Page 23 of Christmas With the Navy SEAL Mountain Man
"No," I say more gently, "but I'm starting to. Aaron, what happened to your team was tragic. Surviving when they didn't was cruel luck. But punishing yourself by refusing connection, refusing love—that won't honor their memory."
"Don't." His voice drops to a dangerous quiet. "Don't use them to make your point."
I press on despite the warning, needing him to hear this. "You told me last night that they had families, people waiting for them to come home. That you had no one. But Aaron, you have me now. If you'll let yourself take that chance."
He turns away again, shoulders rigid with tension. "It's not that simple."
"It can be." I move behind him, not touching but close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. "Loving someone is always a risk. There are no guarantees. I could get hit by a truck tomorrow. You could fall off your mountain. Life is uncertain for everyone."
"And that's supposed to be comforting?" The bitterness in his voice doesn't mask the fear beneath it.
"It's supposed to be honest." I resist the urge to touch him, sensing he needs space. "What's the alternative? Never connecting with anyone? Living alone in this cabin until you're old and gray, surrounded by beautiful things you've created but no one to share them with?"
The silence that follows tells me my words have found their mark. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough with emotion.
"I don't know how to do this, Leah." The confession sounds torn from him. "I don't know how to be with someone again. To matter to someone. To have someone matter to me."
"I know you don't." I soften my tone, taking a careful step closer. "But we can figure it out together. Day by day."
He turns to face me, his expression raw with vulnerability. For a moment, I think I've reached him. Then he straightens,composing his features into that careful neutrality I haven't seen since our first days.
"I need to get back to work," he says, shoulders squaring. "The roads are getting worse with the snow. You should probably head back to town before your SUV can't make it down the mountain."
I realize he's dismissing me. Just like that. "Aaron?—"
"Please." He holds up a hand, stopping my approach. "Last night was... important to me. You are important. But I can't do this right now."
The distinction hurts more than an outright rejection. Important. Not loved. Not needed. Just important.
"How much time?" I ask, hating how small my voice sounds.
He shakes his head, eyes avoiding mine. "I don't know. I just know I need to clear my head."
"It's Christmas Day," I remind him, one last attempt to reach him. "We can talk through this. Together."
His expression softens momentarily, conflict clear on his face. For a heartbeat, I think he might relent.
"I'm sorry," he says instead. "I'll check the road conditions. If it's too bad, I'll follow you down in my truck to make sure you get back safely."
That at least sounds like him—the protector, even when he's pushing me away.
I gather my things quickly, the ache in my chest growing with each passing minute. When I emerge from the bathroom dressed in yesterday's clothes, Aaron is by the front door, looking out at the falling snow with a frown.
"It's coming down harder," he says, not meeting my eyes. "I'll drive behind you. Make sure you don't get stuck."
"I can manage," I say stiffly, pride making me stubborn despite the practicality of his offer.
"Leah." His voice softens slightly. "Please. Just let me do this."
I nod once, too hurt to argue. Outside, my red SUV sits covered in a fresh layer of snow. Aaron brushes it off while I start the engine, the silence between us louder than the scrape of his snow brush against the windows.
The drive down the mountain is tense, my SUV crawling carefully over the snow-packed road, Aaron's black truck a constant presence in my rearview mirror. His headlights remain steady behind me until I reach the main road into town, where he flashes his lights once—a silent goodbye—before turning back toward the mountain.
Only when his truck disappears from view do I allow the tears to fall, hot tracks down cold cheeks as I navigate the familiar streets toward my apartment.
Inside my empty home, Christmas decorations mock the hollowness in my chest. I'd been so excited about today—our first Christmas together, the beginning of something I'd thought could be beautiful and lasting. Now I stand alone, the day stretching empty before me.
I touch the carousel horse at my throat, tracing the intricate carving with my fingertip. He put his heart into this gift, into every moment we've shared these past weeks. That can't all disappear because three words frightened him back into isolation.
