Page 92 of Holiday Friend Zones
She slides the book back into place, fingertips lingering on the spine like she’s reluctant to let it go.The air between us swells with something I can’t name, something that lives on these shelves in the room I carved out for her long before I admit why.
“Tree first,” I say, needing to break the quiet before it swallows me whole.“Chili’s not going anywhere.”
She arches a brow.“You really planned this out.”
“Damn right I did.”
I pull her into the living room where the tree waits, tall and green, with the scent of pine curling through the air.Boxes of ornaments are stacked beside it—some new, some old enough to still smell faintly of her mother’s attic.I’d dug them out for her, because of course I did.
She kneels by the boxes, lifting a glass ornament between her fingers.Her face softens in that way that always kills me—like she’s caught between nostalgia and grief, light and shadow.
“You kept these.”
“Of course I did.”My voice comes out rougher than I want.“They’re yours.”
“They were Mom’s.”
“Which means they’re yours.”
She doesn’t argue.Instead, she carefully places the glass bauble back in its box and pulls out another.A ceramic Santa, his paint faded, with one mitten long gone.
“This one survived three moves,” she says, her laugh soft and edged with wonder.She holds it in her palm like it’s something fragile, priceless.
I can see it too—the way her mom used to hang that same Santa front and center every year, mitten or no mitten, swearing it was good luck.I remember Willow pouting when it cracked in the box after one move, her mom crouching beside her, promising that broken things could still be beautiful if you cared enough to mend them.It’s impossible not to hear her voice in the room now, warm and certain, stitched into every ornament we touch.
Willow swallows hard, her thumb gliding over the chipped ceramic.Her laughter softens into something quieter, as if she’s holding her mom's memory right there in her hands.
“I hot-glued it back together.Twice.Thought for sure you’d toss it.”
Her eyes lift to mine, bright with something I can’t quite name.“Yeah, you kept fixing it.”
“Couldn’t let you lose him,” I murmur, reaching out to take it from her and hook it on a branch.My fingers brush hers, and suddenly it feels less like hanging an ornament and more like hanging a piece of us—every year, every season, every way we’ve pieced each other back together.
Her gaze lingers, and for a moment, the years slip away.It’s just us, sitting cross-legged on a floor somewhere, surrounded by broken ornaments and too many memories, trying to piece everything back together with glue and stubbornness.The moment stays, fragile and full—until she blinks, clears her throat, and reaches for the next box.
We fall into decorating again, silence growing between us—alive with everything we don’t say.She fusses over the placement of ribbons while I try not to stare every time she stretches to reach a higher branch, her sweater riding up to reveal a sliver of skin.
When she hangs the last ornament, I plug in the lights.The whole tree glows—gold, red, and a little lopsided, but perfect anyway.Willow presses her lips together, staring at it with an expression I know too well.She’s fighting tears.
I move without thinking, brushing my hand against hers where it rests at her side.She doesn’t pull away.
We stand like that for a beat too long, the room washed in light, my pulse pounding in my ears.
If I leaned down now, if I just closed the inch of space…
Her breath hitches.Her lashes flutter.
I clear my throat and step back before I do something I can’t undo.“Chili’s ready.”
Her laugh comes out shaky.“Right, food.”
We eat at the kitchen island, bowls steaming, her hair falling in her face as she bends over the spoon.She moans when she tastes it, and I nearly choke on my food.
“Roman,” she says, pointing her spoon at me, “this is actually good.”
“Actually?”
She grins, cheeks flushed from the heat.“Don’t let it go to your head.”
