Page 102 of Holiday Friend Zones
He smiles against my mouth and gives it to me—another kiss, deeper but still gentle, a yes that settles through me like warmth after a long cold.When we part, my hands are fisted in his shirt, and his thumb is still circling that small spot near my ear like he can’t bear to stop.
“I love you,” I say—quiet, certain.“Not because you fix everything.Because you show up.Because you choose me.Because every road you take still turns back here.”
His eyes shine, relief and something bright breaking through.He lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh and a prayer.“Say it again.”
“I love you.”A little stronger.“I’ve loved you for a long time.”
A soft, startled sound escapes him.He catches my hand and presses it to his chest—fast, uneven.“It’s you.It’s always been you.”He kisses my knuckles, then the corner of my mouth, like he’s memorizing proof.“Tell me again tomorrow.And the day after.Every Christmas, if you’ll let me.I’ll spend all of it proving I know what I have.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I whisper, dizzy and rooted.
“Please do.”
ChapterNineteen
ROMAN
By the time the sign on the bookstore reads CLOSED and the fans are humming on low behind the counter, the snow has thickened to a hush.I don’t remember deciding to bring her here; it happens the way breathing does.One minute, we’re standing under that tree, hearts on the table, and the next, I’m opening my front door.The scent of pine and cinnamon is out to meet us like it’s been waiting.
She lingers in the entry, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes moving over the house we built on napkins and late-night texts—arches and light, a kitchen that actually invites you in, the double doors to the library cracked the way she left them last time.Her coat slides off her shoulders.I catch it, hang it on the hook she made me buy because “you’re not thirteen, Roman.”She toes off her boots and looks up at me, and I’m wrecked all over again.
“Hungry?”I ask, mainly to keep my hands busy.
She shakes her head.“Not for food.”
I laugh—quiet, helpless.“Okay.”
We don’t talk about the leak.We don’t talk about tips or lists or how I said a sentence I’ve been swallowing for years.She brushes her fingers along the back of the couch, glances at the tree in the corner by the window—gold and red, a few crooked ornaments that make her smile—and then turns back to me like she’s made a decision that changes everything.
“I meant it,” she says.No wobble in her voice.“I love you.”
If I live to a hundred, nothing will ever hit me the way that does.I step in, close enough that I can see the tiny snowflakes melting on her hairline.“I don’t know how to be good at this,” I admit.“I only know I can’t live without you.”
She moves first—fingers sliding under my shirt like she knows exactly where I live beneath the fabric—and I’m done pretending I can keep playing it cool.I’m not cool.Not with her.Not when she touches me like that.
I dip my head and kiss her.Slow.Intentional.It’s not rushed—it’s not even urgent.It’s a deliberate kind of hunger.The kind I’ve been starving for.
She opens for me with a soft sound that unravels something deep in my chest.I chase it, deepen the kiss, tasting her sighs and swallowing the hitch in her breath as my hands grip her waist.
“Come here,” I murmur against her lips, and she nods like we’re speaking the same language.
We move through the house together, bumping into doorframes and laughing quietly between kisses, past the kitchen.Up the stairs I widened years ago because she said someday I’d need them—for dogs, for book boxes, for a life that takes up space.I didn’t know she meant us.
In my bedroom, her laugh trips out when my knee bumps the cedar chest at the end of the bed.It’s bright and unguarded—her.I grin and kiss it right off her mouth.
She grabs the hem of my shirt again, and I let her pull it over my head.Her fingers graze down my chest like she’s memorizing the terrain.
“Yours too,” I whisper, already curling my hand beneath the soft hem of her sweater.She lifts her arms and lets me undress her, eyes holding mine as the fabric glides off.
Her bra is black, simple, and suddenly the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.My hands skim along the straps, fingertips brushing her skin until I reach the clasp.I hesitate, letting her feel the pause.The offer.
She nods.Just once.
The bra slips away.My mouth follows.
She exhales sharply when I kiss the edge of her breast, then again when I suck lightly over her nipple, circling it with my tongue.Her fingers tangle in my hair, body arching into mine, and I feel her pulse thrum against my mouth.
“Lie down for me,” I whisper, voice rougher than I meant.She backs onto the bed, pulling me with her.
