Page 88 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
ChapterThirty-Five
Winnifred
It’s beena week since Soren Thorn stood outside my front door and told me he loved me.
A week since I let him in.
Into my house.
Into my life.
Into all the overthinking corners of my heart, I usually guard like they’re made of antique porcelain and very bad decisions.The best part of it all is that he hasn’t left—and I haven’t kicked him out.
We really fit together in ways I never imagined would be possible.
Well—okay.He’s left for work.And twice to grab some clothes next door while he’s moving slowly into my house.But otherwise?He’s here.Every morning.Every night.Every crooked smile and sarcastic one-liner that somehow makes me want to kiss him and scream into a pillow.
Also, that company that’s been calling me for every meeting, brainstorming, and “oops we forgot lunch” emergency?Belongs to him.Obviously.
Oh, and he’s my landlord.So, that’s fun.
Apparently, five years ago, right when the original owner was going to sell the place, he bought it.It was a combination between the pandemic and his hero complex that didn’t want me evicted.Meanwhile, I thought the universe had just blessed me with magically affordable rent.Plot twist: it was Soren.Being Soren.Quietly collecting boyfriend points like a long-game strategist who just didn’t want to admit he liked me.
Now he loves me.The best part is that his toothbrush lives next to mine.
His sweatpants are in my laundry basket.
His coffee mug has migrated to the front of the cabinet like it’s always lived there—same with his fancy espresso machine that hisses like it knows it’s better than my drip pot.
The weirdest part of it all is that nothing feels like too much or a home invasion.It just feels like us.
Right now, he’s in the kitchen trying to reverse-engineer apple cider that tastes like it was made at a Vermont harvest festival by a flannel-wearing farm witch with a cinnamon addiction.
Earlier, he helped me bake cookies.It’s so weird to find my counters are dusted in flour.There’s a half-eaten sugar cookie abandoned on the windowsill.Frank Sinatra is crooning through the speaker Soren insisted we mount under the cabinets—his “gift to the ambiance,” whatever that means.
It’s domestic.Cozy.Slightly off-kilter, yet, completely ours.
I hook a silver ornament onto the middle of the tree and step back to assess.It’s a little lopsided.The top leans too far left, the lights are uneven, and we somehow lost the hook for the angel topper.
But Soren insisted on a real tree this year, wide-eyed and weirdly enthusiastic.I didn’t have the heart to tell him I usually just drag out my pre-lit fake one from the storage closet.
This grinchy boy—who once claimed “festive” was a personality disorder—is now celebrating Christmas.He’s humming.He’s baking.He’s swaying to Sinatra while pouring cider into mugs.
“This one smells like Christmas,” he’d said while we picked it out.“And besides, I want to see your face when you water it like it’s a houseplant.”
He has no idea how serious I am about over-watering.Though, I probably will be letting him know that next year we’re not buying a tree, but that’s a problem for future me.
“This bow’s crooked,” I murmur, reaching up again, biting my lip as I adjust the wired ribbon.He’s already brought over a chair and abandoned it beside me, just in case I need help climbing for the star.Of course, he did.
It’s warm here.And quiet.A soft kind of quiet that makes me want to hold my breath so I don’t disturb it.
Then my phone buzzes on the table just as I’m fluffing the ribbon bow near the top of the tree.I grab it, thumb smudged with glitter because, of course, I am.
“My mom is texting,” I groan.
“Told you we should’ve booked the photoshoot,” he says, way too pleased with himself.
That smug little I’m-right smirk is still alive and well.
