Page 86 of Holiday Friend Zones
Maybe that’s why I can’t stand to see Willow hurting.Why do I keep circling back here, no matter what?
I thought I wanted more once.I thought being an architect at one of the biggest firms in the city would fill the hollow in my chest.And it did—on paper.Sleek buildings, million-dollar projects, my name buried in portfolios.But the truth?None of it felt like home.Not the high-rises, not the clients, not the long nights staring at blueprints in an office that didn’t even smell like wood or ink or coffee.
Home was always here.With her.With this town that refuses to die, no matter how many people leave it behind.
That’s why I came back.
Not just for second chances.Not just for the quiet.
For her.
The girl who’s been my compass even when she didn’t know it.
The one who doesn’t see that the holidays only mean anything to me if she’s in them.
I grip the wheel tighter, the radio humming low, and let the snow swallow the road ahead.The road stretches before me, snow blurring the lines, the town tucked in for the night.Holiday lights blink across porches, some crooked, some showy, all of them desperate to chase the dark away.
Willow hates this time of year, or at least she says she does.But I remember her mom roping us both into those Hallmark marathons when we were teenagers, stacking bowls of popcorn between us.I’d be mocking every ridiculous plot twist until we fell asleep on the couch.Willow pretended she didn’t care, but she laughed the hardest.She was the one who refused to leave until the last cheesy ending faded from the screen.
She’ll never admit it, but she believed.Maybe not in Santa or miracles or even happy families—but in her mom’s version of magic.The one where December meant cinnamon rolls in the oven and lights tangled across the living room and hope that tomorrow might not hurt as much.
I haven’t believed in that in a long time.Not since I learned how quickly people can slam a door in your face.Not since I figured out that no one shows up for you unless you make them.
But with her, it feels different.
Watching her stand in that shop tonight, grief pressed against her, but still stringing garland, still fighting to keep something alive—God, it made me want to fight for it too.For her.For both of us.
Maybe holiday movies are full of shit.
Maybe small towns don’t always save you.
But maybe magic isn’t in the lights or the carols.
Maybe it’s in the girl who’s been mine in every way that counts, except the one I can’t say out loud.
I tighten my grip on the wheel, a bitter laugh slipping out.Willow Collins will be the death of me—and God help me, I’d let her.
And still—she’s the only thing that makes me want to believe in Christmas again.
ChapterThree
WILLOW
The idea hits me a few days later like a twenty-ton big rig.
Roman and I are closing shop for the night when a bulb near the front door sputters, dimming and flaring.
“Fuck me,” I groan, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead.
Roman’s laugh carries across the quiet store.“Let me grab the ladder.”
“I think it’s the breaker,” I call after him.“I keep replacing the bulb, and it just keeps happening.”
He returns with the ladder, shaking his head with that smug grin.“And let me guess—you didn’t say anything sooner because you ‘had it covered’?”
I cross my arms.“Well, I did ...until I didn’t.”
“Switch it off for me.”He gestures as he climbs the rungs.
