Lena finished chewing the last bite of her sandwich, dragging the moment out like it mattered—like she wasn’t already half-swooning on the inside while doing everything in her power not to show it.

He was so lucky she was in love with him.

She wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb and shot him a smirk, eyes glittering like trouble just waiting to be uncorked. “Careful, Maren,” she said, rising from her chair with the kind of saunter that had no business in a cozy kitchen. “You start talkin’ like that, I’m gonna think you like it when I win.”

Her plate clinked softly as she scooped it up, stacking his on top with the easy, practiced grace of a woman who made herself at home in more ways than one. She crossed to the sink, boots thudding lightly across the floor, his flannel swaying loose around her hips like it had never belonged anywhere else. Warm water hissed to life as she rolled up her sleeves, rinsing each plate like it was just another part of the rhythm they’d built together—coffee mugs and inside jokes, Sunday mornings and borrowed tools, quiet glances and loud hearts.

The kind of rhythm that didn’t need explaining.

Lena tilted her head just enough to glance back at him over her shoulder, the spray from the faucet catching in the light. “Let the whole damn town think what they want,” she said, voice sweet and sharp like wild honey. “Grumpy mountain man and the brat he never bothered to civilize. Let ’em think we bicker over breakfast and fight over thermostat settings.”

Her smile softened, even if her tone didn’t. “We know better.”

She turned back to the sink, the warm water running over her fingers like it could rinse away every rumor, every assumption, every small-town whisper about what love was supposed to look like.

Because this? This messy, sarcastic, fiercely soft thing they had?

It was the real kind.

He didn’t need her to simmer down. And she didn’t need him to soften up.

They just needed this.

She finished rinsing the plates and set them in the drying rack with a satisfying clatter, wiping her hands on the towel slung over her shoulder. “And just so we’re clear,” she added, flicking him a glance that was all challenge, “there is no safe word if you bring out the whipped cream.”

Her brows lifted like a dare.

“Now go ahead, big guy. Make your threats. I’m still gonna win. And I’m gonna look hot doing it.”

And God help her, she meant every word.

Caleb didn’t bother pretending he wasn’t smiling. The look she threw him over her shoulder — all spark and challenge, framed by the steam of the sink and the glow of afternoon light — hit him square in the chest.

He crossed the kitchen at an unhurried pace, boots quiet against the floor, hands slipping into his back pockets like a man who already knew he was in trouble and had made peace with it. When he reached her, he leaned down just enough for his breath to stir the loose hair at the nape of her neck.

“You really think you’re gonna make a sport out of this?” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges. His tone was teasing, but the warmth in it softened the words.

Lena didn’t turn, just flicked him a knowing smirk in the reflection of the window.

Caleb’s grin deepened. One hand slid to her hip, thumb brushing slow circles through the soft fabric of his flannel she’d stolen. “Fine,” he said, half a laugh tucked into the word. “Consider me your willing opponent.”

The counter rattled faintly when he leaned a little closer, his other hand braced beside the sink. “But don’t be surprised if I play dirty,” he added, pressing a quick kiss to the edge of her jaw before she could out-sass him again.

The scent of soap and sawdust mingled between them — the smell of every version of home they’d built together.

He tilted his head, eyes tracing the curve of her smile. “Whipped cream, syrup, whatever arsenal you’ve got, I’ll match it,” he said softly. “And I’ll still let you win. You know I’m weak for that grin.”

Lena rolled her eyes, but he caught the corner of her mouth twitching — that reluctant smile she always tried to hide when he got too close.

Caleb chuckled quietly, resting his forehead against hers. “You make trying to lose look like the best damn choice I’ve ever made,” he whispered. “So yeah… I’ll do the dishes, bring the syrup, keep showing up — long as I get to keep this.”

He stayed there for another breath, the rhythm of her heartbeat pressed against his chest, the sound of the faucet still running like background music to their mess of a love story.

Then, with that familiar crooked grin, he added, “Just remember — you call it winning. I call it strategy.”

Lena laughed, shaking her head, but Caleb caught it — that flicker of affection in her eyes that said she knew he meant every word.

And he did. Every damn one.

I’m so glad you loved it! Here's the exact same scene with everything the same — except the last line, which I’ve updated per your request. Let me know if you’d like to tweak the new ending further or see a few alternate versions:


---

The faucet kept running.

Lena didn’t notice until it was too obvious to ignore — her hands already clean, dishes stacked neatly in the drying rack, nothing left to do but stand there, motionless, with warm water slipping through her fingers and giving her away completely.

She could feel him before she saw him. Heard his boots on the kitchen floor — slow, sure, measured. Heard the scrape of his breath as it caught behind her, low and deliberate. But she didn’t turn.

Not when she felt the weight of his stare through the window’s reflection.
Not when the air between them went heavy.
Not even when his voice slipped in like smoke, curling around her spine.

“You really think you’re gonna make a sport out of this?”

Her smile twitched at the corners, smug and knowing, but her pulse betrayed her. God, she lived for this game. And still — she never quite remembered how to play once he got that close.

Then came the hand. Low at her hip, calloused and warm, thumb dragging lazy circles through the soft fabric of his shirt that hung on her frame like it belonged there. Her body leaned back into it without permission.

Fine, she told herself. Let him try.

Lena kept her eyes trained on the reflection, watching the way his mouth tilted into a grin, the way his shoulders filled the space behind her like he was carved into it. She didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe deep. Not when his other hand braced beside the sink and his mouth brushed the edge of her jaw in a kiss too fleeting to defend against.

She laughed. Quiet and sharp — the kind that cut through the thickness of the moment like a knife dipped in honey.

But she still didn’t say a word.

Not as he talked about syrup and surrender.
Not as he dropped his forehead to hers like they were built for that kind of closeness.
Not even when his voice dipped into something honest enough to steal the ground right out from under her.

She waited. Let it sit there between them, this whole beautiful mess of affection and teasing and quiet war.

Only when he finished — when he was fully, unapologetically done — did Lena finally reach forward and shut the faucet off with a flick of her wrist. The silence afterward rang louder than the running water ever had.

Then, slow and deliberate, she turned around.

Her smile curved up like it had claws. “Oh, baby,” she said sweetly, tracing her hand along his chest as she stepped in even closer, “I love playing dirty.”

She rose onto her toes just enough to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth — not quite chaste, not quite a promise — then leaned back with a wicked glint in her eye.

“Why else do you think I picked you?” she murmured, brushing a hand across his chest like she was dusting off a secret.

Then, eyes dancing, she added, “You think I came all the way out here just to wilt in some sad little field? Please. If I was gonna replant my whole damn life, you better believe I picked the best flower in town. Strongest roots, meanest thorns, prettiest damn bloom for miles.”

Her fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt — his, not hers — and her smile went downright dangerous. “Might’ve had to fight the bees for you,” she added, voice dropping to something low and soft, “but worth it.”

She leaned in, slow and smug. “And now you’re all mine. So buckle up, wildflower. This bouquet doesn’t come with a return policy.”

Caleb didn’t move at first. Just stood there, the sound of the faucet dying into quiet, the last beads of water slipping down the steel basin like punctuation marks to something he wasn’t ready to interrupt.

Lena’s voice hit him in waves — sugar and smoke, soft around the edges but sharp where it counted. He watched her turn, watched the way her eyes lit when she went on the attack, and he knew he was done for before she even touched him.

When her fingers found his chest, he let out a low breath that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t caught halfway through. “Playing dirty?” he murmured, his hand catching her wrist before she could pull away. “Sweetheart, you wrote the rulebook.”

The grin that followed wasn’t cocky, not really — more the kind that came from knowing he was knee-deep in something that had already won. He looked down at her, the curve of her mouth, the heat in her eyes, the dusting of sawdust still clinging to the sleeve of his shirt on her frame, and thought for the thousandth time that she could level him with nothing but a sentence.

“You picked me, huh?” he said, voice dropping, gravel low. His thumb traced the inside of her wrist like it was a confession. “Hell of a choice for a woman who swore she was just passing through.”

He leaned in until their foreheads brushed, until her breath mixed with his. “Strong roots, mean thorns, pretty bloom… yeah, that tracks. But you forgot something.” His other hand found her waist, pulling her close enough that her smirk faltered for just a second. “Wildflowers don’t belong in vases. They take over the whole damn field if you let ’em.”

He kissed her then — slow, steady, with the kind of care that always came disguised as hunger. Not a claim, not this time — a recognition. A grounding.

When he pulled back, his eyes flicked down to where her fingers still toyed with his shirt. “Fight the bees all you want,” he said, smile crooking again. “They sting, I build. Works out for both of us.”

A pause, then softer — the kind of softness he only ever used for her. “And for the record?” His voice dropped, warm against her temple. “If this bouquet doesn’t come with a return policy… guess I better start building you a bigger garden.”

He stayed there a moment longer, thumb still tracing idle circles against her hip, before he added with a grin that could undo any composure she had left, “You know, for all that talk about playing dirty… you’re still my favorite kind of mess.”

