Page 33 of Noel
Not like a fairytale, but like afact.Something earned.Something steady.
My chest tightens.
I don’t want to think about my own parents.My childhood wasn’t a tragedy—justordinaryin a way that still stings.
My parents weren’t cruel, just distracted.
Dad was always chasing the next deal.Mom was always somewhere between soap operas and PTA circles that didn’t include me.
I remember walking home from school to an empty house, my report card on the counter, hoping they’d notice.
Hoping they’d say we’re proud of you, or at least ask how my day was.
They didn’t.
And eventually, I stopped waiting for them to.
Now, it’s just the occasional greeting card—birthdays, Christmas, obligatoryhope you’re well.
I send them one back, polite and hollow, because that’s what you do.
But standing here, watching Noel quietly set another log on the fire, hearing the warmth in his voice when he talks about his parents, something in me aches.
He lost his family.I never really had mine.
And yet, in this small, quiet house filled with the echoes of love that clearly shaped him, I feel something unfamiliar blooming in my chest—something dangerously close to home.
I wrap my arms around myself and step closer to the fire, letting its heat wash over me, pretending it’s enough to hide the look in my eyes.
Because the truth is, it’s not just the house that feels warm.
It’s him.
He moves around the room with an easy familiarity—checking the locks, scanning the windows, flipping switches I don’t recognize.
He’s methodical, always assessing, always guarding.But when his gaze lands on me again, something changes.
“You hungry?”he asks, voice gentler now.
“A little,” I admit.“Mostly tired.”
“Kitchen’s through there.”He nods toward the archway.“There’s stew in the fridge.I make a lot at once—it reheats well.Or I have fresh cold cuts and sliced bread for sandwiches.Bathroom’s down the hall, guest room’s upstairs on the left.”
I blink.“You cook?”
He shrugs, half-smiling.“Man’s gotta eat.”
I grin despite myself.“You just keep getting more mysterious, Noel Kane.”
He raises a brow.“Mysterious?”
“Yeah.”I gesture around.“Tough guy exterior, cozy Christmas cottage interior.It’s confusing.”
That earns me a quiet chuckle, the kind that sounds like it doesn’t escape him often.
“Let’s get some food,” he says, his voice low but gentler now.“We’ll regroup after we eat.”
I expect him to disappear into stoic-soldier mode again, but instead, he heads toward the kitchen.
