Five
Theo
I t’s been years since I allowed myself to indulge in the commotion of my family’s Christmas traditions.
And while I don’t mind a little competition, an endurance match in interpretive gesturing doesn’t exactly top my list of priorities.
Not when NXT Collective’s biggest campaign to date drops on New Year’s Eve. A relentless barrage of texts and emails lights up my phone—emergency revisions, urgent signoffs, last-minute client epiphanies .
A little over a year ago, my two partners and I walked away from AdCraft’s hollow empire with nothing but a vision and enough contempt to torch everything the place represented.
Distended bureaucracy. Spectacle over policy.
Illusion parading as impact. We built our firm on a new kind of blueprint. One that serves as much as it sells.
And now, we’re launching a career-altering crusade. Golden goose. Golden ticket. Pick a gilded metaphor—they all apply. This client isn’t just big. Our connection to them is brand-defining. The kind of win that turns a boutique agency into an industry heavyweight.
Though the credit reads we , everyone knows whose name is riding point. I reeled in the brand. Bled for the brief. My sweat stains every line of the pitch. While I haven’t shed any tears, I’ve sacrificed a hell of a lot to make sure this thing doesn’t miss.
Once it soars, our legacy is cemented.
If it crashes? The wreckage is mine to own.
Flexing my fingers, I resist the impulse to reach for my phone and check in with Xiang and Nassi.
Instead, I drag my focus back to the game. It’s our turn to rattle off movie titles while the women’s team heckles from the couch. Not that they need to highlight our obvious deficits—the score is a full-blown massacre. The men are neither a theatrical threat nor a tactical one.
Asher spins and thrashes like a windmill possessed by a ghost of an inebriated backup dancer. I have no idea what he’s miming, but his over-the-top enthusiasm grates on my nerves.
My little brother has, in fact, been pissing me off since the moment he walked through the door.
It doesn’t escape my notice that he’s hijacked Isla’s undivided attention. She’s perched on the edge of the couch, her honey-colored gaze glinting with amusement.
Leaning back in my chair, I take a sip of whiskey. The burn is a welcome distraction—something to temper the flames of irritation licking at the remaining threads of my patience .
“Unless you’re summoning a demon, Ash, my guess is Stripper Santa . Put us out of our misery and tell me I’m right.”
He freezes mid-dance to flip me off. “That’s not a movie. Are you even trying?”
“I am,” I deadpan. “Are you ?”
At those words, Isla’s eyes flick to mine, one corner of her lip twitching like she’s fighting a grin she doesn’t want to surrender.
A low grunt rumbles in my chest, the heat of her look setting off a chemical chain reaction that overrides logic.
Even from all the way across the room, her presence wounds me. She’s a bruise I’ve never allowed to heal. A thorn lodged deep inside my mind. My body. Every fucking traitorous part of me.
We stay locked on each other for a heartbeat.
Then another.
By the third, I throw back the rest of the whiskey, the sting of alcohol slashing my throat in sharp, bitter punishment.
“ Elf !” My stepdad, Graham, jerks me back to the game with his shout. “Wait, no— The Grinch ?”
My twenty-one-year-old twin brothers, Felix and Rowan, immediately launch into a competition to see who can rattle off the longest string of holiday titles. Their voices meld together, creating a mash-up of festive plots absurd enough to land on Netflix’s December lineup.
“No!” Asher huffs out a frustrated sigh. “Pay attention! Look!” He thrusts his arms toward the ceiling and stomps around in wide, graceless circles.
“A man about to earn himself a hernia,” I throw out.
Willow mimics the sound of a buzzer. “Time’s up!”
“ The Nutcracker !” Asher groans, collapsing to his knees. “I was a ballerina! A ballerina ! ”
“You were a moron.” Felix tosses a pillow at his head, nailing him square in the chin.
“Our turn!” My sister jumps to her feet.
“Given how the boys are playing, even with only three and a half competitors on our side”—she tips her head toward my four-year-old niece, Jovie, whose sole contribution so far has been her soft snores while napping on a nearby chaise—“the girls are still on track to kick your asses. Show them how it’s done, Isla baby! ”
Isla rises with a stretch and a playful shimmy that does my pulse dirty. After adjusting the hem of her burgundy sweater dress, she glides toward the open space by the fire that serves as our makeshift stage for the night.
Even as I force myself to look away, she lingers at the periphery of my vision. I curse my eyes for chasing her every move. My blood stirs, drawn to her presence without my consent.
“You boys ready to forfeit yet?” she taunts playfully. “This is equally embarrassing for the girls. Taking candy canes from babies is no fun.” She gestures to our team. “In case it wasn’t obvious, you guys are the helpless infants.”
My hand twitches with the urge to wrap around her outstretched finger. I haven’t fully thought through what I’d do after, but that spark inside her calls to me on a primal level.
It only comes out to play when she feels safe. Comfortable. And this place—my family home—is where it burns brightest.
Which is precisely why I’ve steered clear of visiting during the few weeks a year she chooses to spend here. She’s endured enough misfortune. The last thing she needs is me dousing her fire.
“We’re losing because these idiots are all wasted!” Asher pinches the bridge of his nose. “I want a new team. ”
“Look who’s talking.” Rowan nods at the empty glass in front of our brother. “You’ve guzzled more of Frosty’s jizz than all of us combined.”
“ Fizz! ” Mom chokes out through a violent bout of laughter. “Frosty Fizz !”
Felix scoffs. “Save it, Ma. You knew what you were doing when you named that drink.”
