Page 23 of Holiday Interference
Because he’s not just saying that he listens.
He’s saying he hears me. Even the parts I don’t mean to show.
And suddenly, I don’t feel like someone passing time in a snowstorm.
I feel known.
Seen in a way that makes my lungs tighten and my throat ache.
His gaze doesn’t leave mine. Not even when I break it to sip coffee I can barely taste.
The silence stretches again, but it’s not empty.
I glance back out the window—snow still soft and relentless. The world outside is frozen.
But in here?
Everything’s starting to thaw.
He speaks softly, voice gravel-smooth:
“You ever think maybe you’re right where you’re supposed to be?”
I don’t answer.
But my heart does.
Thuds once—hard—then settles into something quiet and raw.
Maybe.
For the first time in a long time…just maybe.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cal
She’s been staringout the window for twenty minutes, arms crossed tight, one finger tapping against her sleeve like she’s keeping time only she can hear.
The snow’s eased up, but it’s still thick out there—soft white drifts, cars half-buried, a few flakes floating lazy in the air.
It’s a full-on snowmageddon, and Atlanta is at a standstill.
I lean against the counter, pretending to scroll my phone. I’m not. I’m watching her reflection in the glass.
After we cleaned up the kitchen in silence, she thankfully went and put on the joggers I loaned her last night.
It was starting to become a problem in my pants watching her walk around in bare legs with my flannel shirt skimming her thighs.
Now, she’s restless. I can feel it coming off of her in waves. That edge of someone who isn’t used to sitting still this long.
Finally, she exhales through her nose. “I need to get out of here for a bit.”
My chest tightens. “Out where?”
“Downstairs. Maybe grab a coffee, stretch my legs. I’m not built for sitting still.”
I can’t argue with that—she’s been pure motion since I met her. Always moving, always planning, always one breath ahead of whatever’s coming next.
