Without hesitation, I closed the distance between us. One hand slipped around her waist, the other brushed a strand of hair from her face. Her breath hitched, and when I leaned in, our kiss was gentle and soul-deep, warmer than any hearth fire. All the doubts and anger and misunderstanding melted away. Her lips were soft, her arms winding around my neck as if anchoring us together in this moment of grace.
We parted slightly, foreheads touching, breathing the same frosty air. The Wishing Tree’s branches rustled with a soft sigh.
“Will you stay?” I asked, voice low. “At least through New Year’s?”
She smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’d like that,” she said, heart in her voice. “I don’t want to run back to the city yet. There’s more I want to learn here. More I want to feel. With you.”
Hand in hand, we turned away from the Wishing Tree, walking slowly toward the farmhouse. The snow glittered under the rising sun, and distant carols drifted from some neighbor’s radio, carried on the still morning air. My chest felt lighter than it had in years. For the first time since my grandfather passed, I truly believed this tree and these traditions held a gentle magic—not because they granted wishes like a fairy godmother, but because they inspired people to open their hearts—including my own.
Cassie gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “Merry Christmas, Wyatt,” she said softly.
“Merry Christmas, Cassie,” I replied, and then I stopped and kissed her again.