Lena arched a brow at him, her smirk tugging slow and deliberate as she tilted her chin up just enough to close the already minimal space between them. “Well,” she murmured, voice slipping into something equal parts playful and dangerous, “you’re not wrong about me being a mess. But I’m the best kind of mess, Maren — the kind that redecorates your whole damn life and somehow makes it prettier.”

Her fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt, tugging him just slightly closer, like she was testing how much air they really needed between them. “And yeah,” she admitted, her grin softening at the edges, “you might have a point. I didn’t come here planning to stay. I came to fix up this pretty little mountain town, make things bloom, and get the hell back to Denver before anyone noticed I was gone.”

Her tone dropped lower, sweeter, the truth threading through every word. “But then you had to go and ruin everything by being—” she paused, letting her lips graze the corner of his jaw, “my soulmate.” Another kiss followed, slow and smug. “So if anyone asks, I didn’t pick you, mister. You picked me.”

He laughed quietly against her hair, and she smiled like she’d just won something. “And don’t think for a second that building me a bigger garden gets you off the hook for that hot tub,” she added, her voice turning bright again, teasing cutting through the softness. “I’ve got plans for that thing, Maren. Very specific, very steamy plans.”

Her lips brushed his again — a whisper of a kiss, quick but sure. “You’ve got work to get back to,” she said, her tone lilting now, that sly glimmer back in her eyes. “And I’ve got… secret espionage to resume.” Her hand trailed along his chest, up to his collar, then tugged playfully at it. “But if you keep looking at me like that, neither one of us is getting anything done today.”

She kissed him once more, softer this time — the kind that lingered like a dare. “Go on, mountain man,” she whispered against his mouth. “Before I decide your next project’s a bed you won’t be leaving anytime soon.”

Caleb’s laugh was low — the kind that rumbled out of him like distant thunder, caught between disbelief and pure admiration. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he murmured, his hands finding her waist again as if his body hadn’t gotten the memo that he was supposed to be leaving.

Her words still hung in the air, all silk and spark and truth, and for a moment he just looked at her — the light catching in her hair, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the softness that lived behind all that fire. He brushed his thumb along her jaw, slow and reverent. “Didn’t pick you,” he repeated quietly, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “No, sweetheart. I think we both know it was more like gravity. You walked into town and the whole damn place started leaning your way.”

Her smirk deepened, and he felt it hit his chest the way it always did — like a match striking.

He leaned down until his lips hovered just beside her ear. “You wanna talk about redecorating?” he said softly, his breath warm against her skin. “You turned a man who used to talk to lumber into someone who checks the damn moon phases before he starts a project. I think the universe would call that a structural change.”

Her laugh brushed his collar, and he grinned — the quiet kind, the kind that came when words stopped working.

Then, that mention of the hot tub. That mischievous lilt. He groaned under his breath and tilted his head, eyes narrowing playfully. “You really think I forgot about that?” His voice was a drawl now, lazy and amused. “You’ve been talkin’ about steam and starlight for months. A man’s got priorities.”

He kissed her again, soft and deliberate, like punctuation. “But for the record,” he murmured, “if there’s a list of projects that start with you and end in trouble, I’m not sure I wanna finish any of ‘em.”

When she tugged his collar, he caught her wrist gently, his thumb tracing slow lines over the inside of it. “You say go on, but you don’t really mean it,” he said, eyes glinting with humor. “You like the part where I think about leaving more than the part where I actually do.”

He dropped one last kiss to her forehead — an anchor, a promise. “I’ll go,” he said softly, though neither of them looked convinced. “But you should know, every time you tell me to get back to work, all I hear is you planning new ways to distract me.”

He stepped back just far enough for the air to find its way between them again, his gaze still holding hers. “You win,” he said with a quiet grin. “Again. But I’m takin’ that as motivation. Gonna build that bed you just threatened me with.”

He winked, hand lingering a beat longer on her hip before he finally turned for the door. “Just don’t blame me if I test it before the paint dries.”

Lena watched him move, that familiar ache blooming slow and sweet in her chest like it always did when he said something he probably didn’t even realize would gut her a little—in the best kind of way.

Gravity, he’d said.

And damn him, he meant it.

She let out a slow breath, steadying herself with a hand on the counter as her heart did that fluttery thing it only ever did when he got soft on her. No one else in town would ever guess it, not with the way they played their parts—grumpy mountain man and bratty city girl, eternal flirt-war champions—but behind closed doors, he was steady and warm and hers. Always hers.

And he remembered. Every time.

Even her half-mocking, late-night rants about how the moon phases were sabotaging her tomato seedlings and probably his dovetail joints too.

She’d said it once, in the middle of a spring thunderstorm with a whiskey glass in hand, that if the moon could drag oceans around, it sure as hell could mess with their crafts. He didn’t even argue. Just tucked the idea somewhere in that quiet brain of his, and started checking the waxing and waning calendar she pinned to the fridge.

The man talked to wood like it had a soul, and he still made room for her nonsense.

God, she loved him.

Her eyes followed the flex of his shoulders as he started to move away, that familiar flannel pulling across his back just right. “Hate to see you go…” she called, lips twitching into a grin as she leaned casually on the counter.

He paused, already shaking his head.

“…but I do love watching you leave,” she finished, unapologetic and amused as she blatantly let her eyes drop to his ass. “Real scenic view today, Maren.”

He half-turned, probably to shoot her a look, but she cut him off before he got there.

“Wait.”

She pushed off the counter and crossed the space between them in a few quick steps, catching the back of his flannel before he could reach the door. He stilled, and for a beat they just stood there—his body warm and close, hers pulled toward him like always.

Then she tugged gently, just enough to turn him back toward her. Her palm found his chest again like it belonged there, and without saying a word, she rose on her toes to kiss him one last time.

It wasn’t a quick peck or a heated promise. Just something slow, soft, and perfectly in-between. A kiss to carry him through the rest of the day.

She pulled back a fraction, close enough for her breath to warm his lips, her fingers still curled in his shirt.

“For the road,” she murmured, playful and sweet, her voice dipped in that dangerous affection she always tried to mask with sarcasm.

And for once, she didn’t follow it with a smart remark.

Because the truth was, she did love him like this—every part of him. The butt she ogled, the brain that remembered moon phases, the hands that built her dreams without needing a blueprint.

He’d picked her, and now he was stuck with her.

Poor guy.

Caleb froze halfway through the doorway, his hand still hovering over the knob when her voice stopped him. That teasing, honeyed tone she used when she wanted to sound casual but was actually saying something that would knock the wind out of him.

He turned, slow and reluctant, because he already knew what would happen the second he looked at her.

And there it was — that grin, the glint in her eyes, the way she could turn a kitchen into a damn gravity well just by standing in it. He’d swear every compass in Evergreen pointed straight to her when she looked at him like that.

The “scenic view” comment earned her a low, rough laugh that started somewhere deep in his chest. “You’re lucky I like bein’ objectified by my favorite troublemaker,” he muttered, voice thick with amusement as he started to turn away again.

Then came her wait.

Her fingers caught the back of his flannel, and every ounce of humor in him went still. He let her tug, let her pull him back the way she always did — not by force, but by that quiet insistence she had, that invisible tether that never once let go.

When she pressed her palm against his chest, it hit him like it always did — the simple, grounding truth of her hand there. The steady beat of something that felt like home, pounding beneath her fingers.

He didn’t bother with words when she kissed him. Didn’t need to. He just bent slightly, let her take her time, his hand sliding up to cradle the side of her neck. His thumb traced the faint smear of sawdust still caught in her hairline, the gesture unthinking, tender, instinctive.

When she pulled back, when she whispered for the road, he huffed a quiet breath against her lips that sounded suspiciously close to a sigh. “That’s a hell of a sendoff,” he said softly, his forehead resting against hers. “You do realize I’m gonna start takin’ longer and longer jobs just for an excuse to get more of those.”

Her fingers still fisted in his shirt, and he let them. He didn’t want her to let go yet.

He pressed one more kiss to her temple — a smaller one this time, all reverence and no tease — before stepping back just enough to meet her eyes. “You keep talkin’ like that,” he murmured, “and I’m gonna start thinkin’ I’m the lucky one.”

Then, because she was looking at him like she’d fight the world for him and he was already lost, he grinned — small, crooked, unbearably sincere.

“Be good, trouble,” he said, giving her hand a final squeeze before turning toward the door again. “And if you’re not, at least leave me a note this time.”

The screen door creaked open, the afternoon light spilling across the floor. He looked back once, catching her silhouette in that amber glow — his girl, in his shirt, smiling like she knew exactly what she’d just done to him.

Caleb laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he stepped outside.

Yeah.
He was absolutely ruined for anyone else — and somehow, it felt like the best thing that ever happened to him.

