ryan, fills the frame. He’s twenty now, taller than me, built like a linebacker, and his jaw literally drops.
“No freaking way. Josh?” He barrels past Kait, nearly knocking her into a snowbank, and tackles me in a hug that lifts me off my feet. “Dude! You’re here! This is epic!”
“Easy there, tiger,” I laugh, clapping his back. “Good to see you too.”
Kait’s mom appears behind him, apron dusted with flour, eyes wide and sparkling. “Josh! Oh my goodness!” She cups my face like I’m still the scrawny kid who used to mow their lawn for gas money. “Look at you, all grown up and so very tan! Kaitlyn, why didn’t you tell us?”
Kait shrugs, cheeks pink. “It’s… new.”
“New, old, whatever,” her mom says, waving us inside. “Come in, come in! I’ve got cocoa and those thumbprint cookies you used to inhale, Josh.”
The house smells like cinnamon and pine, same as always.
But then there’s her dad, standing at the foot of the stairs like a sentinel in a flannel shirt.
His arms are crossed, his salt-and-pepper beard doing nothing to hide the frown.
His eyes flick from me to Kait to our joined hands, and I swear the temperature drops ten degrees.
“Josh,” he says, voice flat.
“Mr. Jamison.” I nod, trying not to sweat through my coat. “Good to see you, sir.”
He grunts. Kait squeezes my hand like a lifeline.
Ryan, oblivious to the tension, slaps my shoulder. “Dude, you surf? You gotta teach me over break. Maybe I will go out to California like you did.”
“Hardly,” I say, grinning. “But I’ll get you up on a board if you make it out there and I’m there. I’m not exactly sure of my whereabouts.”
Kait’s mom ushers us to the kitchen, chattering about cookie recipes and how Kait’s thesis is “so impressive.” Her dad trails behind, silent but radiating with I’m watching you vibes.
We settle at the island, cocoa steaming, cookies piled high.
Ryan’s grilling me about UCLA, Kait’s mom is asking about my brothers, and I’m trying to keep up while hyper-aware of her dad’s stare boring holes into my skull.
Kait’s in the middle of telling her mom about Friendsgiving when her dad clears his throat. “Kaitlyn. A word.”
She sighs but follows him to the living room. I catch her eye, mouthing you got this. She flips me a subtle middle finger, and I choke on a cookie.
Through the doorway, I hear their voices. Her dad’s first: “Long distance, Kaitlyn. You know how that ended last time.”
“I’m not eighteen anymore, Dad. I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions.”
“He hurt you.”
“He’s trying not to. And I’m not going to let that happen this time. Give him a chance. Please.”
Silence. Then her dad’s gruff, “I’m watching him.”
Kait reappears, cheeks flushed but resolute. She slides back onto her stool, bumps my shoulder. “He’ll come around.”
Her mom winks. “He always does. Remember when you brought home that stray cat? He grumbled for a week, then built it a heated house.”
Ryan snorts. “Cat’s still living better than me.”
We don’t stay long—just enough for cocoa, cookies, and Ryan to challenge me to a push-up contest I politely decline. Kait’s dad shakes my hand at the door, his grip tight enough to crack walnuts. “Take care of her.”
“Always, sir.”
Kait rolls her eyes but kisses his cheek. “Love you, Dad.”
My parents’ house is a thirty-minute drive, a sprawling farmhouse with a porch swing and a dog that barks at its own shadow.
My brothers—Luke and Ethan—are wrestling in the front yard when we pull up, snow flying like they’re auditioning for a WWE special.
The second they spot Kait, it’s pure chaos.
“Kait!” Luke yells, sprinting over. Ethan’s right behind him, and I barely get the car in park before they’re yanking her door open and pulling her into a double hug that lifts her off the ground.
“Holy crap, you’re back!” Ethan says, spinning her like she’s a kid again. “Josh texted said you guys coming together, but I thought he was delusional!”
“Put her down, you animals,” I laugh, climbing out. Kait’s giggling, hair full of snow, and my chest feels like it’s going to burst in happiness at the sight of her once again with my family.
My mom appears on the porch, apron on, eyes misty. “Kaitlyn Jamison, get in here!” She envelopes Kait in a hug as if no time has gone by since they’ve seen one another. My dad’s behind her, grinning wide, and claps me on the shoulder.
“Good to have you both home, son.”
Inside, it’s a whirlwind. My brothers demand every detail of Friendsgiving, my mom’s already planning a “welcome back” dinner, and my dad’s asking Kait about college like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard.
There’s no side-eye, no interrogation—just warmth and the kind of easy acceptance that makes me want to hug my entire family.
Even the dog, who’s currently trying to steal Kait’s scarf.
Luke corners me in the kitchen while Kait’s helping my mom with coffee. “You screw this up again, I’m stealing her.”
“Get in line,” I say, but I’m grinning. Because yeah, I’m not screwing this up.
We leave as the sun dips low, sky streaked pink and orange.
Dinner’s at a cozy Italian place in town—red checkered tablecloths, candles in wine bottles, the kind of place we used to sneak into with fake IDs for a teenage romantic dinner.
We order pasta carbonara and split a bottle of chianti, knees brushing under the table.
Kait twirls her noodles like a pro, sauce on her chin, and I’m so gone for her it’s embarrassing.
“You’ve got a little…” I lean over, kiss the sauce off her chin. She laughs, swatting me with her napkin.
“Smooth, Daniels.”
“Always.”
After dinner, we hit the ice cream shop despite the sub-zero temps. Kait gets mint chip in a waffle cone; I go for chocolate fudge brownie. We eat on a bench outside, breath fogging, cones dripping faster than we can lick.
“This is insane,” she says, shivering but grinning. “We’re adults. We have credit card debt. Why are we eating ice cream in a blizzard?”
“Because we’re idiots in love,” I say, stealing a bite of her cone. “And because it’s tradition.”
She leans her head on my shoulder. “Feels like we’re kids again.”
“But better,” I say. “We know better now.”
Her parents’ porch light is on when I pull up, the same golden glow that used to signal curfew when we were teens. I walk her to the door, hands in my pockets to keep from mauling her in front of her dad’s probable sniper scope. The snow’s stopped, stars sharp overhead.
“Tonight was perfect,” she says, turning to face me.
“You’re perfect.” I cup her face, kiss her slow and deep, pouring every promise I didn’t make four years ago into it. She melts against me, hands fisting my coat, and I’m half a second from suggesting we run away to Fiji when—
Flick-flick.
The porch light goes off, then on, then off again. Kait pulls back, laughing. “Dad’s still got it.”
I groan. “I’m thirty seconds from a heart attack. I’ll stop by tomorrow morning, we’ll do breakfast before I have to head to the airport?”
She kisses me once more, quick and sweet. “Please do. Text me when you get home.”
“Already typing,” I say, thumb hovering over my phone.
She disappears inside, and I float back to the car, high on pasta, ice cream, and the girl who’s giving me a second chance. The porch light flicks one last time, like her dad’s saying don’t push it. I salute the darkness and drive off, John Mayer on the radio, heart full.
Next stop: forever. Or at least tomorrow. Same difference.