Page 10 of Holiday Interference
But she’s sticking.
And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.
The door creaks open and I straighten, glass still in hand, heart beating like I’m about to take the ice in overtime.
Footsteps. Soft ones. Slower than before.
I don’t look yet. I give her the moment. Let her find her footing again before I turn around.
Because I already know.
I’m not ready for how she’s going to look in my clothes.
She rounds the corner into the kitchen like she’s done it before. Like she belongs here. Like my oversized T-shirt and flannel hanging off one bare shoulder isn’t a fucking weapon.
Jesus.
My fingers tighten around the water glass.
She’s rolled the sweatpants to hell and back just to find her feet, all that reddish brown hair twisted into some kind of bun that’s falling apart like it’s trying to keep up with her. Her face is clean. Bare.
And all I can think about is how good she smells.
How much better my shirt looks on her.
“Your bathroom is cleaner than mine,” she says casually, sipping from the glass I gave her like it’s no big deal we’re standing here alone in the middle of a snowstorm, dressed like we share a bed every night.
I don’t even blink. “I just cleaned it yesterday.”
A smile flickers at the corner of her mouth—fast, almost shy.
I catch it anyway.
She leans her hip against the other counter, mirroring me. The gap between us is maybe three feet. Feels like less.
“You keep it clean in here,” she says, scanning the kitchen. “Didn’t expect that either.”
I shrug. “I like knowing where everything is.”
She lifts her glass. “Everything but a spare bed.”
“Didn’t expect you.”
Her gaze cuts to mine, sharp but unreadable. She doesn’t look away.
And for a second, the quiet gets louder. Not awkward. Just full.
The kind of silence where something’s about to shift, and you can feel it building behind your ribs.
I look away first. Set my glass in the sink so I don’t drop it.
Because the way she’s looking at me?
The way she fits into my space like she’s always been here?
It does something to me.
Something I’m not supposed to want.