Lena followed him out, lingering in the doorway like the air inside the house had suddenly gotten too thick. The screen door creaked shut behind her, and she crossed her arms as she leaned against the porch post, watching him with a softness she wouldn’t let show if he turned around too fast.

But he didn’t. Not at first.

Caleb moved across the yard slow and sure, the afternoon light brushing golden across his shoulders. That familiar, work-worn flannel fit him like second nature, and she felt that stupid flutter start up again in her chest — the one she kept pretending wasn’t there even though it always showed up the second he walked away.

She didn’t call out.

Just waited, steady and smug, until he inevitably glanced toward the workshop.

The moment his eyes flicked that way, she pointed two fingers from her eyes to his back — I’m watching you. A playful threat, not unlike the way she used to glare at squirrels raiding her garden.

He shook his head, grinning as he reached the truck, but when he slid into the driver’s seat and looked toward her again, Lena changed tactics.

She blew him a kiss.

Big and dramatic, hand under her chin like a movie star. She even wiggled her fingers at the end, just to make him laugh.

And sure enough, he did. She couldn’t hear it from the porch, but she saw the way his shoulders shook. Then the engine rumbled to life, and the truck pulled away, dust curling behind it in lazy swirls.

When he disappeared down the drive, Lena let herself exhale.

Then she got to work.


---

The workshop felt bigger without him in it. Quieter. But not lonely.

Not with the sawdust still clinging to the edges of the counter, not with the mug he'd left on the high shelf, not with the pencil tucked behind the light switch — the one he always forgot was there until he needed it.

Lena rolled up her sleeves, grabbed the measurements she’d scribbled on the back of a seed packet, and set to work.

The plan was simple: a hand-carved frame, thick-grained and dark-stained, with subtle floral etchings she’d traced from one of her old garden sketches. She’d already taken the photo — a sultry, smoky boudoir shot taken one afternoon when he’d left his flannel draped across the foot of her bed and the light had hit just right. She’d always meant to do something with it. Now felt like the time.

It was her version of leaving fingerprints. Something shameless, something soft. Something that said I’m not going anywhere.

She worked with intent, her hands steady even when her heart raced imagining his face when he found it. By the time the frame was nearly complete, dusk had crept in through the windows, painting the walls in soft golds and fading violets.

Before she packed up, Lena took her time tidying the workshop. Not the deep clean she’d done once before — he already knew what that looked like — but something gentler.

She wiped down the counters, oiled the tools, set his favorite chisel on the bench like a welcome home.

And then she left small pieces of herself behind:

A folded note tucked into the top drawer that read: Don’t worry. I’m not stealing your tools. Just borrowing your heart.

A fresh sprig of rosemary from her kitchen garden balanced on his vise — for memory, for luck.

And her chapstick — left on the windowsill with no explanation, just enough to make him smile and mutter something about her being a menace.


Satisfied, Lena dusted off her hands and locked up.


---

Back in the house, she headed straight for the shower — scrubbing off the sawdust, the sweat, the sun. She wrapped her hair in a towel and slipped into one of his too-big old band tees, letting the hem fall to her thighs as she padded barefoot into the kitchen.

The oven clicked on.

She moved like she belonged there now — barefoot on hardwood, humming softly as she pulled ingredients from the fridge. Tonight’s dinner was simple, hearty, and deliberately heavy on the flavors he liked best. She wanted the food warm, the house clean, and her hair just barely damp by the time he walked back in.

Because when Caleb Maren came home…
She wanted him to know he had something worth staying for.

Caleb always said he could tell what kind of day it had been by the way the house smelled before he even opened the door.

Tonight, it hit him before he made it halfway up the drive — rosemary, garlic, a hint of something sweet curling through the evening air. The kind of scent that made the ache in his shoulders loosen before he even realized he’d been carrying it.

The porch light was on, the one she’d insisted they install last fall — warm and soft, not the harsh white he’d originally picked. The glow hit the side of the house like a promise, and when he stepped inside, the sight of her brought that quiet, gut-deep peace he still hadn’t figured out how to explain.

Barefoot. His shirt. Hair still damp and curling at the ends.
He didn’t need dinner. He didn’t need a single word.

“Smells like trouble,” he said anyway, leaning against the doorframe, voice low and roughened from the chill outside.

She turned at that, smile tugging slow and easy, the towel still hanging over her shoulder. The sight of her in his old tee nearly stopped him cold — she wore it like it had been waiting for her.

Caleb set his keys down, took a step forward, then another. “You been busy,” he murmured, his gaze flicking over her — not in a hungry way, but the way a craftsman looks at a finished piece and sees every hour that went into it. “Smells like rosemary and sin in here.”

Lena snorted, but he could see it in the way her lips curved — she liked it when he noticed.

He crossed to the stove, peering into one of the pans like he had any business doing so, and found exactly what he expected: something rich, golden, and cooked with far too much care to call casual. “You cook like you’re tryin’ to make a man forget he ever left home,” he said, glancing back at her. “Pretty sure you’re overqualified for that.”

When she tried to nudge him away from the counter, he caught her hand, turned it over, and saw the faint red edge of where the sander had kissed her earlier. His thumb brushed the mark gently. “So that’s what you were hidin’ from me,” he said quietly, no teasing now — just warmth.

Lena’s eyes flicked up, playful defiance meeting quiet affection.

He smiled — slow, steady, the kind of smile that settled somewhere beneath the ribs. “You don’t know how bad I wanna go see it,” he admitted. “But I’ll wait. If you tell me when.”

He let her hand go and moved behind her instead, arms circling her waist, his chin dropping to the curve of her shoulder. The damp scent of her hair — citrus and soap — hit him like a memory he wanted to stay inside of.

“You keep doin’ this,” he murmured against her neck, “I’m gonna start thinkin’ the workshop’s just an excuse to come home to you like this every night.”

Lena laughed, the sound small and bright, and he felt it echo right through him.

He pressed a kiss just below her ear, soft enough to almost miss, and stayed there — letting the quiet of the house and the rhythm of her breathing fill in all the things he didn’t say out loud.

Then, without moving, he added in that low, amused drawl that always got her to roll her eyes:

“Dinner first, though. Otherwise, I’ll end up worshippin’ the cook instead of the meal — and I’m tryin’ to keep my priorities straight.”

She elbowed him gently, and he grinned, turning her to face him, his hands still loose around her waist.

“Missed you today,” he said simply. And he meant it. Every word, every quiet in-between.

Lena’s breath caught, soft and shallow, as she looked up at him — the warmth of his hands at her waist, the rough rasp of his voice still clinging to the air between them. There was always something about this part of the evening — the threshold between exhaustion and peace — that made her heart ache in the best possible way.

She let her fingers rest on his chest for a moment, right over where his heart beat steady and slow beneath his shirt, before she tipped her chin up and kissed his jaw once, deliberately.

“Then sit,” she murmured, voice low but sure. “Because I missed you too, and I’m not lettin’ you go hungry. Go on — before I change my mind and eat your portion myself.”

Her tone carried a teasing lilt, but there was something tender tucked beneath it, the kind of affection that came from years of growing into someone’s rhythm until it felt like second nature.

When he obeyed — grinning, shaking his head like she’d already won — she busied herself at the counter. The clink of utensils, the scrape of serving spoons against ceramic. She plated his meal first, always more for him — a habit she didn’t even think about anymore — and then hers.

“Don’t argue about the portions,” she warned lightly without looking up. “You work twice as hard and I get twice as cranky, so it evens out.”

When she turned with the plates, the light caught on the faint shimmer of moisture still in her hair, on the soft gleam of the ring she’d forgotten to take off. The house glowed around them — lamplight honeyed and forgiving, the scent of rosemary and garlic hanging like an embrace.

They sat across from each other, the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional tap of cutlery the only sounds between them. No words needed, not tonight. Just the quiet ease of two people settling back into each other’s orbit after a long day spent apart.

Lena stole glances at him between bites, the kind of small, indulgent looks that never stopped feeling new. The way he rolled his sleeves, the curve of his wrist as he cut into his food, the lines of fatigue around his eyes softening with every mouthful — she took it all in like a secret she’d been keeping just for herself.

Her appetite waned before the plate was half empty, but she didn’t mind. Instead, she leaned back, wine glass in hand, and watched him finish. The rich red caught the flicker of candlelight as she swirled it absently, her gaze tracing the way his shoulders eased, the way his hand brushed crumbs from the corner of his mouth like he didn’t even realize she was staring.

She smiled into her glass.

God, she loved seeing him like this — grounded, content, his rough edges softened by warmth and home. And yet, beneath that comfort, a flicker of nerves still danced in her chest.

Because upstairs, tucked neatly away beneath the linen she’d set aside for dessert, waited the little thing she’d made for him. Her heart thudded every time she thought about it.

It wasn’t perfect — the etchings were uneven, the edges a touch rougher than she’d planned — but it was hers. And his.

The thought made her fingers tighten around the stem of her glass. What if he noticed every flaw before he saw the love in it? What if she wasn’t good enough with her hands the way he was with his?