“Speaking of fizzy jizz—I need a refill.” With that proclamation, Asher sets off for the kitchen. “Pay attention to my beautiful girlfriend!”
Isla flinches, as if caught off guard by the word.
The satisfaction that surges through me at her reaction can only mean one thing: I’m an asshole.
Her painted red nails tap against the wooden bowl as she deliberates the next clue. A beat later, she plucks out a slip of paper and waves it around with dramatic flair.
She unfolds it slowly, squinting at the words, her lips parting as she reads. As soon as her eyes widen, her startled gaze snapping to my face, I know what’s written on it.
A flash of recognition passes between us, carried on an electric charge that zips through the air.
I’m slammed with a memory from six winters ago.
Despite its age, it’s so vivid and tactile it drags me straight under.
It’s a Wonderful Life flickers on the battered screen in the upstairs movie room.
Outside, the world is white noise. Snow blankets the house, piling higher by the hour in what the news has christened the Blizzard of the Century.
The attic window is sealed in frost, smothering all traces of light, while the wind lashes the roof.
With temperatures plunging well below freezing, our old furnace groans in protest, struggling to keep the chill at bay .
I arm Isla with a knitted throw in a chivalrous move to shield her from the cold.
And maybe…myself.
She curls in to my left, legs tucked, fluffy reindeer socks chiming softly with every shift.
The screen’s glow reflects on her face, illuminating the freckles dusting the bridge of her nose.
Long, copper-tinted waves tumble over her shoulders, carrying the warm scent of cinnamon.
The rest of her smells like peppermint and sugar from the cocoa we’ve been sipping—and I spend a perverse amount of time fixated on the lucky smudge of chocolate clinging to her bottom lip.
More than once, her head lolls toward me. Likely drawn by gravity, but some reckless part of me prays it’s brought on by instinct instead. Every touch shoots fire through my veins.
She feels so damn good.
Too fucking good .
It’s that dizzying rush of desire to make her mine that stops me.
Isla is only nineteen. Still grieving. Vulnerable in her loneliness.
I’m almost a decade older. Her mentor. A friend teetering too close to a line I have no right to cross.
Determined not to exploit the power imbalance between us and betray the trust she doesn’t even know she’s gifted me, I wage war against impulse and snuff out every feeling before it can spark action.
Jaw clenched, fingers digging into my thighs, I stop myself from reaching for her. Force my mind and body to accept that we’re just watching a stupid movie. Demand my heart submit to the lie that this is nothing more than a harmless holiday tradition.
Isla Greene is just my little brother’s friend.
She doesn’t mean anything. We can never mean anything .
Isla blinks, scanning the card again before looking back up at me.
A flash of confusion ripples across her forehead. Nose scrunched, brow furrowed, teeth worrying at her bottom lip—her trademark what-the-hell-is-happening face is in full effect.
Over the years, I’ve become an expert at reading every nuance of her expression. Just like she’s come to know the signature of my handwriting.
She’s clearly wondering why I threw that movie into the mix.
Truthfully? I don’t have an answer.
No logical one, anyway.
Perhaps I’m just a bastard who wanted to drag her back into the past with me. Craved to stir something in her—in us both—by resurrecting a memory that should’ve stayed buried.
I give her a nonchalant shrug.
What else do I have to offer?
“Here we go!” Willow claps loudly. “Bring it home, babe!”
Isla straightens her spine, then points to herself with an apparent me signal. Her gaze darts around the room, intentionally avoiding mine.
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Graham launches from his seat, his enthusiasm so over-the-top it makes us all jolt to attention. “ It’s a Wonderful Life , right?!”
Isla freezes, her finger still suspended in the air. “Wow,” she breathes, awe winding through her voice.
Graham beams. “Remember the year you and Teddy started a fire in the attic when you fell asleep with the projector running? I had to haul your butts out, and you begged me to save the film strip first. Said it was your favorite vintage Christmas movie. ”
“ Wow ,” Isla repeats, flashing an impressed smile at my stepdad. There’s a split second where her gaze slides toward me, but she instantly readjusts her focus. “Great memory, Graham.”
“Well, you know, the drama of the situation really helped cement it into my brain.”
“Dad! What the heck are you doing?” Felix groans, burying his head in his hands. “You just handed them the win! You’re not supposed to conspire with the enemy!”
“Your sweet, beautiful mother could never be my enemy.” Graham strides over to the rival camp to press a gentle kiss on Mom’s forehead.
A chorus of loud, exaggerated gags erupts from my brothers as they’re forced to bear witness to the cuddle-fest that ensues.
Willow hoots. “Another point for the women! We’re unstoppable .” She shakes her head at us. “And you’re truly terrible at this game.”
Isla tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and shifts on her feet. “Guess my work here is done.”
On her return to the couch, her gaze snags on mine and she stumbles.
My heart does, too.
She recovers quickly. Much faster than me.
Sinking back into her seat, she pulls a decorative pillow into her lap. Her fingers toy with the tassel in the corner, twisting it restlessly.
The sound of Asher’s return pulls her attention.
“What’s with all the screeching?” A glass of Frosty Fizz bubbles in each of his hands as he peers down at her. “Did I miss something good?”
“Nope,” Isla replies, shuffling over to make room for him. “Nothing important. ”
When he passes her a drink, she offers him one of her sunny smiles—a beam of light that’s been cut off from me for years.
Nothing important.
Her words echo in my mind.
Just a stupid movie. A card she drew by chance.
It means nothing.
And it sure as hell doesn’t change anything.