Page 75 of Merry Me
And then I heard it.
A quietclink. A soft shuffle. Something subtle but familiar.
The kitchen.
Of course.
I followed the faint spill of light stretching into the corridor and pushed open the half-closed door.
And there she was.
Standing near the stove in one of those oversized sweatshirts she lived in—this one some faded shade of blue that might’ve once belonged to me. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun with strands falling loose around her face, her posture slightlyhunched like she’d been lost in thought. She was biting her lip as she poured something into a mug, steam rising in curling ribbons from whatever she was making.
Mmm. Hot cocoa. Her favorite comfort drink. Beyond tequila.
Her back was to me, but the sight of her, the soft slope of her shoulders, the quiet in the way she moved…it hit me square in the chest. Every instinct pulled me forward, like my body knew before my brain did that I needed to be closer to her.
I didn’t say anything. Not yet. Just leaned a little against the doorframe and watched her for another beat.
She didn’t notice me right away. Her hands were moving slowly, carefully, as if she were trying to do something—anything—that didn’t require too much thinking. Or too much feeling.
Which meant she was probably doing both.
And then she turned.
Her eyes lifted, soft and startled, but not surprised. As if part of her had expected me to find her.
We just looked at each other for a second. No words. Just the quiet recognition that even with everything messy and unspoken between us, somehow, we’d still found our way to the same place.
And maybe that meant something.
Or maybe it didn’t.
But either way…I stepped fully into the kitchen.
The old floorboards creaked softly under my boots, and Natalie’s gaze dropped for half a second, like she wasn’t sure whether to smile or brace herself.
She didn’t move.
Neither did I.
The warm light overhead cast her in soft amber, catching on the edges of her hair, the curve of her cheek, the faint shadows under her eyes. She looked tired. Beautiful, but tired in that bone-deep way that comes from thinking too much and sleeping too little.
Still, she held my gaze.
“Hey,” I said quietly.
“Hey,” she echoed, equally soft. Her voice wasn’t cold—it was cautious.
That was worse.
I looked at the mug in her hands, filled to the brim with hot chocolate, and then at the second mug on the counter beside it that was empty.
“You making one for me?” I asked, trying to keep it light.
She gave me a shrug, holding up both mugs. “If I drank two, it’d feel sad. But if Iheldtwo, it might just look like holiday spirit. Or pathetic…hard to tell, honestly.”
I stepped closer, not touching, but close. Close enough to smell the vanilla in her shampoo. Close enough to feel it again—thatpull. Always the pull. “You’ve never looked pathetic in your life.”