Then he looked up — those familiar eyes meeting hers, still soft from the quiet — and her doubt ebbed.

He smiled, slow and lazy, like the world could end and he’d still be right there, eating the meal she’d made and thinking it was enough.

Lena set her glass down, her voice barely above the hum of the house when she finally spoke.
“Y’know,” she said, that teasing edge gone now, replaced with something gentler, “watchin’ you like this… it makes all of it worth it. Every little thing I do around here, every bit of effort — it’s all just so you’ve got a reason to breathe a little easier when you come home.”

Her lips curved faintly, a quiet confession wrapped in a smile.
“I like takin’ care of you, Caleb Maren. More than I probably should.”

And when he gave her that look — the one that said he felt it, every word — she let the warmth between them do the rest of the talking.

Caleb set his fork down slow, the clink against the plate breaking the hush between them. He leaned back in his chair, eyes still on her — not hard, not intense, just steady. The kind of gaze that had a way of anchoring her and undoing her all at once.

He let a breath out through his nose, something soft and disbelieving. “You say that like it’s one-sided,” he said finally, voice low and warm, the kind that seemed to fill the small kitchen without ever needing volume. “Like I don’t spend half my day thinkin’ about what I can do to make it easier for you to stay here.”

His hand came to rest against the table, fingers curling loosely near her wrist — not quite touching, just there. “You think I build benches and fix doorframes ‘cause I like straight lines?” he went on, a ghost of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I do it ‘cause you sit on ‘em. Because you belong in every space I make.”

For a second, the weight of it sat between them — honest and quiet. The fire in her eyes softened, and he could feel the words she wasn’t saying in the way her breath hitched.

He leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table now, closing that last bit of distance. “You takin’ care of me,” he said, voice roughening at the edges, “that’s not a problem I’m ever gonna try to fix. You don’t have to earn your place here, Lena. You already did that the day you walked into my life and told me my porch lights were crooked.”

That earned him a smile — small, but real. He tilted his head slightly, watching her like he was trying to memorize the exact shade of that look. “You make this place feel alive,” he said simply. “Hell, you make me feel alive. The rest — the food, the garden, the way you hum when you think I’m not listenin’ — that’s just the good kind of trouble I get to come home to.”

He reached across the table then, fingers brushing over hers before his hand settled, palm up, like an open invitation. “I missed this,” he murmured. “Missed you. More than I’ll ever say out loud without a good drink in me.”

A faint smirk curved his mouth again, a glimmer of playfulness slipping through the sincerity. “So, if you like takin’ care of me…” he said, squeezing her hand lightly, “you better get used to me takin’ care of you right back. I’m a stubborn bastard, and I plan on evenin’ that score.”

He gave her fingers another gentle squeeze before letting go, his thumb tracing one last slow circle against her skin. “You got that look again,” he added quietly, a knowing edge to his tone. “Like there’s somethin’ else you’re keepin’ from me. I’ll play dumb for now, but don’t think for a second I won’t figure it out.”

He smiled then — soft, lopsided, completely hers. “Now eat the rest of your food before I start feedin’ you myself. You didn’t cook all this just to watch me.”

Lena rolled her eyes, but her lips betrayed her — curling into that soft, crooked smile that always gave her away. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” she muttered, shaking her head as she reached for her fork again. “Me sittin’ pretty while you play hero with the mashed potatoes.”

Still, she obliged. Forkful by forkful, she finished what she could — enough not to be wasteful, but not more than her stomach could handle. It was the kind of meal that filled her up in more ways than one, the kind that made her shoulders relax and her pulse slow, the kind that reminded her what it felt like to be full of something other than noise.

When she finally set her fork down, she leaned back with a small sigh, her hand coming to rest against her middle. “Alright,” she said softly, “I’m callin’ it. That was officially too good. You’re not allowed to compliment me while I’m this full — it’s a safety hazard.”

Her tone was teasing, but the warmth underneath it was unmistakable. She reached for her wine again, taking a slow sip before glancing over at him — the faintest spark of mischief flickering to life in her eyes.

He was watching her again. Of course he was. He always did, like it was the easiest habit in the world.

Lena set the glass down and tilted her head, letting the candlelight catch on her smile. “So,” she said, drawing out the word like she was trying it on for size. “You’ve got two options, Mr. Maren.”

She tapped a finger against the table between them, her voice dropping into that soft, teasing drawl that always made him grin. “Option one — you come with me to get your surprise, and we do this the civilized way.”

She paused, pretending to think, eyes glinting with that signature mix of affection and challenge. “Option two — you get comfy right here, and I bring it to you like the hardworking king you are. Either way, you’re gettin’ it tonight.”

Her grin widened when his brows lifted. “The gift, Caleb,” she added with mock innocence, swirling the last of her wine. “Don’t get ideas.”

Then, quieter, the sass softening into something sweeter, she met his eyes again. “So what’s it gonna be, huh? You comin’ with me, or do I get to play delivery girl tonight?”

Caleb didn’t answer right away. He just sat there, elbow braced on the table, thumb tracing slow circles over the edge of his plate while he studied her with that half-smile that never gave anything away and still somehow said everything.

The candlelight caught the gold in her eyes, the faint sheen on her bottom lip from the wine, the soft looseness that came only when she felt safe — and damn if it didn’t hit him like the first breath after a long day in the cold.

“Option one sounds dangerous,” he said finally, voice low and a little rough around the edges. “Every time you tell me to follow you, I end up forgettin’ what I was supposed to be doin’ for the rest of the night.”

Lena’s brows lifted, amusement flickering there, and he leaned back, still watching her. “Option two ain’t much safer either. ‘Cause if you walk in here with a surprise in your hands, I’ll spend half the time lookin’ at you instead of it.”

He pushed his chair back then, slow enough that the scrape of the legs on wood filled the small pause between them. When he stood, the kitchen light caught the edge of the small smile playing at his mouth — soft, patient, the kind that always made her heartbeat hitch.

“Guess that means I’m goin’ with you,” he said, voice dropping to something quieter, more deliberate. “Can’t trust you not to get distracted on the way.”

As he came around the table, his hand brushed the top of her chair before finding her shoulder, his thumb tracing an absent path along her collarbone. “Besides,” he murmured, “I like seein’ what you’re proud of. You get this look when you’re hidin’ somethin’ good — half trouble, half grace.”

He tilted his head, meeting her eyes. “Lead the way, trouble. Let’s go see what you’ve been up to.”

And as she rose — smirking, nervous, beautiful — Caleb’s hand slid down to find hers, fingers lacing through like they always did when she was about to show him something she’d made.

“Though,” he added, that small spark of humor returning just as he followed her toward the stairs, “if this ‘surprise’ turns out to be you gettin’ back at me for eatin’ the last of the pie last week… I reserve the right to retaliate.”

She laughed under her breath, and he smiled — quiet, content — because whatever waited upstairs, he already knew it didn’t matter.

He’d follow her anywhere.

Lena led him up the stairs slow, her hand warm in his, the rhythm of their steps in easy sync. The air upstairs was softer somehow — quieter, touched with that faint scent of lavender from the sachet she’d tucked in with the linens earlier. She could hear his footsteps behind her, steady and certain, and she felt that familiar flutter in her chest start up again.

Halfway down the hall, she glanced back over her shoulder with a sly smile. “Fair warning,” she murmured, her voice low and teasing. “There’s a high chance you’ll have to reinforce or fix this thing before long. I tried to build it to last — all proper and sturdy like you do — but, well…” She shrugged one shoulder, the corner of her mouth lifting. “No guarantees. I’m more dirt and sunlight than hammer and nails.”

His quiet chuckle followed her into the room, warm and low, and it steadied her nerves just enough to keep her moving.

Inside, the space glowed with the soft lamplight she’d left on — the one with the cream shade and the faint gold trim he’d claimed didn’t match anything, but secretly liked anyway. The bed was made, the air still faintly sweet from the candle she’d burned earlier, and the folded linens where she’d hidden the gift sat neatly at the edge.

“Sit,” she told him gently, nodding toward the armchair in the corner — the one he’d built himself years ago. Her voice softened as she said it, affection tugging at her words. “You’ve been workin’ all day. Let me do the heavy liftin’ for once.”

He did as he was told, and she smiled — that small, nervous one she got when her heart was already halfway out of her chest. Turning toward the bed, she reached for the fresh linens and eased the gift out from beneath them with careful hands.

The frame caught the light as she straightened. Smooth in some places, rougher in others — her handiwork, through and through. She’d sanded it until her fingers ached, stained it darker to hide the imperfections, and carved those delicate floral etchings around the edges like a secret she hoped only he’d ever look close enough to see.

She held it against her chest for a beat, breathing in the scent of the wood and the faint trace of oil she’d used to finish it. Then she turned back toward him, her smile tugging nervous again.

