Page 68 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
And yeah, maybe my ankle’s fine, but my heart? Completely wrecked. Racing like I just blocked the other team from the winning goal at Nationals.
By the time I reach my dorm, I’m humming carols under my breath. My chest feels too full, and if I don’t do something with all this restless anticipation, I might actually explode.
So I do what I always do when I’m buzzing out of my skin—I make things festive.
I yank open my storage bin under the bed and pull out the leftover decorations. Paper snowflakes, some battery-powered twinkle lights, a roll of ribbon that I’d meant to use for my window but never got around to. My hands move faster than my brain, stringing lights around the headboard, tacking snowflakes to the wall until the place looks like Christmas threw a glitter bomb in here. Again.
But it’s not enough.
I make up a mistletoe and hang it near the door, so I’ll get my kiss the second he’s inside. Then my gaze lands on the extra stocking I bought on impulse at the store last week. I’d told myself it was for “ambience,” but I think, deep down, I was hoping for exactly this.
I drag it onto my desk and start filling it like a man on a mission.
Peppermint bark from the stash in my drawer. A tiny bottle of cinnamon whiskey I swiped from Daniel’s “party kit.” A goofy pair of socks patterned with cartoon reindeer I picked up for a just-because gift. And at the very bottom, a little folded note I scribble on quickly:
For emergencies. (Like when you’re too grinchy to function.)
—E.
When I step back and look at it, the stocking is lumpy, ridiculous, and perfect hanging next to mine. Just like this whole thing with Max.
I flop onto my bed, the twinkle lights casting a soft glow over the room, and hug the pillow to my chest. My heart is still thrumming, anticipation curling through me like it has nowhere else to go. Because in less than an hour, maybe two if he drags it out just to torture me, he’ll be here. In this room. With me.
And I can already picture it: Max walking in, pretending to be annoyed, grumbling about how over-the-top it all is, even as his eyes soften and linger. He’ll probably mutter something about me being a menace, and then he’ll touch me like he can’t stop himself.
The thought makes me bury my face in the pillow, grinning like an idiot.
I know he doesn’t want this to be more than what it is. He’s made that clear enough. But I can’t help it—I want him to have more. Not just me in his bed or on his table in the trainer’s office. Not just stolen kisses in the snow. I want him to have what I have: a home that feels like warmth and noise and unconditional love.
So yeah, I’m already plotting. How to get him to say yes to coming home with me for Christmas. He thinks it’s impossible. I think he just needs proof that he belongs in that chaos, that he deserves it.
But for tonight, I’ll take what I can get.
I smooth the blankets and check the mirror one last time to make sure I don’t look terrible. Then I flop back onto the bed again, staring up at the lights, counting down the seconds until there’s a knock at my door.
Because Calder’s coming. And I’m so gone for him, I don’t even care how obvious it is anymore.
I try to sit still, I really do. But the room feels too quiet, the minutes dragging too long. I flip through my playlist. I straighten the snowflakes on the wall. I adjust the stocking so it hangs just right.
And still—no Max.
Eventually, I stretch out on my bed, telling myself I’m just going to close my eyes for a second. Just to make the time pass faster. The twinkle lights blur overhead, warm and soft, and my thoughts drift to green eyes and rough hands that always manage to be careful with me anyway.
The next thing I know, I’m blinking awake to a faint sound—three soft knocks at my door.
I roll onto my side, heart tripping over itself as I squint at the red digits of the alarm clock. 10:30.
Shit.
I scrub a hand over my face, adrenaline sparking through the sleep-haze, and sit up fast. He came. He’s here.
And suddenly, I don’t care that I must look like I just napped through finals week. Calder’s at my door.
When I open the door, Max fills the frame, shoulders tense, eyes already on me. His gaze sweeps down and back up, slow, greedy—like he’s been starving for the sight of me.
I barely get his name past my lips before he’s stepping in, crowding me backward. The door swings shut with a sharp kick of his heel, the lock clicking into place just as his mouth finds mine.
It’s rough and desperate, the kind of kiss that steals every trace of sleep right out of me. I giggle against his lips, half from nerves, half from how good it feels, and tip my head back just enough to murmur, “Guess the mistletoe was overkill.” My eyes flick upward at the paper sprig I taped above the door earlier.
