Page 81 of On Thin Ice

I stepped closer and lowered my voice. “We should get a tree.”

He froze for a second, his breathing visibly paused. “You want to?”

There was something vulnerable in his question that made my chest tighten. Like he’d been wanting the same thing but hadn’t dared to ask. Like Christmas was something he’d denied himself for reasons I couldn’t begin to understand.

“Yes,” I nodded, maintaining eye contact. “I want us to get the biggest, most ridiculous tree we can find. I want to haul it home and argue over whether we do white lights or multi-colored ones, and I want to find one of those terrible ornaments with two snowmen kissing and write our names on it in Sharpie.”

Ethan stared at me for a beat, his expression caught between amusement and something deeper, something that looked almost like longing. “That’s wildly specific.”

“It is.” I grinned, not backing down, even as I wondered if I was setting myself up for disappointment. Building something together, creating shared traditions—these were things couples did.Realcouples, not whatever ambiguous arrangement we currently had.

He looked away, but the color rising in his cheeks betrayed him. A holiday jingle played faintly over the store speakers, and I watched him unconsciously tap his finger against the cart handle in rhythm. “Fine,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft. “We’ll get a tree.”

“Yeah?” I asked, trying not to sound too excited or hopeful, though I couldn't stop the smile spreading across my face.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice soft now. His eyes met mine briefly before he pushed the cart forward, adding in a tone so low I almost missed it, “You wanna go tonight?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Because despite all my reservations, despite the voice in my head warning me to protect my heart, I wanted this. Wanted to build a life with him, even if I was still afraid it might all come crashing down.

One Christmas tree wasn’t going to fix everything between us. I knew that. But maybe it was a start.

CHAPTER19

BELL

We pulled into the lot just after sunset, the sky a deep, dusky blue that made the strands of white twinkle lights seem to burn brighter in contrast.

Rows of trees separated by height stretched out in front of us, their silhouettes creating dark corridors beneath the golden glow. Bundled-up families and couples wandered makeshift aisles, their breath clouding above paper cups of steaming cocoa. Children darted between the trees playing games of hide-and-seek while their parents debated the merits of Noble versus Fraser firs.

The crisp December air carried the sharp scent of pine and woodsmoke from a small fire pit where an attendant in a red flannel jacket stood roasting chestnuts, his weathered face reflecting the dancing flames. Christmas music—something instrumental and nostalgic—played from speakers mounted on wooden posts throughout the lot, the melody occasionally drowned out by the distant buzz of a chainsaw trimming a fresh trunk.

The atmosphere was so aggressively festive that it was almost comical. It looked like we’d stepped onto the set of a Hallmark Christmas movie, not a tree lot on an abandoned five acres on the edge of Austin’s city limits.

I hopped out of his GMC, stretching my arms over my head, wood chips crunching under my boots.

Ethan met me around the front, tucking his hands into his pockets. His breath fogged the air as he glanced around, his eyes flicking between the trees and the crowd. He looked like he might bolt.

I bumped his arm gently with mine. “Hey. It’s just tree shopping.”

He exhaled a small, nervous laugh and shook his head. “And you’re just my roommate.”

I was much more than that, though we hadn’t given each other any official titles.Mineseemed to suffice for now.

I smirked. “Exactly. We’re just two hockey-playing roommates picking out a Christmas tree. No one’s going to think it’s anything more than that.”

“If you say so,” he replied, sounding skeptical but willing to go along with it.

We wandered down the first aisle, stopping now and then to inspect one of the trees up close. Ethan took the task quite seriously, measuring each tree’s height, circling it slowly to gauge its circumference, and running his fingers along the needles to test their freshness. Sometimes he’d step back, his head tilted slightly and his lips pressed together as he assessed the tree’s overall shape with an adorably critical expression.

“Too sparse on this side,” he’d murmur about one, or “The top’s crooked,” about another before moving on.

I mostly watched him, occasionally pointing out a tree that looked promising just to see him go through his meticulous evaluation process all over again. Even though this was my idea, I’d never cared much about Christmas trees before—my family had used the same artificial, professionally decorated one since I was a kid—but Ethan’s careful consideration made me appreciate the ritual of it.

God, he was beautiful in this light. Hair tousled, cheeks pink from the cold, his lips pursed in concentration. Despite his obvious nervousness when we’d first arrived, he looked relaxed now, almost content. Younger. Softer. Like the version of himself I got to see at night behind closed doors.

We were halfway down the next row when I heard a kid calling his name. “Hey! It’s Ethan Harrison!”

Two young boys—brothers from the look of them, maybe six and eight—came bounding toward us, faces flushed with excitement. Their parents followed several paces behind, looking equal parts apologetic and thrilled.

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