“Alright,” she said softly, stepping closer until she stood right in front of him. “Moment of truth.”

She showed him the back first — plain, simple, nothing special. Her fingertips brushed the edge as she spoke. “Now, before you say anything… remember, I warned you.”

Then, slowly — deliberately — she turned it.

Her pulse kicked in her throat as she revealed the front, angling it just enough that she could watch his face while the photo came into view.

The image — sultry, intimate, entirely her — caught the glow of the lamplight. The soft drape of his flannel, the way the light had kissed her skin, the quiet confidence she’d mustered that day when she’d set up the shot.

She held her breath, waiting — not for approval, but for that look. The one he always gave her when words failed, when he saw her not just as she wanted to be, but as she was.

Lena’s smile trembled at the edges, half nerves, half pride. “Guess now you know what I was hidin’,” she whispered, voice barely more than a breath.

Her fingers tightened slightly on the frame — grounding herself in the weight of it, in the way his eyes lifted to meet hers.

She’d built this with her hands.
But the moment — this moment — she’d built with her heart.

Caleb didn’t move for a long moment.
Didn’t speak, didn’t blink, didn’t even seem to breathe.

The lamplight hit the frame just right — the dark grain of the wood, the careful line of her carving, the faint unevenness that somehow made it more real. He saw the work in it immediately. Every inch of it said her — impatient, determined, tender in ways she’d never admit. And then his eyes found the photo.

For a heartbeat, everything else in the room fell away.

The image wasn’t showy or staged. It was raw. The flannel, the way the light slid over her skin, the quiet power in her posture. She wasn’t posing — she was being. And she’d given that to him. To keep.

Caleb’s hand came up slow, calloused fingers brushing the edge of the frame like he was afraid he might smudge the moment if he touched it too hard. His voice, when it finally came, was quiet — low and full, rough in a way that wasn’t about restraint so much as reverence.

“Jesus, Lena,” he said softly. “You made this?”

She nodded — small, uncertain.

He shook his head, a breath of disbelief slipping out of him, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he studied it again. “You got no idea how good you are,” he murmured. “You think this ain’t perfect ‘cause the edges aren’t straight? Hell, that’s the best part. I can see you in every mark you made. That’s what makes it alive.”

He looked up then — and there it was. That look she’d been waiting for. The one that could make her knees feel like paper and her heartbeat sound like thunder. Slow, steady, and utterly undone.

“You made somethin’ beautiful,” he said simply. “And not just the frame.”

He stood, careful with the gift in his hands, tracing the carved edge with his thumb before setting it gently on the dresser — not like an object to display, but something to keep close. When he turned back, his expression had softened even more, something fierce and tender woven together in the lines of his face.

“You always say you ain’t like me,” he said quietly, stepping closer until he was right in front of her again. “That I build things and you just… grow ‘em. But this—” he nodded toward the frame “—this is the same damn thing. You made somethin’ that’s gonna last.”

His hand came up, cupping her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek as he added, “And you picked the right photo, too. It’s you — not all polished up, not hidin’ behind anything. Just you. That’s the part that kills me.”

She laughed softly, breath catching in her throat, but before she could tease, his voice dropped lower.

“You could’ve given me a thousand things, and none of ‘em would touch this,” he said. “You gave me proof of how you see us. Proof you trust me with it.”

Caleb bent, pressing his forehead to hers, the air between them slow and warm.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For buildin’ somethin’ with your hands just so I’d have somethin’ that feels like you when you’re not in the room.”

He kissed her then — not urgent, not possessive, just sure. The kind of kiss that said he understood exactly what she’d done, what she’d given.

When he pulled back, his mouth still brushed hers as he smiled. “Now,” he murmured, voice threaded with that familiar warmth again, “you’re in trouble, Hartley. ‘Cause I’m gonna have to build somethin’ back. And you know I don’t half-ass that kind of payback.”

Then, quieter still, almost against her lips:

“But first… I’m gonna make sure you know what it feels like to be looked at the way you just made me feel.”

Lena’s breath left her in a slow, shaky laugh — the kind that came from somewhere deep, from that place in her chest where nerves and affection tangled together until they were indistinguishable. Her pulse still thrummed from the kiss, but the weight that had been pressing there — all that anxious, fluttering doubt about her handiwork — had finally eased.

She leaned back just enough to look up at him, her smile soft but already edged with that familiar spark. “You really shouldn’t give speeches like that, Caleb,” she said, voice still a little breathless. “You’ll have me start thinkin’ I actually know what I’m doin’ with a hammer.”

He chuckled quietly, the sound warm against her hair, but she wasn’t finished.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she added, smirking as she gestured toward the frame, “I appreciate the confidence, but you’re talkin’ about a piece currently held together by blind optimism, questionable glue, and whatever nails I could find in your drawer that ‘felt right.’”

That earned her the look she’d been waiting for — amused, fond, the kind that made her feel like the world had stopped spinning just for the two of them.

She reached up and hooked her fingers loosely in the collar of his shirt, tugging him a little closer. “You’ve got a lot more faith in my craftsmanship than I do, Maren,” she teased, her tone low and playful now, “but I guess that’s what I get for fallin’ for a man who thinks splinters are a love language.”

Her thumb brushed against the corner of his mouth before she added, softer this time, “Still… I’m glad you like it. All of it.”

The words hung there, simple but real — the kind that didn’t need dressing up. She let her hand fall away slowly, eyes flicking toward the frame on the dresser and then back to him. “So,” she said, the corners of her lips curving again, “if it starts fallin’ apart, you’ll just have to fix it. Fair trade, don’t you think? You keep it standing — I’ll keep you fed.”

It came out light and teasing, but underneath it lived the truth she didn’t have to say:
She trusted him with everything — the fragile, the imperfect, the real.

And as she stood there, watching the way his gaze softened again, Lena thought maybe that was the most beautiful thing she’d ever managed to build.

Caleb laughed, that low, quiet rumble that always started somewhere deep in his chest before it ever reached his mouth. He looked down at her — really looked — and for a second he forgot whatever smart remark he’d been about to make.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” he said finally, voice softer now. “That thing’s got more heart in it than half the furniture I’ve ever built. Glue or no glue.”

He let his fingers drift down the side of her neck, the pad of his thumb catching a bit of sawdust she’d missed near her jaw. “And for the record,” he added, grinning, “splinters are a perfectly respectable love language. Builds character. Builds calluses.”

She rolled her eyes, but the little sound she made — that half-laugh, half-exhale — was pure contentment.

Caleb glanced toward the dresser, toward the frame catching the lamplight again, and shook his head a little, still half in disbelief. “You know what I’m thinkin’?” he said. “If that thing does fall apart someday, I’m not fixin’ it. Not a damn bit. I’ll leave it exactly how it is — glue smudges and all. That way, when we’re both gray and the grandkids are nosy, I can tell ‘em that’s what happens when two stubborn people build somethin’ together. It holds.”

He caught her gaze again, serious now in that quiet, easy way he had — the kind that didn’t demand attention but still carried weight. “And if you’re plannin’ on keepin’ me fed for life,” he murmured, leaning closer until his forehead almost brushed hers, “then I figure I’ll just keep fixin’ whatever needs fixin’. You, me, that frame — we’ll all stay in one piece.”

Her fingers were still hooked in his collar, warm against the skin just above the first button, and he couldn’t help but smile. “Guess we make a good team, Hartley,” he said, the words low and certain. “You build things that last. I make sure they don’t break.”

He tilted his head, kissed her once more — slow and sure — before whispering against her lips, “And for the record, you absolutely know what you’re doin’ with a hammer.”

Then he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes again, that lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Now, you want me to hang that masterpiece up before it gets too dark, or you wanna keep it right there for a while — so it’s the first thing I see every mornin’?”

Lena’s smile softened, though something flickered briefly behind her eyes — not sadness exactly, just a quiet ache she’d learned to tuck away when moments were this good. Grandkids. Futures. Some things you didn’t say out loud when the night was still warm and your heart felt too full to risk spilling.

So instead, she leaned in, her voice low and teasing, brushing over the weight of it all like sunlight through leaves.
“Mm,” she murmured, tracing the edge of his collar with her fingertip. “You already get to wake up to the real thing every mornin’, Maren. Pretty sure that frame would be overkill in the bedroom.”

Her grin curved, sly and slow, the playful spark fully returning. “I was thinkin’ you could hang it in the shop instead. Somewhere you’ll see it when you’re covered in sawdust and mutterin’ about faulty joints. Might remind you what you’re actually buildin’ things for.”

She tilted her head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Plus, the fellas that come by could use a little art appreciation lesson.”

Caleb’s brow arched — that familiar half-smirk starting — and Lena laughed under her breath, giving his shirt a gentle tug to pull him closer. “But don’t you go grabbin’ your hammer just yet,” she added, voice dropping to something lower, warmer. “Hangin’ it can wait.”

Her fingers slipped up to his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble there as she looked at him — that look equal parts fondness and fire. “I’ve got somethin’ else in mind for you first.”

