Page 89 of Holiday Friend Zones
Even when he was raw and restless, juggling family fires that somehow always landed on his phone.Even when his life was swallowed by late nights and impossible deadlines, blueprints rolled under his arm and coffee staining his cuffs.Even when glossy features in architectural magazines turned him into a prize—women smiling for the camera because he looked good on a page, not because they knew him.
He’d stumble into my place after a fourteen-hour day, tux jacket slung over one shoulder from some gala, eyes rimmed with fatigue—and still show up at my door with takeout because he’d heard something in my voice.He’d answer my calls from job sites and conference rooms, whispering, “Give me five minutes, Wills.I’m here.”He missed parties for me.He skipped interviews.He ignored texts from women who only wanted the version of him that came with magazine spreads and glossy bylines.With everyone else, he was an image.With me, he was real.
He was stretched thin, always pulled in a dozen directions—clients demanding revisions at midnight, deadlines stacked so high he could barely breathe, his family calling with crises he never explained.But no matter how much the city drained him, he carved out pieces of himself for me.Time he didn’t have.Energy he couldn’t spare.He gave it anyway, freely, like I was the one place he could set everything down and breathe without pretending.With me, he wasn’t Roman Tate, rising star architect.
He was just ...Roman.
When his family pulled at him, when the deadlines threatened to bury him whole, I braced for the day he’d finally stop coming back.I told myself it was inevitable—that I’d become another obligation he couldn’t carry sooner or later.That I’d hear the words too much all over again.But he never let it happen.He carried everything, and still walked through my door like I was worth the detour.Like choosing me was the easiest decision in a life that rarely offered easy choices.
And when I moved back home and staked everything I had on converting the old post office into a bookstore, he didn’t just roll his eyes and tell me I was reckless.He picked up a hammer.He stayed late after site visits, still in dress shoes and cufflinks, patching drywall and hauling lumber beside me.He fixed the shelves minutes before sprinting back to catch a train.He worked until his shirt stuck to his back and his hands blistered, never complaining, never asking for anything in return.
No matter how far the city called him, he always circled back.To this street.To these lights.To me.
He was never angry with me.Not once.
So yes, he’s worth it.
And as my mom always said, when in doubt, research.
In an unprecedentedly mature move, I don’t even overcomplicate it.Instead, I open my laptop and dive into the world’s least reliable source of wisdom: the internet.Searches include:
“How to impress your crush without being a total weirdo.”
“Not-creepy ways to tell your best friend you’re in love with them.”
“Totally casual strategies for making out without freaking out.”
“Best holiday romance books that don’t end in humiliation.”
“Holiday recipes that don’t scream ‘pathetic single person.’”
I even scroll through a few self-help e-books, most of which are an absolute waste of my time because they have no answers for me.Plus one disturbingly graphic sex advice column that makes me slam the tab shut so fast I nearly sprain my wrist.
Hopefully, something out there will tell me how to deal with this stupid fucking crush before it crushes me.
But after an hour of worthless lists, clickbait headlines, and advice that clearly wasn’t written for anyone with dignity, the hairs on my neck rise.Instinctively, I slam my laptop shut—hard—before I even process why.
Roman.
Of course.
He’s leaning against the counter like he owns the place, arms folded, eyes glinting with curiosity.Typical.
“Whatcha looking at there, Princess?”
My mouth goes dry.“N-nothing,” I stammer.“Just ...research.For the holidays.”
Not technically a lie.I want this to happen before or during the holidays.
Roman clicks his tongue, skeptical.“Right.The infamously difficult-to-navigate holidays.Good thing we’ve got you doing all the ...research.”
Heat scorches my cheeks.My whole body feels hot, traitorous.“Have to make sure everything’s in stock before Black Friday.Can’t have us running out of classics when people are feeling nostalgic.”
He leans closer, his lips hovering just above my ear, and it takes everything I have not to shiver.His voice is low, threaded with amusement.“Didn’t you order those books last month?”
His warm and teasing words brush my ear, and the closeness makes my skin prickle.I can feel his heat at my back, the faintest trace of cedar clinging to his shirt.My brain starts a panicked chant—don’t blush, don’t blush, for the love of God, don’t blush—but my face betrays me instantly.My pulse is hammering so loud I’m half afraid he can hear it.If he leaned even a breath closer, we'd collide if I turned my head.And that thought alone nearly undoes me.
“I—” Fuck.My brain blanks.I’ve got nothing.
