Page 18 of Celebrating the Season

I moved quietly around the bedroom, pulling on layers to ward off the morning chill—a thermal shirt, flannel, thick socks. All the while, my gaze kept drifting back to Boaz’s sleeping form. There was something so vulnerable about him like this, something that made me want to wrap him up and shield him from the world.

Christ, when did I get so soft?

But I couldn’t deny the warmth that spread through my chest as I watched him. It had been a long time since I’d felt this…protective of someone. This invested.

I shook my head, trying to clear the sappy thoughts. There’d be time to sort through all that later. For now, I had work to do.

The crisp winter air hit me like a slap to the face as I stepped outside, my breath clouding in front of me. The snow crunched beneath my boots as I approached the woodpile, axe in hand. I relished the bite of the cold. It cleared my head, grounding me in the present moment.

I set up the first log and swung the axe with practiced ease. The satisfying thunk and crack as it split the wood echoed through the silent forest. I fell into a rhythm, the repetitive motion familiar and comforting.

Thunk. Crack.

Thunk. Crack.

As my body worked, my mind wandered. What was it about Boaz that had gotten under my skin so quickly? His infectious energy? That smart mouth of his that I was dying to shut up in the best way possible?

Thunk. Crack.

Thunk. Crack.

Or maybe it was the vulnerability I sensed beneath his chatty exterior. The way his eyes lit up when I paid attention to him, like he wasn’t used to being truly seen. Jesus, every time I called him a good boy, his face lit up like the sun.

Thunk. Crack.

Thunk. Crack.

I’d explored the D/s dynamic and played around with some Daddy kink, but it all went too far for me. A power exchange wasn’t for me, and neither were formal rules. I just wanted somebody I could take care of, someone willing to let me be my dominant self and experiment with some very mild spice in the bedroom without expecting more. Was that someone Boaz?

Thunk. Crack.

Thunk. Crack.

He was too young for me. Too pretty. Plus, he lived in LA—though he had said he wasn’t happy there. But he’d quickly grow bored here, almost off the grid and in the middle of nowhere. Forestville wasn’t exactly a bustling city, though I loved its small-town charm. I hoped to stay and build friendships here. It was ridiculous to even consider how Boaz might fit in, right? I’d only met him two days prior.

“Fuck,” I muttered, wiping sweat from my brow despite the cold. I was in deeper than I’d realized.

After finishing, I gathered an armload of split logs and headed back inside. The cabin’s warmth enveloped me as I crossed the threshold, but everything was quiet otherwise, so Boaz must’ve still been asleep.

The rich aroma of coffee filled the kitchen as I measured grounds into the French press. While it brewed, I pulled out a pot for oatmeal, the familiar motions grounding me in the present. The gentle bubbling of the oats simmering on the stove mingled with the soft gurgle of coffee, creating a soothing morning symphony.

I breathed in deeply, savoring the comforting scents. As I stirred a dollop of honey into my oatmeal, I grinned at the memory of Boaz’s genuine admiration for my role as a smokejumper. He’d been so in awe, making me stand a little taller.

Shaking my head at my own ridiculousness, I carried my breakfast into the living room. I settled into my favorite armchair, its worn leather creaking as I sank into it. The cabin was peacefully quiet, save for the occasional pop and crackle from the fireplace.

I picked up the book I’d been reading—the story of the famous Band of Brothers from the 101st Airborne in the Second World War—but found my attention wandering. My gaze kept drifting to the closed bedroom door. Was Boaz still asleep? The thought of him curled in my bed, dark curls tousled against the pillow, made something clench in my gut.

“Get it together, old man,” I muttered to myself. But even as I tried to focus on my book, my mind kept circling back to Boaz. His quick wit and expressive eyes, the way his face lit up when he laughed. Christ, when was the last time anyone had made me feel like this?

A soft creak from the bedroom door upstairs drew my attention. I glanced up to see Boaz shuffling down the stairs and into the living room, looking adorably disheveled. His dark curls were a wild mess, sticking up in all directions, and his eyes were still heavy with sleep. He’d thrown on one of my flannel shirts, which hung comically large on his slender frame, the sleeves rolled up several times to free his hands.

“Morning,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. He ran a hand through his hair, somehow making it even messier. “Shit, I’m sorry for sleeping so late. I totally crashed.”

An affectionate chuckle escaped me. “No need to apologize. You clearly needed the rest.”

Boaz gave me a sheepish grin, his full lips curving upward. “Yeah, I guess I did. This place is so…peaceful, you know? I can’t remember the last time I slept that well.”

I set my book aside, rising from my chair. “Hungry? I made oatmeal.”

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