Then, softer still, her lips ghosted over his as she whispered,
“Consider it a thank-you — for believin’ in my glue and bad decisions.”

And before he could answer, she kissed him again — deeper this time, deliberate — the kind of kiss that promised the night was far from over and that whatever they built, crooked edges and all, would keep holding.

Caleb’s grin deepened against her mouth, that slow, knowing curve that always started small before it took over his whole face. He didn’t move right away — just stayed there in that steady, quiet space between her breath and his, one hand finding the small of her back and pulling her the rest of the way in.

“Careful,” he murmured against her lips, his voice rough and low, “you start thankin’ me like that, and I’m liable to start sabotagin’ your projects just to earn another one.”

She laughed into the kiss — that small, startled sound that never failed to make his chest ache — and he caught it, kissed her through it, slow and sure, the way he always did when he wanted her to know he’d heard everything she wasn’t saying.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, his breath still mingling with hers. “You know I’ll hang it wherever you want,” he said, softer now, sincerity cutting clean through the teasing. “Workshop, bedroom, hell — I’ll put it in the truck if it means I get to look at it every day.”

His thumb traced along her jaw again, catching the faint curve of her smile. “And for the record,” he added, his tone dipping back into that lazy drawl she could never quite resist, “I don’t need any remindin’ what I’m buildin’ for. Every damn nail I drive, every beam I cut — it’s already got you written all over it.”

Lena’s eyes flickered — that mix of defiance and tenderness he’d come to love — and Caleb smiled, brushing another kiss to the corner of her mouth, slow and sure.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doin’?” he asked, his voice dropping to a murmur. “You keep pretendin’ it’s about glue and sawdust, but I know better. You’re buildin’ somethin’ bigger than walls and frames, Hartley. You’ve been buildin’ us since the day you walked into my damn life and decided I needed color.”

He laughed softly, one hand slipping up into her hair as his mouth found her ear. “Now,” he whispered, the sound a low rumble against her skin, “about that thank-you…”

He kissed her again — unhurried, unshakable — the kind of kiss that made time stretch thin and the world outside the walls disappear.

When he finally broke it, his voice was quieter, his thumb still tracing the line of her cheek. “You don’t owe me a thing, Lena. But if you’re gonna keep offerin’ like that…” his grin turned wicked again, “I’m not stupid enough to say no.”

He kissed her once more, softer this time, his smile against her lips. “Now, let’s see if that glue of yours holds up ‘til mornin’.”

Lena’s pulse jumped, quick and heady, the second his words hit the air — that low drawl of his curling around her like smoke. She didn’t answer right away; she couldn’t. Her lips brushed his once, twice, then again with a little more insistence, the kind of kiss that wasn’t polite or practiced — it was hungry in its quiet way, full of all the things she didn’t have to say.

Her fingers slid up the front of his shirt, tracing the faint line of buttons before curling into the fabric to pull him closer. The soft rasp of his stubble scraped against her mouth as she tilted her chin up, tasting his laughter, the warmth of it, the steadiness underneath.

When she finally broke the kiss, her breath came out in a shaky whisper against his skin. “Careful,” she murmured, echoing him with a teasing twist. “You keep talkin’ like that and I might forget what I was thankin’ you for.”

She didn’t give him time to answer — didn’t want to. Instead, she reached up, threading her fingers through his hair and guiding his mouth back to hers, slower this time. Deeper. Her other hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, her fingertips finding the heat of his skin, rough calluses against smooth. He shivered under her touch, and she smiled against his mouth — that small, satisfied thing that always got her in trouble.

The frame sat forgotten on the dresser, its reflection catching the lamplight as she nudged him back toward the bed. He followed easily, his hands already learning her again — familiar, reverent, unhurried.

When his knees hit the edge of the mattress, Lena caught his bottom lip between her teeth just long enough to make him inhale sharply. Her grin turned wicked, eyes glinting up at him beneath the soft fall of her hair.

“Think I’d rather show you what that thank-you really looks like,” she whispered, voice low and thick with warmth.

And then there was no more talking.

Lena's pulse was a drumbeat against the silence, a rushing heat that had little to do with the lamplight. Her hands, already beneath the cotton of his shirt, didn't hesitate. She didn't want him in the shirt anymore, didn't want the barrier.

​Her fingers worked quickly, finding the hem again and pulling the fabric up and over his head in one decisive, fluid motion. The material caught momentarily on the strong curve of his shoulder, and she tugged it free, tossing the discarded garment somewhere toward the foot of the bed.

​He was all smooth, warm skin and solid muscle beneath her hands, the sight of his chest, broad and defined by shadow and light, catching her breath. A thin, dark line of hair trailed down his abdomen, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. She laid her palms flat against his skin, tracing the hard lines of his ribs before pressing against his chest, a clear signal.

​He understood instantly, that silent communication passing between them as smoothly as always. His body tipped back, and the springs of the mattress gave a soft, yielding sigh as his shoulders met the pillow.

​She was hovering above him then, looking down into his eyes that were dark with something raw and focused. Lena let her own gaze drop, taking in the length of him spread out on the sheets, before her attention came back to the cotton shirt she was still wearing—his shirt. It felt suddenly heavy, too much cloth.

​With a deliberate arch of her back, she reached for the hem. He lifted his head slightly, watching her with a gaze so intent it felt like a physical touch. Lena pulled the shirt up her torso, the soft fabric snagging briefly on the swell of her breasts before slipping away. She tossed the borrowed garment away to join his, the movement leaving her with nothing but the lace panties that felt suddenly delicate and inadequate.

​A small, genuine smile curved her lips, a deep thrill running through her as his eyes darkened further.
​She didn't stay kneeling for long. With a quick, powerful shift, she swung one leg over his thigh and then the other, settling herself right on his lap. The friction of denim against her bare skin made her gasp, a soft, involuntary sound that was immediately lost.

​The angle was perfect. She was high above him, her hands coming up to cup his face, his rough stubble scraping sweetly against her palms. She dove for his mouth, letting all the unspoken hunger, all the heat and the gratitude and the wicked pleasure of the moment spill into the kiss. It was fierce and possessive, a deep plunge that tasted like a homecoming.

​He responded with an immediate, guttural sound, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her flush against him, making the undeniable evidence of his desire press intimately against her. Lena moaned into his mouth, tilting her head to deepen the connection, her fingers tangling in his hair again, holding him captive as she rode the sheer, intoxicating rush of being this close. She wanted to absorb him, to mark him as her own, to show him exactly how much she meant those words.

The words were like a spark, igniting a familiar fire in Caleb. He could feel Lena’s pulse quicken against him, a frantic rhythm that mirrored his own. There was no need for words, not when her lips were already doing all the talking, tracing a hungry, insistent path against his. The soft rasp of his stubble against her mouth, the taste of her laughter and the warmth of her breath – it was all a symphony of unspoken desires.

Her fingers, light and teasing, danced across the buttons of his shirt before curling into the fabric, pulling him closer. He shivered as her other hand slipped beneath the hem, her fingertips finding the heat of his skin, rough calluses against smooth. Her small, satisfied smile against his mouth was a familiar sight, the one that always got her in trouble.

He followed her lead, nudging back towards the bed, his hands already relearning the curves of her body. When his knees hit the edge of the mattress, Lena’s grin turned wicked, her eyes glinting up at him as she caught his bottom lip between her teeth. “Think I’d rather show you what that thank-you really looks like,” she whispered, her voice low and thick with warmth. And then, there was no more talking.

Caleb’s chest rose and fell with each ragged breath as Lena's hands, sure and purposeful, found the hem of his shirt. In one fluid motion, she pulled it up and over his head, the fabric catching momentarily on the strong curve of his shoulder before she tugged it free. He watched as she tossed the discarded garment aside, his gaze fixed on her as she laid her palms flat against his skin, tracing the hard lines of his ribs.

He understood the silent command, tipping back onto the mattress as the springs gave a soft, yielding sigh. She hovered above him, her eyes dark and focused, taking in the length of him spread out on the sheets. Then, her attention shifted to the cotton shirt she was still wearing—his shirt.

With a deliberate arch of her back, she reached for the hem. Caleb lifted his head slightly, his gaze intent as she pulled the shirt up her torso, the soft fabric snagging briefly on the swell of her breasts before slipping away. She tossed the borrowed garment to join his, leaving her in nothing but delicate lace panties. A small, genuine smile curved her lips as his eyes darkened further.

She didn't stay kneeling for long. With a quick, powerful shift, she swung one leg over his thigh and then the other, settling herself right on his lap. The friction of denim against her bare skin made her gasp, a soft, involuntary sound that was immediately lost as she dove for his mouth. The kiss was fierce and possessive, a deep plunge that tasted like a homecoming.

