Page 84 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
He sits on the edge of the bed, the old mattress creaking under his weight, and drags a hand down his face. “Chaos suits you.”
“Yeah?” I flop down beside him, my shoulder bumping his. “Then I guess you’ll survive the next three weeks.”
His eyes find mine again, and there’s that pull between us, the one that never really goes away. He reaches over, fingers brushing the hem of my hoodie like he’s grounding himself. “Three weeks,” he repeats, voice rough.
I smile, softer now. “Full boyfriend package, remember?”
That earns me another one of those rare smiles—the small, real ones that make his whole face change. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Guess I did promise that.”
I lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Then you better deliver, Calder. I’ve got high standards.”
He laughs, a low rumble in his chest that makes me grin wider. For a moment, it’s just the two of us in my childhood room—sunlight spilling across the floor, distant clatter from the kitchen, his hand finding mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And for the first time since I brought him here, I realize hefits.Right here, in this house, in this version of my life. I’m going to hold onto these three weeks as if they are the last I’ll ever live, and I’ll deal with the fall out after.
“So what would a boyfriend do now? If he had his boyfriend alone and all to himself in his childhood bedroom for the first time?” he asks, and my stomach flips.
The way he saysboyfriend—low, rough, like the word tastes new in his mouth—does something to me. For a second, I forget how to breathe. My heart does that dangerous stutter-step, the one that always comes right before I fall a little further.
I try to play it cool, tilting my head and offering a grin that feels steadier than I am inside. “Depends,” I say lightly. “Is thisboyfriend the wholesome, ‘meet the parents’ type? Or the type who’s going to make me forget my own name while Mom’s downstairs making cocoa?”
That earns me a quiet, wicked little laugh from him. He leans back on his palms, looking at me with those green eyes that make my knees weak. “Maybe a little of both,” he says.
Heat pools low in my stomach. God, he looks good like this—still in his travel clothes, sitting on my old bed like he belongs there. As though he’s been here a hundred times before.
“Show me,” I murmur, turning toward him. “Show me which kind you’re gonna be right now.”
His gaze flicks down, then up again, locking on mine. He reaches out, palms warm on my knee first, then sliding to my hip, drawing me a fraction closer before pulling me into his lap to straddle him on the bed. The touch isn’t rough, not yet—it’s deliberate. “For three weeks,” he says softly, “I’m going to be whatever you need me to be.”
Something in my chest gives, just a little. My hand finds his, fingers slipping between his, then sliding up his arm to the back of his neck, into the soft hair there. “Then start now,” I whisper.
His forehead comes to rest against mine, his thumbs tracing slow circles at my hips. “This,” he says quietly, “is what a boyfriend does.”
And then he kisses me—slow, sweet, nothing to rush. Just the two of us, pressed close in my childhood room, tasting like travel and anticipation and something dangerously close to forever.
I lean into him, fingers curling in his shirt, my thighs bracketing his hips. He’s solid beneath me, all heat and restraint, the kind of steady that could ruin me if I let it. Somewhere in the back of my head, I know I’m in trouble. Because this isn’t just three weeks anymore. He’s not just the guy I fantasized about; he’s the one I want to keep. To love, out loud and proud. This tripwill either be the best decision I’ve ever made… or the one that breaks me wide open.
His hands slide up my back, palms spreading wide before finding the nape of my neck. The weight of his touch is sure, deliberate. He tilts his head and kisses me again, deeper this time—tongue sweeping against mine, a low sound rumbling from his chest that I feel all the way down my spine. I rock against him without meaning to, a small movement that makes him groan and tighten his grip on me.
“Eli,” he mutters, half warning, half plea.
“Yeah?” I breathe, smiling against his mouth.
Whatever he’s about to say gets swallowed by another kiss—hungrier this time, like we’ve been building to this since the first night the snow fell. My hands fist in his hair. His teeth graze my bottom lip, and I swear I could live right here, in this heartbeat.
And then?—
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Eli! You better not be unpacking without me!”
My sister’s voice tears through the haze like a splash of cold water.
Max freezes under me, his breath stalling in my mouth. One of his hands stays at my neck, the other clenched tight at my waist. For a second, he doesn’t move—like he’s torn between kissing me again and bolting for the window. Then, slowly, he exhales through his nose, thumb brushing the back of my neck.
“You should probably get that,” he says, voice rough, low enough that it’s just for me.
I stay there for a heartbeat longer, my chest rising against his, before I nod. I press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth—soft, apologetic. “To be continued,” I whisper.
