Page 32 of Noel
Noel kills the engine, and for a second, the world outside is utterly still.The hum of the heater fades, replaced by the soft hiss of falling snow.
“Thanks,” he says, voice quiet.“Hasn’t seen a lot of guests lately.”
I glance at him, and something in his profile—the strong jaw, the shadowed eyes—makes my chest ache.
He’s a fortress of a man, but even fortresses have cracks.
The porch creaks under our boots as we climb the steps.
He presses a code into the alarm system, unlocks the door, pushes it open, and gestures me inside first.
Another pad with more codes and I assume the perimeter alarms are reset.
It’s warm inside.
Not just temperature warm, but alive.
The living room opens up around me like a hug.A wide stone fireplace dominates one wall.Noel sees me looking, and he walks over, presses a few buttons and it sparks to life.
I gasp and smile as the flames crackle low.
A sectional couch made of gray leather sits across from the fireplace, flanked by a pair of mismatched armchairs.
Everything smells faintly of cedar, spice, and him.
There’s a Christmas tree in the corner—half-decorated.
Just the lights.
No ornaments.
But a box of them sits open nearby, as if he meant to finish but couldn’t bring himself to.
“You live here alone?”I ask softly, stepping out of my boots.
He nods, hanging up his coat by the door.
“Yeah.”He runs a hand along the doorframe as if it’s something alive.“My parents built it after they got married.I inherited it after they passed.Didn’t have the heart to sell.”
His voice goes quiet at the end, and for the first time since I’ve known him, there’s something fragile underneath all that control.
My gaze drifts to the mantle.The photos there tell a story of their own—two smiling people in old snapshots, faces creased with laughter and sunlight.They lookkind,the sort of couple you can instantly picture dancing in the kitchen, still holding hands after decades.
There’s one of Noel, younger, in uniform, standing proudly between them.He’s got the same stubborn line to his jaw, but there’s an openness in his eyes, a spark that hasn’t yet been worn down by the things he’s seen.
“You were close to them,” I say softly.It’s not really a question.
“Yeah,” he answers, eyes on the fire now.“They were the good kind of people.The kind that made you believe love wasn’t just a word people threw around.I was lucky.”
There’s no self-pity in his tone, no bitterness.Just quiet reverence.
“Yes,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.“You were.”
He glances at me then, a small, almost curious flicker in his expression—as if he hadn’t expected me to say it like that, like I meant it.
I turn away, pretending to study the fire so he doesn’t see what’s in my face.
It’s so rare to hear a man talk about love like that.
