Page 85 of Holiday Friend Zones
ROMAN
Willow thinks she hides it well.
She doesn’t.
I can read her moods the way I read the margins of an old book—ink faded, smudged in places, but every note etched deep enough that I know exactly what it means.Her tells are small—an extra sigh when she strings garland, the way her fingers hesitate on the ribbon before tying a bow, the way her voice catches when she mentions her mom.
Most people wouldn’t notice, but I’ve had twenty years of practice.Twenty years of watching her try to keep her world stitched together with tape and stubbornness.
She thinks I don’t remember what it was like after her mom’s funeral.How she stood in this same shop with glassy eyes, pretending she wasn’t unraveling.I do.It gutted me then, and it still does now.
That’s why I push.That’s why I tease, why I play the part of the smug asshole.Because if I don’t, she’ll bury herself so deep in grief and bookshelves that she’ll forget how to breathe.
And maybe because keeping her laughing is the only way I know how to keep her close.
When I slung my arm around her shoulders, I always intended it to be casual—just another harmless touch, the way we’ve always been.But then she went still, like she was weighing the entire world to decide whether or not to lean into me.And fuck if that didn’t mess me up.
She doesn’t know that every time I call her “Princess,” what I really mean is mine.
I keep telling myself she’s off-limits.That she’s my best friend, my safe place, the girl who once saved me from sleeping in the back of my car when my old man slammed the door in my face.She’s more family than anyone I share blood with.And you don’t risk family.
But standing with her, listening to her talk about her mom, watching her try to convince herself she doesn’t care about the holidays—I almost say something I shouldn’t.
Because the truth is, I miss her mom too.She was the only adult who ever gave a damn about me, who let me crash on her couch, fed me when my fridge at home was empty, and scolded me like I mattered.Losing her gutted me, but I can’t admit that out loud.Not when Willow’s loss feels bigger, louder, more consuming.Mine doesn’t compare.
So instead, I joke about Austen reprints and mismatched socks.Because if I say what I’m really thinking—how I’d burn this whole town down if it meant she smiled again—I don’t know if I could take it back.
And the thing is, she has no idea how far gone I am.
Willow doesn’t know how hard it is for me to leave.
She assumes my teasing is just habit, the same routine we’ve had since we were kids.She doesn’t realize that every smartass comment is a mask for the things I don’t let slip.The things I want to say.
When I finally push off the counter, I don’t immediately move toward the door.Instead, I linger by the register, watching her rearrange garland like it’s a matter of life or death.Her hands fuss with the glittering strands, her shoulders tense, her mouth set in that stubborn line that makes her look like the strongest person I know—and the loneliest.
“Don’t stay too late,” I say, though I already know she will.
“I won’t,” she lies, not looking at me.
I almost laugh.Almost call her out.Instead, I lean against the doorframe, studying her profile as she reaches for the tape.There’s a strand of hair falling into her face, and my fingers itch to tuck it behind her ear.I lift my hand halfway before I catch myself, my fingers brushing nothing but air inches from her cheek.The urge burns through me, dangerous and too much, so I step back instead.
If I close that distance, I know I won’t stop there.
She glances up, catches me staring, and the air between us shifts for a heartbeat.My chest tightens.Her lips part slightly, and for one insane second, I imagine what it would be like to close the space, to kiss her until she forgets every reason she thinks she shouldn’t.
But I can’t.Not like this.
So I clear my throat, force a grin, and say, “Don’t let the garland strangle you, Princess.”
Her eyes roll, and just like that, the spell breaks.“Go home, Roman.”
I tip an imaginary hat, slip out the door, and leave her standing in the glow of twinkle lights that make the shop windows look warmer than they feel.
The drive home is quiet, the kind of small-town quiet you can’t find anywhere else.Snow flurries sweep across the windshield, caught in the beams of my headlights before vanishing into the darkness.
I crack the window, needing the cold, needing something biting to ground me before my thoughts spiral too far.Because they always do, especially this time of year.
I miss her mom.God, I miss that woman.She was the only adult who ever looked at me like I wasn’t a mistake.When my old man kicked me out, she left the porch light on when I had nowhere else to go.A couch.A blanket.A warm meal.No questions asked.She made me feel like family when my own blood wouldn’t claim me.