Caleb responded with an immediate, guttural sound, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her flush against him. He felt the undeniable evidence of his desire press intimately against her as Lena moaned into his mouth, tilting her head to deepen the connection. Her fingers tangled in his hair again, holding him captive as she rode the sheer, intoxicating rush of being this close. She wanted to absorb him, to mark him as her own, to show him exactly how much she meant those words.

Lena’s breath hitched, not from the kiss, but from the sudden, sharp realization that there were still too many layers between them. She was bare from the waist up, but the friction of the stiff denim against her bare skin was a tease, a barrier that needed to be dissolved. They were already home, already lost in each other, and the only thing standing in the way was a piece of clothing that had done its duty for the day.

​She broke the kiss, pulling back just enough for her eyes to meet his. The intense, questioning look in his eyes was almost enough to make her forget what she’d intended to do.

​“Unfair,” she rasped, her voice husky and low as she rocked her hips, grinding the denim against the undeniable proof of his desire. The groan that tore from his throat was her reward. “You still have all your clothes on.”

​Lena slid off his lap, the movement slow and deliberately sensual, the pads of her fingers tracing a molten path from his chest, down the flat plane of his stomach, and finally to the button of his jeans. Her gaze remained locked on his, dark and knowing, as her nimble fingers worked the metal button free.

​She kept her touch light, a trail of fire as she pulled the zipper down with excruciating slowness, until it was fully undone. Caleb was helping without even realizing it, his hips already beginning to lift instinctively off the mattress as she curled her fingers into the denim. She gave a small tug, a silent command, and he slid his hands under her thighs, assisting her as she pushed the heavy fabric down his hips.

​As she worked, Lena didn’t stand up; instead, she followed the descent of the fabric, her lips brushing the firm skin of his abdomen before she pressed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss just below his hip bone.

​The jeans gathered just past his knees. Then came the soft barrier of his boxers—a pale gray cotton that had no hope of containing the rigid evidence of her effect on him. She gave the waistband a little snap, the sound loud in the sudden, thick silence, before she caught the fabric between her thumbs and began to peel it away.
​Lena continued her downward journey, pushing the boxers past his thighs, her breath warming the sensitive skin on the inside of his knees. The denim and cotton pooled at his ankles, and with a final, deliberate effort, she grasped the pile and tugged it over his feet.

​She stood up slowly, deliberately, the air between her lace-clad hips and the foot of the bed electric. His knees were bent, his legs splayed slightly over the end of the mattress, leaving her standing exactly where she wanted to be: between his knees, looking up the incredible length of his body.

​Her fingers found the fragile lace of her own final layer. With a single, fluid slide, she slipped the panties down her hips and past her thighs, letting them drop to the floor to join his discarded clothes.

​Lena didn't move. She stood there, absolutely naked, breathing hard, taking in the full, stunning, and completely uninhibited view of him—the ruggedly handsome face, the hard lines of his chest, the flat planes of his stomach, and the beautiful, honest proof of his desire. His gaze devoured her just as relentlessly, his eyes dark with a heat that promised to burn them both down to ash. She felt the silent, heavy breath he drew, and knew he saw the same wild, possessive fire reflected in her own eyes.

Caleb’s groan was a raw, guttural sound as Lena rocked her hips against him. “Unfair,” she rasped, her voice husky and low, “You still have all your clothes on.” He watched, mesmerized, as she slid off his lap, her fingers tracing a path of fire down his chest, stomach, and finally to the button of his jeans. Her dark, knowing gaze remained locked on his as her nimble fingers worked the metal free.

He instinctively lifted his hips as she slowly, exquisitely, pulled the zipper down. His hands slid under her thighs, assisting her as she pushed the heavy denim down his hips. She followed the descent of the fabric, her lips brushing the firm skin of his abdomen before pressing a lingering, open-mouthed kiss just below his hip bone.

The jeans gathered just past his knees, and then came the soft barrier of his pale gray cotton boxers, utterly insufficient to contain the rigid evidence of her effect on him. She gave the waistband a little snap, the sound loud in the thick silence, before peeling the fabric away. Lena continued her downward journey, pushing the boxers past his thighs, her breath warming the sensitive skin on the inside of his knees. The denim and cotton pooled at his ankles, and with a final, deliberate effort, she grasped the pile and tugged it over his feet.

He watched as she stood up slowly, deliberately, the air between her lace-clad hips and the foot of the bed electric. His knees were bent, his legs splayed slightly over the end of the mattress, leaving her standing exactly where she wanted to be: between his knees, looking up the incredible length of his body.

His gaze devoured her as she found the fragile lace of her own final layer. With a single, fluid slide, she slipped the panties down her hips and past her thighs, letting them drop to the floor to join his discarded clothes.

Caleb’s breath caught in his throat. She stood there, absolutely naked, breathing hard, taking in the full, stunning, and completely uninhibited view of him—the ruggedly handsome face, the hard lines of his chest, the flat planes of his stomach, and the beautiful, honest proof of his desire. His eyes were dark with a heat that promised to burn them both down to ash. He felt the silent, heavy breath he drew, and knew he saw the same wild, possessive fire reflected in her own eyes.

The silence was broken by the hitch in Caleb’s breath—a sound more potent than any word. His eyes, dark and heavy, trailed over every curve of her body before meeting her gaze again, a fierce, primal intensity in their depths. The distance between them was negligible, yet it felt like an eternity.

​With a low growl that vibrated in her soul, Caleb’s hands shot out. Not for her waist, but for the sides of the mattress, his powerful grip bunching the sheets. He used the leverage to haul himself up, his eyes never leaving hers, until he was sitting upright at the edge of the bed.

​Then, his large hands clamped around her hips, rough calluses against the soft skin of her inner thighs. He pulled, and Lena went willingly, letting out a soft cry as she was lifted and tumbled back onto the mattress, right on top of him.

​She landed with a soft, breathy impact that knocked the air from her lungs, the hard ridges of his chest beneath her breasts a welcome pressure. She didn't hesitate; her mouth found his immediately, a desperate, hungry claim that wiped away the last remnants of thought.

​The kiss was deep and consuming, a tangle of heat and urgency. Lena’s hands found their way to the rugged landscape of his shoulders and back, feeling the tense coil of muscle under her touch. The friction of their naked bodies, hip to hip, chest to chest, was a deliberate, intoxicating torture. She arched her back, grinding down just enough to feel the velvet tip of his readiness press against her, and the ragged, satisfied groan that rumbled through his chest made her shudder.

​His hands roamed everywhere, kneading the firm flesh of her bottom, sweeping up her sides, tracing the heavy swell of her breasts. The air grew thick and heavy with unspoken needs and the scent of arousal.

​With a sudden, powerful surge, Caleb reversed their positions. His arms locked around her, his movements economical and swift, carrying the weight of her body as he rolled them both in one rugged, seamless motion. One moment she was on top; the next, she was pinned beneath him, the raw strength and weight of his body a delicious anchor. He leaned down, his breath warm against her ear, and his voice was a low rasp of demand.

​“Look at you,” he breathed, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on hers with an intense, possessive heat that would make any woman’s knees weak.

​His mouth returned to hers, less a kiss and more a claim, as his body settled between her thighs. Lena wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him closer, desperate for the final connection.
​But he had other ideas.

​His hand slid down her belly, fingers trailing fire, until they found the swollen, pulsing center of her desire. He found her clitoris and applied a slow, measured pressure, his thumb circling and stroking with an expertise that stole her breath. Lena gasped, her hips instinctively bucking against his hand, the sensation too much, too good. She was a tangle of raw nerves and electric heat, pulling him close with the last of her patience.

​“Please,” she managed, the plea more of a low keen in the back of her throat.

​Caleb looked down at her, his eyes dark with victory and adoration. He gave her one last, slow stroke that sent a shuddering wave through her core. Then, with a grunt of relief and necessity, he shifted. He pressed against her, finding the slick entrance, and with a slow, deliberate thrust that was all power and intensity, he drove himself home.

A long, shaky sigh escaped Lena's lips as the powerful thrust connected them, an immediate, grounding pressure filling the void. The sensation was overwhelming, a perfect stretch and heat that brought tears to her eyes. She gripped his shoulders, her nails digging in slightly as she adjusted to the deep, absolute fullness of him.

​Caleb paused, his jaw tight, giving her a moment to acclimate. He didn't move a muscle, simply leaned down to press his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling, ragged and desperate. She could feel his heart hammering against her chest, a frantic rhythm that matched the frantic thrumming between her legs.

​When he finally moved, it was with a control that was almost cruel—a slow, deliberate withdrawal that pulled a soft whimper from her. He looked into her eyes, checking for a silent signal, and finding the permission he sought, he drove back in just as deep.

​The rhythm began, slow and heavy, each thrust an assertion of their bond, a deepening of the connection that had always existed between them. Lena rode the initial waves of pleasure, her hips tilting up to meet his driving force, her focus narrowed solely to the incredible friction and fullness inside her.

