Page 35 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
I want to push. I want to ask why this room feels more like a prison cell than a home. But the way his shoulders are set, rigid and uncomfortable, keeps me quiet. I plaster on a smile instead, pretending my chest isn’t still tight.
“Well, at least it makes finding your stuff easy,” I joke, nodding at the single stack of folded laundry on his dresser. “Minimalist chic. Very high fashion.” Or serial killer chic.
Max huffs a quiet laugh, but I catch the edge in his eyes. I pretend I don’t.
Because if I let myself really think about how empty this room is, how empty itfeels, I might start asking questions he doesn’t want to answer.
And for this morning, I just want to hold onto the warmth he gives me instead of the cold he lives in.
I drag my eyes away from the stark room as Max pulls on a fresh hoodie and jacket. He moves with that same clipped efficiency he always has, as if every second is accounted for, like nothing in his world is ever messy.
“So,” I say lightly, rocking back on my heels, “should I be worried?”
He pauses, glances at me. “About what?”
I wave a hand toward the bare walls. “The whole…serial killer chic aesthetic. Zero personal belongings, bed perfectly made, closet organized by shades of gray. It’s veryNetflix documentaryof you.”
He snorts, tugging his hood up. “I don’t kill people, Eli.”
“Mm-hm,” I murmur, following him toward the door. “That’s exactly what a killer would say.”
He huffs a laugh despite himself, and I grin, filing that sound away. When he brushes past me in the hall, I nudge his shoulder.
“Seriously, though. If I ever go missing, your room’s the first place they’re checking.”
“Good,” he deadpans. “Yours looks like a craft store exploded. No way anyone could dust for fingerprints in there.”
By the timewe shove out the dorm doors, the snow’s already halfway up my calves. I let out a low whistle, trudging after him. “Yeah, pretty sure my flight’s toast today, too. Guess I’m stuck here.”
I make it sound casual, as if it’s just another holiday inconvenience. But the truth is, it doesn’t sting the way it didyesterday. Not when Max is beside me, crunching through the snow like he owns the storm.
He glances back, arching a brow. “You complaining?”
I smirk, puffing a cloud of white into the air. “Depends. Are you volunteering to keep me entertained, Calder?”
“What do you call this?”
I scoff. “A sugar run obviously.”
He smirks at my answer, shaking his head like I’m impossible. Snowflakes cling to his dark hair, catching in the lashes around those brilliant green eyes, and for a second, I forget to breathe.
I shove my hands deeper into my pockets before I do something foolhardy, like stop dead in the snow to stare at him before demanding he kiss me again. “You know,” I say, drawing it out, “for a guy who agreed to body-heat conservation movie night, you don’t exactly scream festive.”
His glance cuts my way, dry. “I’m festive enough.”
“Oh yeah? Where’s your holiday spirit? Where’s your ugly sweater, your candy cane socks?” I grin, leaning into it. “Wait—don’t tell me. Secretly, you own a reindeer onesie and just haven’t worked up the courage to wear it in public.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up, quick as lightning, gone just as fast. “If I did, you’d be the last one I’d tell.”
“Because you’d be too embarrassed, or because you know I’d make you wear it on campus?”
“Both.”
I bump my shoulder against his, letting the silence stretch for a beat before grinning wider. “See? You are imagining it.”
“Christ,” he mutters, but his ears are pink.
That small victory warms me more than my jacket does. I’m still smirking when the golden glow of the coffee shop finally cuts through the curtain of snow ahead. The scent of roasted beans drifts even from here, cozy and perfect.
