Page 105 of Holiday Friend Zones
“I was waiting for the right day.”
“It’s today,” she says, voice low.
“Yeah,” I manage.“It is.”
She slips the ribbon over her head.Then she’s in my arms, kissing me like we’re sealing a blueprint we drew long ago and finally get to build.
Later, we end up on the couch in the library with a blanket thrown over our legs, the small tree casting warm light across her cheek.The recipe card waits on the table; we’ll make them next year, as dough rises while we read.For now, I want this—her tucked into me, my hand wrapped around hers.
“I’m going to be an idiot sometimes,” I tell her.“I’ll stay too late at job sites and forget to eat and say the wrong thing.I’ll mess up.But I’m not going to disappear.Not from you.”
She tips her head back to look at me.“I don’t need perfect.I need you.”
“You’ve got me,” I say.“For dinner.For leaky pipes.For mornings that go sideways.For the days when you hate this season and the ones where you don’t.I’m in.”
Her smile is small and true.“Good.”A beat.“And I’m done with tips.”
I nudge her nose with mine.“What’s the new plan?”
“This.”She squeezes my hand.“Saying what I want.With you.”
“Best plan you’ve ever had,” I murmur, kissing her temple.
I imagine future mornings in this kitchen, with cinnamon in the air and her feet cold on mine.I think about next year’s ornaments and a list I’m finally brave enough to start: traditions we’ll create from scratch.
I press a kiss to her hair.“Merry Christmas, Wills.”
“Merry Christmas, Roman,” she whispers—and the word feels like a home we get to live in.
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