Page 17 of Naughty With The Mountain Man
The attic smellslike dust and old memories.
Micah hands down a single box, sturdy and taped shut like it’s been in storage since dial-up internet. I take it like it’s treasure.
By the time we’re back downstairs, I’m already sorting through garlands and a tangle of ancient string lights that may or may not be a fire hazard. I find ornaments—some rustic, some clearly handmade, and one little felt Santa with a crooked beard that makes meachefor a version of Micah who might’ve once laughed over hot chocolate.
He crouches beside me, watching me like I’m a strange but fascinating phenomenon.
“You really like this stuff,” he says.
“It’s not about the stuff,” I murmur, holding up the Santa. “It’s about what it meant. Holidays meant family. Warmth. Even when the year was hard, Christmas was like this little miracle bubble. Magic you could count on.”
He doesn’t say anything, just holds my gaze.
“You haven’t decorated since...?”
“My dad died,” he says. Quiet. Blunt. Honest.
The air shifts. I look at him, my chest tight. “I’m sorry.”
He nods once, like he accepts the apology even though I know he doesn’t need it.
“I didn’t mean to push,” I say gently.
“You didn’t.”
But still, I slow down. Touch each item like it might break. I don’t want to crowd his space. I want tohonorit.
“Okay,” I whisper. “We’re doing this.”
I hang the garland over the mantle. I find a tiny plastic mistletoe ornament and wedge it just barely above the doorway. I string the lights up and put the ornaments on a bowl by the fire because there’s no tree, but it still feels like Christmas is starting to seep in.
Micah watches the whole thing in quiet stillness. Not annoyed. Just… observing.
And then he says, “Thank you.”
I blink. “For what?”
“For trying to bring something good in.”
I smile at him, heart tight and warm in a way that makes me feel stupidly fragile. “You deserve something good.”
He takes a step closer. “You keep saying things like that.”
I swallow. “I mean them.”
“I know.” His voice is a rasp now. A low rumble that lights something molten under my ribs.
We’re standing under the mistletoe. I forgot it was there until now. He notices too, gaze flicking up, then back to mine.
“I didn’t put that there to be weird,” I blurt. “It was just tradition. I wasn’t trying to?—”
He steps in, close enough that I feel the heat of him, smell the cedar soap and woodsmoke on his skin. His hand brushes my cheek, rough and warm, and I stop breathing altogether.
“I’ve been trying not to want you,” he says.
I whisper, “Same.”
“But I do.”
