Chapter 3
THREE
DAHLIA
The craft store smells like cinnamon and glue.
This is fine. I can handle this. People host holidays all the time without losing their minds or falling into the arms of the man they’re trying to avoid.
I tighten my scarf and march toward the holiday aisle. Cyrus trudges behind me like he’s being led to his execution.
“Just so we’re clear,” he says, “I’m not buying anything with glitter.”
“That’s a shame,” I say, grabbing the shiniest garland in reach. “Glitter is festive.”
“Glitter is a curse.”
“Glitter is cheer.”
“Glitter is going to end up in my bed and on my dog and in my hair until Valentine’s Day.”
“You don’t have a dog.”
“I’ll still find glitter in its fur.”
I snort and keep walking. Cyrus follows, but his eyes are everywhere — the ornaments, the lights, the fake snow — like he’s trying to make sure nothing attacks him.
His discomfort should not be this adorable.
I hold up a pack of warm white lights. “Tree lights?”
He eyes them like they owe him money. “Aren’t the ones I have fine?”
“They blink like a distress signal.”
“That seems festive.”
“No.” I toss the pack into our basket. “We’re upgrading.”
I grab a spool of ribbon next, then a pair of stockings. He picks one up, turning it over. “Don’t these usually have names on them?”
“Yes. But these will do for now.”
He hesitates. “You… want to do names?”
My brain stutters. “Not for us,” I say quickly. “For your family.”
He sets the stocking down. “Right. Family.”
Something flickers in his expression — something I don’t ask about, because if I do, he might ask something back. Something about the wedding. Something about why I left before he woke up. Something about why neither of us called.
So I point at a display. “Tree topper?”
“That star is terrifying.”
“It’s cheerful.”
“It has eyeballs.”
“It does not have eyeballs.”
“It does.”
He has a point. “Okay, that one’s out. How about this?”
I lift a simple metal snowflake. He gives it a long look and nods once. “That one’s fine.”
Progress.
We gather garlands, a few candles, some ribbon, and a handful of ornaments. Cyrus keeps trying to put things back. I keep putting them in the basket again. It becomes a quiet tug-of-war neither of us acknowledges.
At the register, the clerk eyes our cart. “Big decorating plans?”
“Yes,” I say.
“No,” Cyrus says at the same time.
The clerk raises an eyebrow. I push the cart closer. “He’s learning the spirit of the season.”
Cyrus mutters something suspiciously like, “Pray for me.”
Back at his cabin, Cyrus carries the bags in like he expects them to explode. He sets them on the table, then steps away with a sigh.
“Okay,” he says. “How do we do this?”
“Easy.” I pull out the first garland. “We decorate, we bake cookies for tomorrow, we prep what we can for dinner, and we don’t panic.”
“I’m not panicking.”
“You’re definitely panicking.”
He glares, but there’s no heat behind it.
I plug in the new lights, testing the strand. All warm white, all steady. “See? Already an improvement.”
He stands beside me, close enough that I feel the heat of him. I should step away. I should absolutely step away.
I don’t.
“Hand me the end,” I say. He does. Our fingers brush and pause for a beat too long.
I clear my throat and climb onto the step stool. He hovers behind me like he’s afraid gravity will suddenly quit working.
“You don’t have to spot me,” I tell him, reaching up to loop the lights across a beam.
He braces a hand on the stool anyway. “I’m not letting you crack your head open in my cabin.”
Warmth spreads across my chest. I pretend it’s just the lights.
We work in silent rhythm — he hands me a garland, I drape it; I tie bows, he hooks them into place. His movements are quiet, precise, unexpectedly gentle. Mine are quick, bright, determined.
At one point, the ribbon slips from my fingers and flutters to the floor. I bend, he bends, and we bump shoulders.
We both stop.
Straighten.
Look anywhere but at each other.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be.” His voice drops a little. “It’s fine.”
I swallow. Hard.
We finish the garland, then move to the tree. It’s still leaning at an unfortunate angle. Cyrus frowns at it like the tree has personally offended him.
“It’s crooked,” he says.
“It has personality.”
“It’s going to fall on someone.”
“With the right encouragement, anything can stand tall.”
He gives me a look that says he knows exactly what I meant. My cheeks heat.
He crouches to adjust the base, and when he stands, snow-dusted pine needles rain down onto his shoulders. Without thinking, I brush them off.
He goes still.
So do I.
His skin warms under my fingertips. His breath catches. The air between us changes — thickens — softens — sharpens.
Then he steps back like he’s been shocked. “We should finish the lights.”
“Right.” My voice is thin.
We wrap the tree, moving around each other in circles that feel more intimate than they should be. At one point, the strand tangles around my wrist. He unwraps it slowly, eyes flicking to my mouth before he looks away again.
By the time we’re done, the room glows. Warm. Soft. A little magical.
Cyrus looks around, shoulders loosening. “It actually looks good.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m always surprised by you.”
My heart stumbles.
Before I can respond, his phone buzzes on the counter. He glances at it. “Bradley. Poker night.”
“Do you usually go?”
“Sometimes.”
“You should.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not leaving you to handle all this alone.”
“I’m not helpless.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
His tone means something else entirely.
I should push. I should tell him to go. I should insist this doesn’t matter.
But then he reaches for a box of ornaments, his fingers brushing mine again, and the moment pulls tight around us.
“We should finish these,” he says quietly.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “We should.”
We hang the last few ornaments in near silence, both pretending the tension isn’t crawling up our spines.
We’re almost done when I open a small wooden box tucked in with the lights. Inside is a carved ornament — smooth edges, simple lines, sanded carefully by hand.
A date is etched into the back. The wedding date.
My breath catches. “You made this?”
He stiffens. “Found it earlier. Must’ve forgotten it was in there.”
“You carved an ornament after the wedding?”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t meet my eyes.
The truth hangs between us anyway.
Something mattered. Something mattered enough for him to make this and hide it.
I close the lid gently. “It’s beautiful.”
Cyrus swallows, the movement sharp. “We should finish the rest.”
But neither of us moves.
We stand there, inches apart, light reflecting off the tree, breathing the same slow, shallow breaths.
“Cyrus…”
He looks at me. Really looks.
And I know, with absolute clarity, that we are one wrong move away from crossing the line again.