Page 86 of Holly Ever After

I miss him, and it's stupid.

I curl up on the sofa, wrapping the blanket around me, as if trying to shield myself from my own feelings. A part of me wants to scream, to let out this frustrating pain. Another part just wants to forget, to move on, and pretend as if Sean Colson never happened.

But deep down, buried beneath layers of pride and stubbornness, I know one undeniable truth: I've fallen for him, and there’s no turning back.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

There's a knock on the door.

I freeze, staring at the wooden barrier between me and the world outside.

Another knock, more urgent this time.

Sighing, I push myself off the couch, shuffling towards the door. Pulling it open, I'm met with the last person I expected—or wanted—to see right now.

Sean.

Of course.

He looks... different. Not in a bad way, but there's a shadow behind those familiar whiskey eyes. And when he scans my appearance, his gaze heating with that usual intensity, it falters for a moment, replaced by a hint of pity.

Pity?

From him?

Before he can utter a word, I cross my arms defensively. “Don't credit yourself for my delightful appearance. I'm sick,” I declare, followed by a very convincing fake cough.

He doesn't smile, doesn't mock. Instead, he closes his eyes and takes a deep, measured breath. As if seeing me like this hurts him. As if every inch of him wants to say something but he's holding back. When his eyes open again, they’re soft, vulnerable.

“You're not sick, Squirt,” he whispers.

I shiver. The cold air from outside wraps around me, curling its fingers into the warmth of my living room and dragging it out into the frosty afternoon. I wish I could close the door and the void that he brought with him, but I’m glued to the spot, trapped by the gravitational pull.

“What are you doing here?” My voice quivers, sounding far more vulnerable than I intended. “Because I've already got some emotional whiplash. If you're here to give me more, please don't bother.”

His jaw tenses. The sharp cut of it is even more pronounced, and in that second, I can't read him. Is he angry? Frustrated? Or does he want to correct me like a child?

“For fuck's sake,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “Get dressed, Holl.”

I cross my arms tighter over my chest, attempting to summon some semblance of defiance. “No. I'm not going anywhere. I've got spiced rum ready to go into my hot cocoa. I'm good for today.”

His eyes darken, and there’s a subtle shift in his demeanor. “The Christmas Games are on today.”

I tilt my chin up, refusing to be cowed. “Great. Have fun. I'm sure I'll hear all about it.”

His patience, already thin, seems to snap. He runs a hand through his dark hair, leaving it in a disheveled mess. The sight of it—a Sean not in control—is oddly satisfying. “Get. Dressed. Holly. You're going to the games.”

My temper flares, heat rising in my cheeks. “Fuck you. Who the hell do you think you are?”

He’s on me in two strides, his hands pressing into the door frame on either side of my head, effectively trapping me. His face is mere inches from mine, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath and see the fire in his eyes.

“I'm not fucking worth whatever it is you're doing to yourself,” he rasps, his voice rough and filled with an emotion I can't place. “Get. Dressed.”

I blink, trying to process his words and what they mean. Why does he care so much? Why can't he just let me be?

The ball is in my court now. I can slam the door, or I can face the chaos.

Please, I’m not facing anything in these pajamas, so I shut the door and walk away.

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