Page 87 of Holiday Friend Zones
I oblige, trying very hard not to notice the way his jeans fit when he moves, how his muscles flex beneath the worn denim.Trying not to imagine how easy it would be to press my palms there, hold him close.
He fiddles with the socket, focused, casual in the way only Roman can be.“Okay,” he says after a minute.“Flip it back on.”
The bulb steadies, no more stuttering glow.
“How...”My voice trails off as he descends, slower than he needs to, his presence filling the space until it feels impossible to look anywhere else.
“Oh, that socket’s touchy,” he explains.
He steps toward me, closing the distance, his voice low, conspiratorial.“Leave it even a quarter-turn loose and it loses its mind.”
The silence between us stretches, thick enough that I hear the creak of the ladder settling behind him, the faint hum of the heater filling the shop.My breath catches, shallow, uneven, as if my body already knows what he’s about to do.
And then his hand is on my face, fingers grazing my hairline as he tucks an unruly strand back.
My pulse leaps, a wild rhythm I can’t quiet.Roman’s gaze doesn’t feel safe—it’s a gravity I can’t resist.Not an oasis but something consuming, something that promises if I give in, I’ll lose myself in him completely.And maybe that’s why I hold back.Because I know what it is to lose someone who holds your whole world together.I know what it is like to wake up in silence, where laughter used to be.I’m not sure I could survive that again.
“You just have to ...”His voice dips, lower, softer, like it’s meant for no one but me.His face is so close now, the warmth of his breath grazes my skin, stirring goosebumps along my arms.The space between us collapses until his presence feels like a touch.“...apply the right pressure.”
Pressure.God, does he know what he’s doing to me?The tension coils tight, humming through the air, stringing us together with threads I’m terrified to tug.
I wonder if he feels it—this electric ache stretching between us.If my eyes are screaming, what my lips aren’t willing to risk.
A sound slips from me, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.My throat is dry, words fractured.“Never knew that.”
His lips are right there.Full.Soft.Close enough that if I leaned forward, just an inch, the world would shift.My body sways toward him before I can stop it.
And suddenly I’m wondering, not for the first time, what he tastes like.If his mouth is fire or comfort, if the years we lost carved him into someone I could finally break with, rebuild with.If we could trade our scars the way people trade stories—laying them down piece by piece until nothing felt unbearable anymore.
His hand slips from my hair, skimming down to my shoulder.For a second, it lingers—warm, grounding, almost reluctant, like he doesn’t want to let go.His thumb brushes lightly over the fabric of my sweater, the faintest touch, before he exhales and pulls back.The moment fractures with it, leaving me dizzy in the space he abandons.
“Next time, just tell me when something’s being screwy.”
I bite back the urge to scream at him.To demand he stop retreating every time the air between us sparks alive.My body is still thrumming, my pulse chasing an unfinished, unsatisfied rhythm.And he acts like it was nothing.Like my world didn’t tilt for half a second.
The spell shatters, leaving only the echo of what almost was.I force myself to swallow it down, because that’s what I’ve always done with him—pretend my longing is something I can box up neatly and hide behind sarcasm.
So I do what I always do—I hide behind irritation.I force my voice flat, brittle.“I was going to call an electrician next week.”
He grimaces.“Why throw money at an electrician when you’ve got me?”
“Since when are you licensed?”My scowl is sharper than it should be, but it’s the only thing holding me together.
“Since when are you not a pain in my ass?”His grin is infuriating, so familiar.“Hell of a time to stop hitting me up for favors, Princess.”
The nerve of him.He can get under my skin with one grin, one stupid nickname, while my chest still feels tight from almost kissing him.He’ll fix anything, sure—but he’ll never fix this ache, this gulf he keeps creating between us.
I snap, “Fine.Maybe I’ll just hire a handyman to help with store upkeep.”
That gets him back in my space, his grin shifting into something dangerous, something that makes my pulse leap all over again.“Hold on.That’s my job.”
“Your job is stockroom manager,” I shoot back.“Not knight-in-shining-armor.”
“And that’s where you’re wrong.”His eyes spark as he leans in, close enough that I can smell cedar and winter air clinging to his shirt.“In my actual job description as ‘Willow’s best friend,’ it clearly states that I save your ass from any and all disasters—self-made or otherwise.”
“My hero,” I deadpan, but the words taste different this time.A little raw, a little bitter, like maybe I wish he meant it in a way neither of us will say out loud.
“You wouldn’t deprive me of keeping my best friend safe and happy, would you?”
