Page 101 of Holiday Friend Zones
He huffs out a breath.Runs a hand through his hair.He looks everywhere but at me—the pipe, the fans, the window with the fog blooming along its edges.“Because I don’t know how to not.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got that won’t blow up your life.”His jaw works.“Or mine.”
Spencer whistles from the doorway as if he just remembered he forgot to be subtle.“We’re, uh ...gonna grab the dehumidifier from the van.”
They vanish.The shop quiets.Bing Crosby hums from the speakers, soft enough to feel like a memory.
I should let it drop.I should thank him, make coffee, and pretend this morning was just another crisis we survived together.But something inside me is done pretending.All the stupid tips, all the things I tried—they’re paper boats in a storm.He’s been building rafts for me for years, and I’m out here with a stapler and a list.
“This—” I gesture at the towels, the crates, the clamp that’s holding my ceiling together.“This is what you do.You fix things.You fix me.”
“You’re not broken.”His gaze snaps back to mine, fierce.
“Then why does it feel like you spend your life catching me before I hit the floor?”
“Because I love you.”He exhales, the words landing roughly.“Not the movie version.It’s thermos at dawn.It’s fixing your wiring before I shower.It’s reading Austen because you said I’d like the banter.It’s every road—no matter how far I drive—turning me back to this shop, to you.I keep choosing you.I don’t know how to stop.”
My breath stumbles.The room tilts.
He scrubs a hand over his mouth, eyes wide with surprise at himself.“Forget it.”
“No.”My pulse hammers in my ears.“Say it again.”
He shakes his head once, as if he can undo it.“You’re upset.I’m tired.There’s a leak.I shouldn’t have?—”
“Roman.”I step forward.My palms are damp; my voice is not.“Please, say it again.”
He looks at me for a long, endless second.Then, quiet, like he’s handing me something fragile: “I love you.”His throat works.“I love you when you roll your eyes at me.When you overorder Austen.When you say you’re fine and still open early.I love you in the small, stupid ways and in the big, terrifying way where I can’t picture a life that doesn’t have you.If you tell me to back off, I will.It won’t change the truth.
The world goes very, very still.Outside, snow begins to sift down in a fine curtain.Inside, the tree by the window hums with light.My eyes sting, and my mouth can’t decide if it wants to smile or sob.
“I tried everything,” I whisper.“Lists.Tips.Stupid articles.Like I could trick myself into doing this without using the word.”
He swallows.“And?”
“And none of it mattered.”A laugh bubbles out of me, watery and ridiculous.“You’ve been telling me you love me for years without saying it.You bring me thermoses, tools, and crews at dawn.You read the books I push on you.You built me a room in your house and called it extra space.”My throat tightens.“And I kept waiting for proof with fireworks, as if the quiet things weren’t real.”
He steps closer, close enough that I can see the faint nick by his jaw from a rushed shave.“They’re real.”
“And you still think you’re a lost cause.”
He looks away, then back.“Some days.”
I shake my head, tears slipping free.“You’re not.You never were.”
He reaches like he’s going to touch my cheek, then stops, hand hovering a breath from my face.“If I kiss you right now,” he says, words rough, “I don’t come back from it.”
“I don’t want you to.”
Something in him loosens.He leans in—slow, careful—as if he’s learning me by inches.His mouth brushes mine once, a whisper of contact that steals the air from my lungs.He pauses there, breathing me in, letting me meet him.When I do, he returns, a little more sure, lips warm and patient, tasting faintly of cinnamon and coffee.
His palm cups my jaw, thumb tracing a quiet path near my ear.I slide my fingers into the open collar of his flannel and feel the heat of him, the hum beneath it that says finally.The shop seems to soften around us—while everything inside me pulls toward him with a peace I haven’t felt in years.
He kisses me like a promise, unhurried, letting me answer, letting me take my time.When he breaks away, it’s only by a breath.Our noses brush.His forehead tips to mine.I can taste winter on his exhale and my name when he whispers it.
“Again,” I breathe.
