Chapter 5
FIVE
DAHLIA
I blink up at the low ceiling, brain foggy, body pleasantly wrecked in the sort of way that says yes, that happened, and yes, it was even better than I remembered.
The mattress shifts. A moment later, Cyrus re-appears in the doorway with two mugs and the most devastatingly casual morning scruff I’ve ever seen.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice a low scrape that curls behind my ribs.
I sit up, blanket clutched around me, hair probably in a state that qualifies as a cry for help. “Hi.”
He hands me a mug. Our fingers brush, and the jolt hits exactly where it did last night.
“Coffee,” he says. “And toast. The power’s still out, but the stove works.”
“Toast is practically a love language.”
He huffs a laugh and sits on the edge of the bed, not touching me but close enough that I feel the heat of him.
Now that the storm isn’t the only loud thing in the room, a thousand thoughts rush in at once.
Did we really do that?
Do we talk about it?
Does this change the universe?
Does he regret it?
Do I?
No. Definitely not.
He looks at me over the rim of his mug. “You okay?”
I nod, then shake my head, then nod again. “I’m… yes. Just thinking.”
“About last night.”
My face goes hot. “You’re really going to say it out loud.”
“You wanted me to avoid it?”
“No,” I admit. “I just wasn’t ready for directness before caffeine.”
He smiles, and it hits me low and warm. “Then drink.”
I take a sip. Too hot. Perfect anyway.
The silence between us isn’t awkward this time. It’s soft. Familiar. A different kind of dangerous.
He studies me, careful and unhurried. “You stayed.”
“You asked me to.”
I try not to remember how exactly he asked. With his hands. With his mouth. With the way he breathed out my name like a confession.
He sets his mug down on the nightstand. “We should probably finish decorating before your family shows up.”
The words are practical. His voice isn’t.
“Right,” I say, even though my body is screaming or we could just stay in bed and see what happens next.
I swing my legs out and realize my dress from yesterday is a crumpled casualty on the floor. My cheeks go nuclear.
He follows my gaze. “You can borrow something. If you want.”
“Borrow?”
“I have sweatshirts.” He stands, rifling in his dresser. “You like oversized things.”
“How would you possibly know that?”
He hands me a soft gray sweatshirt without looking at me. “I pay attention.”
Oh. Okay. So we’re doing honesty this morning.
He leaves me to get dressed, and I pull the sweatshirt over my head. It smells like him. It drapes over me like it remembers his hands. I have no business enjoying this much intimacy this early in the day.
When I find him in the kitchen, he’s making a new pot of coffee, hair damp from a quick shower. The cabin looks… different. Warmer. More alive, somehow, even though nothing physically changed overnight.
“Hey,” he says without turning. “Your sister texted: roads are open. They’re heading up in an hour.”
“Oh God.” I wince. “We should… look less like we’ve been… whatever we’ve been.”
His shoulders shake with a quiet laugh. “You think it’s that obvious?”
I gesture between us. “Cyrus. We cannot stand this close to each other without the air catching fire. Molly will take one look at us and combust.”
He turns then, leaning one hip against the counter. “So?”
“So we need to act normal.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What about this feels normal to you?”
I have no good answer for that, so I open the nearest box of ornaments and hope it distracts both of us.
We fall into a rhythm easily, too easily. Untangling ribbons. Adjusting stockings. Hanging the snowflake topper. No awkwardness. No hesitation. Just the kind of comfortable silence that should take months to build, not a single night.
At one point, he steadies the tree while I fix a crooked ornament. His hand brushes my hip. He doesn’t pull away. Neither do I.
This is reckless.
This is perfect.
This is—
A knock sounds at the door.
We both freeze.
“That’s them,” I whisper.
He mutters something that might be a prayer or a curse, then steps back like someone yanked an invisible tether.
I open the door, and Molly practically folds into me. Her eyes are bright but tired, cheeks pink from the cold.
“Oh thank goodness,” she says. “The roads were awful. Bradley drove like we were transporting priceless art.”
“Your safety is priceless,” Bradley says behind her, unbothered by the sentimentality of it.
Then his stare lands on Cyrus.
And then on me.
Back to Cyrus.
A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face.
Fantastic.
“Morning,” Bradley says, too casual. “Everything okay here?”
“Yes,” I say too quickly. “Perfectly fine. Normal. Very normal.”
Cyrus is no help at all. He just sips his coffee and nods like sure, yes, extremely normal behavior happening here.
Molly looks between us, and I swear she inhales like she’s picking up pheromones in the wild.
“Did something happen?” she asks.
“No,” I lie.
“No,” Cyrus echoes.
“So nothing at all?” she presses.
“Exactly nothing,” I say.
Cyrus lifts an eyebrow. “Nothing worth mentioning.”
Bradley snorts. “Wow, you two are terrible at this.”
Molly blinks at us again, and then something sparks in her eyes — recognition, not suspicion. Followed by… joy?
“Oh,” she whispers. “Ohhh."
I shake my head fast. “No.”
Cyrus shakes his head, too. “No.”
“We’re just—” I start.
“Decorating,” he finishes.
“Decorating,” I repeat, as if that explains the way my heartbeat is still trying to launch out of my chest.
Behind Molly and Bradley, more family voices and footsteps come up the walkway.
Cyrus breathes out, resigned. “We should get ready.”
“For what?” I ask.
He glances toward the door, where the first wave of relatives is already filing inside.
“For pretending last night didn’t happen,” he murmurs.
But when his hand grazes mine as we turn toward the tree, the truth is obvious.
Neither of us is pretending at all.