Chapter 10
TEN
CALDER
By early evening, the second storm has fully settled in—not with the violent edge of the first one, but with a dense, determined snowfall that whispers against the windows and piles up silently on the porch.
The power still hasn’t come back. The generator still isn’t cooperating.
The only light in the cabin comes from the fire and a few candles scattered around the room.
It should feel dim.
It should feel cold.
Instead, it feels…warm.
A lot of that is because of her.
Natalie sits cross-legged on the rug in front of the tree, sorting ornaments into neat groups. She’s humming something I don’t recognize—something soft and low and possibly designed in a lab to make me lose concentration.
I try to fix a stripped screw in one of the kitchen cabinet hinges and fail for the fourth time in five minutes.
“I’m starting to think you’re sabotaging that cabinet so you have chores,” she says without looking up.
“I’m not sabotaging anything.”
“You keep mumbling at it.”
“That’s called troubleshooting.”
She grins, still not looking up. “Pretty sure the cabinet can sense your frustration.”
I shake my head, grab the screwdriver again, and make a minor adjustment that doesn’t solve anything. My attention keeps drifting—toward her hands, her hair, the little crease in her forehead when she’s concentrating. I’m not used to sharing space with someone who fills a room without trying.
Especially someone who fills my attention without trying.
“Okay,” she says suddenly, sitting up straighter. “I need your opinion.”
“On what?”
She lifts two ornaments—one with tiny carved mountains, one with small painted stars. “Which one should go on the highest branch? The top piece shouldn’t be too heavy.”
“They’re ornaments,” I say.
“Yes. And?”
“And they’re all the same.”
She gasps like I’ve committed a felony. “Calder. That is the worst, coldest, most incorrect thing you’ve said so far.”
I fold my arms. “It’s a tree. It’s not going to file a complaint.”
“It should.”
“It won’t.”
She narrows her eyes, holding both ornaments up like evidence. “Pick one.”
I sigh and point. “The stars.”
Her entire face brightens. “I knew it.”
She hops up—actually hops—and climbs carefully onto the chair to reach the top of the tree. I stand close, not touching, just hovering in case she slips again. It feels automatic. Necessary. Like I’m meant to be exactly where I am.
She nestles the ornament on the tallest branch, tilting her head to evaluate it.
“It’s perfect,” she declares.
“It’s fine,” I counter.
She climbs down the chair and gives me a look that’s at least fifty percent fond and fifty percent “you poor, clueless mountain man.”
When she steps past me, our shoulders brush. Not an accident. Not intentional. Just…inevitable.
I feel the contact everywhere.
She must feel it too because she goes a little still before moving again.
The fire snaps in the stove.
Wind hums outside.
And the air between us feels like a held breath.
We spend the next hour decorating. She takes charge. I follow her instruction even when I pretend not to.
“Higher,” she says, gesturing at the garland.
I raise it.
“No, wait—too high.”
I lower it.
“Perfect. Don’t move.”
“I’m literally holding it.”
“Hold it more.”
I give her a look that should qualify as a warning. She ignores it and stands on her toes to tie the garland in place, her shoulder brushing my chest.
She smells like vanilla and pine and something warm I’m not sure has a name.
When she steps back to admire her work, she bumps into me again.
Soft. Warm. Familiar.
“Sorry,” she says breathlessly.
“Don’t apologize,” I say before I can stop myself.
She turns slowly. Our eyes catch.
Something in her expression flickers, unguarded and bright.
The tree glows.
The fire glows.
And she—God help me—she glows too.
I clear my throat, stepping back a few measured inches before I do something reckless.
Like touch her.
Or kiss her.
Or pull her close and let the world tilt.
“Want some cocoa?” I ask instead, voice rough.
She smiles—small at first, then helplessly wider. “Yeah. I’d love that.”
We sit on the couch with steaming mugs, the stove crackling beside us. The decorations are only half finished, but the cabin already looks different—warmer, brighter, touched by something gently magical.
She blows on her cocoa. A little marshmallow melts onto her lip.
She doesn’t notice.
I definitely do.
“Okay,” she says, tucking one foot under her. “Serious question.”
I brace slightly. “All right.”
“What do you want this Christmas to feel like for your family?”
I stare into my mug. “Not stressful.”
“That’s a start.”
“I don’t want them walking on eggshells.”
“Good.”
“I don’t want my mom worrying she did something wrong.”
She nods gently. “Okay. And for you?”
I don’t answer at first.
Because no one asks me questions like that.
Because I’m not used to thinking about myself as part of the holiday, just the person making sure things don’t fall apart.
She waits. Patient. Steady. The way only she can.
I let out a slow breath. “For me… I guess I want it to feel real again.”
“Real how?”
“Like when my dad was here,” I say, the words coming low. “Simple. Easy. Like we were all on the same team.”
She doesn’t speak immediately. When she does, her voice is soft and sure.
“We can build that. All of it. Together.”
The word together lands in my chest like a warm hand.
I look up.
She’s watching me with an expression that shouldn’t be allowed—open and earnest and full of something that feels dangerously like belief.
No one believes in me like that.
No one has in a long time.
My pulse changes—steady but stronger, like the mountain shifting beneath snow.
“Natalie,” I say quietly.
She looks at me, eyes bright, lips parted slightly.
The space between us contracts.
Not physically.
Something else.
I lean in—just enough to feel the warmth of her breath, not enough to cross the line I’m still telling myself exists.
Her eyelashes flutter.
Her fingers tighten around her mug.
Her voice is a whisper.
“Calder…”
The rest of the moment is fragile enough to shatter.
BOOM.
Snow slams off the roof again, landing with an avalanche thud that rattles every window.
Natalie yelps and nearly upends her cocoa. I catch the mug before it spills, our hands tangling briefly.
Her heartbeat races.
Mine too.
“You okay?” I ask softly, fingers still grazing hers.
She nods, but her breath trembles. “Why does your roof hate me?”
“It doesn’t,” I say. “It’s just loud.”
“I’m loud,” she mutters. “This is payback.”
I fight a smile and set her mug safely on the table.
For a moment, we sit in the aftermath of the almost-moment. The moment that could’ve been more. The moment that’s going to sit between us now, warm and alive.
I clear my throat. “We should finish the tree tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Tomorrow.”
She stands, smoothing her blanket around her shoulders.
“I’m gonna head to bed,” she murmurs. “Big day tomorrow. Lots of holiday… things.”
I nod once. “Goodnight, Natalie.”
She lingers in the doorway, glancing back at me—one last flicker of what we didn’t quite say.
“Goodnight, Calder.”
The door closes softly.
And I sit there in the firelight, staring at the glow of the half-decorated tree, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to make it through tonight without thinking about the way she said my name.
And knowing I won’t.