Chapter 4 #2
“A decision like this deserves care,” I say. “If you want to be with someone, they should know what you’re trusting them with. They should take their time. Make sure you’re ready and it’s right so you feel safe and seen. Not convenient.”
“I know,” she whispers.
I brush her lower lip with my thumb. Her breath catches. My eyes drop to her mouth.
My pulse kicks hard.
Not yet. Not like this. Without her being absolutely sure.
I lower my hand and step back. Cold air rushes between us. Every instinct screams to pull her close again and test how that soft mouth would feel against mine. “Not yet. Not until you’re sure this isn’t just... cabin fever. Storm intensity.”
“Cole—”
“Tomorrow. If you still want this tomorrow, when the storm’s passed and you’ve had space to think... then we’ll talk about what this is.” I step back farther, putting the counter between us. “Cookies are cooling.”
She blinks again. Her pupils are blown, her lips parted, and her cheeks flushed. “Right. Cookies.”
I force myself to turn away before I do anything we’re not ready for.
I move to the closet and reach past the ornament box to the shelf behind.
The strand of lights is there. White LEDs, barely used. Emma insisted on them. Said they were classy. I told her they were boring. She swatted my arm and hung them anyway.
I pull them down and dust them off.
“What are you doing?” Holly asks.
I plug them in. They illuminate. No flicker or dead bulbs.
“You made the kitchen smell like Christmas,” I say. “Might as well look like it, too.”
Her face transforms. Pure joy. “Cole—”
“It’s just lights.”
“It’s not just lights.”
No. It’s not.
It’s me choosing to remember Emma without drowning in grief. It’s me letting Holly in—just a little. And it’s me realizing the cabin doesn’t have to stay frozen. That I don’t have to either.
I drape the strand over the window frame. The bulbs cast warm light across the snow outside, reflecting back and filling the kitchen with a soft glow.
Holly crosses to the window and stares at them. Her breath fogs the glass.
“Emma would like this,” she says.
“Yeah. She would.”
Holly turns to me, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For trusting me with her memory. For letting me be part of… this.”
I clear my dry throat. “You hungry?”
“Starving.”
“I’ll make dinner.”
“I’ll help.”
This time, I don’t argue.
She chops vegetables. I stand at the stove making a stir-fry. Both of us orbit the lights as if they were the North Star.
Holly asks about Jesse and Wells. I tell her about the time Wells built an entire solar array by hand, and how Jesse nearly burned down his cabin trying to smoke venison.
She laughs, and the sound fills spaces I didn’t know were empty.
We eat at the table, the lights glowing behind us. The fire crackles. The generator hums. Outside, the sky darkens and fresh snow falls.
And for the first time in three years, Christmas doesn’t feel like a wound. It feels like a door I might be ready to open.
“I’m going to wash up,” she says.
“Help yourself to what you need.”
She retreats to the bathroom, and the cabin feels colder without her. I glance at the lights. They make me think of Emma and Holly.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Another weather alert.
I check it. Frown.
The system is moving faster than predicted. Six to eight hours of heavy snow are expected.
Holly appears from the bedroom. Her hair is damp. “Everything okay?”
“The new front will be worse than they thought.”
Her face falls. “How bad?”
“Roads will be buried again by morning.” I set the phone down. “You’ll be stuck another day or two, depending on how fast they can plow.”
“Oh.” She wraps her arms around herself. “I should text Sophie. Let her know I might not make it back in time for the senior center event.”
“Smart.”
Holly pulls out her phone and types, then pauses, her thumb hovering over the screen. She looks up at me, biting her lip.
“What?” I ask.
“I know you said no photos. But Sophie is worried. She knows I was driving up here. If I just text her that I’m stuck, she’ll panic, thinking I’m in a ditch.”
Unsure what she’s asking, I rub my chin.
“Could I please send her one quick photo so she can see I’m safe and warm? I won’t post it anywhere, I promise. It’s just for her.”
Damn. I’d rather she not, but she seems concerned about Sophie. Still…
“Cole?”
Reluctantly, I nod, hoping I don’t regret this. “One photo. To her. That’s it.”
“Thank you. I promise.” Holly turns the phone and snaps a selfie, then sends it.
She sets down her phone. “There’s one more thing.
I left a duffel bag in my car. My grandmother’s recipes and her journals are inside.
I meant to grab it when we went for our walk, but I forgot.
If it gets buried under three feet of snow—”
“I’ll get it first thing in the morning. Before the storm gets too bad.”
“Really?”
“Holly.” I move to her. “Those recipes matter to you. I’ll get them. Promise.”
She nods, her eyes bright. “Thank you.”
“Go to bed. Get some sleep. I’ll wake you before I head out.”
She hesitates, then rises on her toes and kisses my cheek. “Goodnight, Cole.”
My skin burns at the point of contact. “Night.”
She disappears into the bedroom, and the door clicks shut.
I bank the fire and check the weather one more time.
I’ll go out at first light. Three-thirty. Before the worst of it hits.
Get the bag. Get back. Keep her safe.
Simple.
Except nothing about Holly feels simple anymore.
Not how my skin still burns where she kissed me.
Not the trust in her eyes when she told me her truth.
Not what I want to do if she chooses me.
And not how much I want her to.