Page 39 of Seeds of Christmas
We’re looking at each other across the table, and the air between us feels charged. Electric.
He has a scar on the top corner of his lip, just to the right. It’s tiny—barely noticeable unless you’re staring at his mouth, whichI definitely am. I wonder where he got it. A childhood accident? A sports injury?
I want to reach out and touch it.
I want to trace the line of it with my finger.
I stand up abruptly, knocking over my water glass.
“Oh my god! I’m sorry.” I fret over cleaning it up.
God, why am I like this? Some girls would laugh it off—toss their hair, make a joke, turn clumsiness into charm. I’ve never been that girl. When I slip even a little, everything in me goes rigid like I’m about to be judged.
“Hey, it’s fine,” Carter grins. “It’s only water.”
I grimace.
“I should go. It’s late and we have an early start tomorrow, and I should really—I should go.”
“Right. Yeah. Of course.” He stands too, and we do this awkward dance where we’re both trying to move toward the door at the same time and nearly collide. “Sorry. After you.”
“Thanks.” I’m hyper-aware of how close he is as I move past him. Close enough that I can smell his soap again. Close enough that our arms brush.
We reach the door, and I should just leave. Should say thank you and goodnight and get out before I do something stupid.
But I don’t.
I turn back, and he’s right there—closer than I expected—and we’re in this threshold space that feels suspended from reality.
“Thank you,” I say. “For dinner. And for... for telling me about Dominic. I know that wasn’t easy.”
“Thank you for listening. And for not trying to fix it.”
“I can’t fix it.”
“I know. But you didn’t try.”
We’re standing so close. Too close for colleagues. Too close for research partners.
His eyes drop to my mouth for just a second—so quick I might have imagined it—before meeting my eyes again.
“Good night, Rhi.”
His voice is rougher than before.
“Good night, Carter.”
I force myself to turn. To walk away.
I’m three steps down the hall when he calls out.
“Hey!”
I turn, and my heart is doing that thing again where it forgets how to beat normally.
He’s still in the doorway, backlit by the warm glow of his room, and he looks like every romantic comedy moment I’ve ever secretly wanted and told myself I didn’t deserve.
“For the record,” he says, “I do remember you from freshman year. Not at first—I’m an idiot—but I remember now. I remember thinking you had the prettiest handwriting I’d ever seen.” He laughs softly. “And I remember thinking I couldn’t add anything with a partner that smart. That dedicated. So I just... didn’t try. Because trying meant failing, and failing meant proving I was as much of a waste of space as I felt.”
