Chapter 9 Noel
Noel
It’s colder than the Arctic out here, but I can’t bring myself to go back inside.
Not when the porch lights Nash strung are casting this golden halo over the front steps like something out of a dream. The air’s sharp, stinging my nose, and the snow’s falling again—soft and slow, like feathers from a busted pillow.
And he’s standing right there, five feet from me, gazing out into the trees like he belongs to them. Like he is one of them. Tall, still, carved out of mountain rock and bad intentions.
Neither of us says a word.
Because right then—just beyond the edge of the woods—something sings.
A low, eerie groan that vibrates through the trees like the earth itself is sighing.
“What was that?” I whisper, wrapping my arms around my body.
Nash lifts his head. “Phantom River.”
“It sounded like a cello under water.”
He jerks his chin toward the woods. “C’mon. You’ve never heard it crackle?”
“Is it dangerous?”
“Only if you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Oh good. Because following a shirtless mountain man into the dark woods after hearing ghost noises is exactly what I pictured for this Christmas.”
He glances over his shoulder and smirks. “You coming or not, city girl?”
I grumble and follow, boots crunching behind him through the fresh snow.
The trees open up like a cathedral, bare limbs reaching toward the moon. Down below, the Phantom River stretches wide and pale, blanketed in ice. Steam rises in wisps where it isn’t frozen solid, and the wind whistles through the pines like they’re telling secrets.
But it’s the sound that makes me stop in my tracks.
It starts low. A groaning rumble that rolls beneath our feet, like a giant exhaling in its sleep. Then a sharp crack, followed by a high-pitched whine that arcs through the silence like a haunted violin string.
“Holy crap,” I breathe.
Nash doesn’t say anything. Just stands next to me, looking out at the ice like it’s an old friend.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur.
He nods. “Happens every winter. Ice expands and shifts. Cracks under pressure. But it holds.”
“That’s poetic.”
He shrugs. “It’s just physics.”
“No,” I say, “it’s poetry. The earth making music.”
He glances at me, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he says, “This is my favorite time of year.”
“Really? Mr. I-Hate-Tinsel likes the holidays?”
“Not the holidays. The quiet. The solitude. The way the world slows down when it’s buried in snow.”
I wrap my arms tighter around myself. “I’ve never heard silence like this. In the city, even the silence is loud.”
“I like when everything shuts up,” he says. “Lets you hear what you’re really thinking.”
“What are you thinking right now?”
He looks at me then. Really looks. His eyes burn like coals, steady and smoldering.
“That I should kiss you.”
My breath catches. The wind slips under my coat, but I’m suddenly warm everywhere.
“And why don’t you?” I ask, barely above a whisper.
“Because once I do…” His jaw flexes. “I won’t stop.”
The air charges between us.
And for a moment, I think I might close the distance.
Say to hell with logic, the contest, the show, all of it.
But then—
CRACK!
A sharp thunderclap of ice reverberates across the riverbed. The sound echoes off the trees like the forest just slammed a car door.
I yelp and stumble back a step. “Jesus—was that—?”
Nash catches my elbow, steadying me. “It’s fine. Ice flexes. That wasn’t a break, just a shift. She’s talking tonight.”
“She?”
He shrugs. “The river. She sings when the cold’s just right.”
We stand there for another long moment, listening to her groan and sigh, the sound ethereal and almost human.
Nash’s hand lingers on my arm.
I don’t pull away.
“You ever think about leaving?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away. “I did. Once.”
“What stopped you?”
He looks at me, voice low. “Same thing that brought me back. Loss.”
I nod, heart thudding.
“Funny how that works,” I say. “Loss making you leave. Making you stay.”
The wind kicks up and sends a swirl of snow across the ice like confetti. We both watch in silence.
And it’s… peaceful.
Unexpectedly peaceful.
I feel it settle over me like a weighted blanket—the kind that costs five hundred bucks and comes in limited edition flannel.
And for a few seconds, I forget that we’re opposites. That I came here with a camera crew and glitter, and he came here with trauma and a chip on his shoulder.
For a few seconds, we’re just two people on the edge of the world. Listening to the river sing.