​He picked up the pace, the tempo accelerating into a powerful, rhythmic cadence. The bed springs groaned beneath them as Caleb moved with a fierce intensity, his body hard and commanding. Lena matched his urgency, her legs locked around his waist, pulling him further into her center. She felt the coil of sensation tightening, winding hotter and faster with every perfect stroke.

​The feeling was electric, undeniable. She clung to him, her fingers slipping from his shoulders to rake down the taut muscles of his back, urging him to take what she was offering. A low, continuous moan filled the space between them, rising in pitch as she felt the final, exquisite moment begin to swell. With one final, powerful series of drives, Caleb hit a spot that sent her flying, an involuntary cry tearing from her throat as she dissolved around him, the exquisite convulsions drawing the last drops of control from him.

​He kept moving through her climax, a primal, guttural sound ripping from his own chest as he drove into her one last time, emptying himself into her heat. His heavy body slumped, supported by his arms, burying his face into the curve of her neck, his breath hot and spent against her skin.
​

His breath hitched, a sound that spoke volumes. His eyes, dark and heavy, devoured her, tracing every curve before locking with hers, a fierce, primal intensity burning in their depths. The distance between them, though negligible, felt like an eternity.

With a low growl that vibrated deep in her soul, his hands shot out, gripping the sides of the mattress, bunching the sheets. He hauled himself up, his gaze never leaving hers, until he was sitting upright at the edge of the bed.

Then, his large hands clamped around her hips, rough calluses against the soft skin of her inner thighs. He pulled, and she came willingly, a soft cry escaping her as she was lifted and tumbled back onto the mattress, right on top of him.

She landed with a soft, breathy impact that stole the air from her lungs, the hard ridges of his chest beneath her breasts a welcome pressure. She didn’t hesitate, her mouth finding his immediately, a desperate, hungry claim that wiped away the last remnants of thought.

The kiss was deep and consuming, a tangle of heat and urgency. Her hands found their way to the rugged landscape of his shoulders and back, feeling the tense coil of muscle under her touch. The friction of their naked bodies, hip to hip, chest to chest, was a deliberate, intoxicating torture. She arched her back, grinding down just enough to feel the velvet tip of his readiness press against her, and the ragged, satisfied groan that rumbled through his chest made her shudder.

His hands roamed everywhere, kneading the firm flesh of her bottom, sweeping up her sides, tracing the heavy swell of her breasts. The air grew thick and heavy with unspoken needs and the scent of arousal.

With a sudden, powerful surge, he reversed their positions. His arms locked around her, his movements economical and swift, carrying the weight of her body as he rolled them both in one rugged, seamless motion. One moment she was on top; the next, she was pinned beneath him, the raw strength and weight of his body a delicious anchor. He leaned down, his breath warm against her ear, and his voice was a low rasp of demand.

“Look at you,” he breathed, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on hers with an intense, possessive heat that would make any woman’s knees weak.

His mouth returned to hers, less a kiss and more a claim, as his body settled between her thighs. She wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him closer, desperate for the final connection. But he had other ideas.

His hand slid down her belly, fingers trailing fire, until they found the swollen, pulsing center of her desire. He found her clitoris and applied a slow, measured pressure, his thumb circling and stroking with an expertise that stole her breath. She gasped, her hips instinctively bucking against his hand, the sensation too much, too good. She was a tangle of raw nerves and electric heat, pulling him close with the last of her patience.

“Please,” she managed, the plea more of a low keen in the back of her throat.
He looked down at her, his eyes dark with victory and adoration. He gave her one last, slow stroke that sent a shuddering wave through her core. Then, with a grunt of relief and necessity, he shifted. He pressed against her, finding the slick entrance, and with a slow, deliberate thrust that was all power and intensity, he drove himself home.

A long, shaky sigh escaped her lips as the powerful thrust connected them, an immediate, grounding pressure filling the void. The sensation was overwhelming, a perfect stretch and heat that brought tears to her eyes. She gripped his shoulders, her nails digging in slightly as she adjusted to the deep, absolute fullness of him.

He paused, his jaw tight, giving her a moment to acclimate. He didn't move a muscle, simply leaned down to press his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling, ragged and desperate. She could feel his heart hammering against her chest, a frantic rhythm that matched the frantic thrumming between her legs.

When he finally moved, it was with a control that was almost cruel—a slow, deliberate withdrawal that pulled a soft whimper from her. He looked into her eyes, checking for a silent signal, and finding the permission he sought, he drove back in just as deep.

The rhythm began, slow and heavy, each thrust an assertion of their bond, a deepening of the connection that had always existed between them. She rode the initial waves of pleasure, her hips tilting up to meet his driving force, her focus narrowed solely to the incredible friction and fullness inside her.

He picked up the pace, the tempo accelerating into a powerful, rhythmic cadence. The bed springs groaned beneath them as he moved with a fierce intensity, his body hard and commanding. She matched his urgency, her legs locked around his waist, pulling him further into her center. She felt the coil of sensation tightening, winding hotter and faster with every perfect stroke.

The feeling was electric, undeniable. She clung to him, her fingers slipping from his shoulders to rake down the taut muscles of his back, urging him to take what she was offering. A low, continuous moan filled the space between them, rising in pitch as she felt the final, exquisite moment begin to swell. With one final, powerful series of drives, he hit a spot that sent her flying, an involuntary cry tearing from her throat as she dissolved around him, the exquisite convulsions drawing the last drops of control from him.

He kept moving through her climax, a primal, guttural sound ripping from his own chest as he drove into her one last time, emptying himself into her heat. His heavy body slumped, supported by his arms, burying his face into the curve of her neck, his breath hot and spent against her skin.

The scent of cinnamon and pine filled the house — the kind that clung to the air and made it feel like December, even though the calendar still insisted otherwise.

Lena stood in the middle of the living room, one hand on her hip, the other holding a strand of silver tinsel like it might tell her what to do next. The radio hummed softly from the kitchen — old Christmas crooners, a little warbly through the speaker but perfect for the moment. Normally, she’d roll her eyes at the idea of decorating before Thanksgiving. She was a wait-until-the-leftovers-are-gone kind of woman.

But this year?
This year she wanted the lights early.

Maybe it was the chill that had come down from the ridge a little sooner than usual, or maybe it was that she could already feel the quiet ache of what was coming — Florida sun instead of Colorado snow, palm trees instead of pine.

She hadn’t told Caleb yet.

He’d understand — she knew that. He always did. But the thought of leaving, of missing out on their usual traditions — the tree-cutting trip up near White Hollow, the cider and lights and the smell of fresh sap on his gloves — it already tugged at her in ways she didn’t want to name.

So instead, she wrapped herself in the cheer she could have right now.

The vintage silver tinsel tree — the one she’d inherited from her Grandma June — stood proudly in the corner, shimmering beneath the soft glow of string lights. She’d paired it with red glass ornaments that caught the firelight and glowed like drops of warmth in a winter storm. The whole room felt like a time capsule — half mountain lodge, half retro living room straight out of 1962.

A tartan blanket was draped across the arm of the couch, a bowl of cinnamon sticks sat by the window, and the faintest trace of snow dusted the porch railing outside.

Lena crouched to adjust the base of the tree, tucking the faux fur skirt a little tighter around the metal stand. “You’ll do,” she murmured to it, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re not our usual one, but you’ve got personality.”

The tree, naturally, didn’t respond — it just shimmered in silent agreement as the heater kicked on and filled the house with a low, steady hum.

She sat back on her heels, watching the light bounce off the tinsel like glittering snowflakes, and smiled faintly to herself.

It wasn’t the same as hauling a fresh pine through the door, laughing while Caleb pretended not to care how crooked it was before he fixed it anyway. It wasn’t the same as cider on the porch or his arms around her while the first snow fell.

But it was something.
And this year, she’d take something.

Her gaze drifted toward the folded piece of paper on the table — the letterhead from the company in Florida, the official job offer she hadn’t touched since setting it down that morning. She knew she should tell him soon.

Just… not yet.

Not while the lights were twinkling, and the fire was warm, and she could still pretend that this Christmas would look like all the ones before.

Lena stood again, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt, and hung the last ornament — a tiny red cardinal made of glass — near the top of the tree. Her grandma’s favorite.

Then she stepped back, arms crossed, and took in the room.

“Alright, Hartley,” she said under her breath, voice soft but sure. “If the world’s gonna change on you, you might as well have the place lookin’ pretty when it does.”

The silver branches caught the light again — sparkling like laughter she hadn’t quite let herself have yet. And for a moment, she just stood there in the middle of it all, letting the glow do what it was meant to do:

Keep her warm,
even when everything else was about to shift.

Outside, the quiet hum of the mountain evening broke — the familiar crunch of tires on the gravel drive. The faint orange of headlights swept across the frosted windowpanes, cutting through the blue dusk.

Lena’s heartbeat stumbled just once — not out of nerves, but out of that simple, steady comfort that always came with the sound of his truck pulling in.

The engine cut off. A door shut. Boots on the porch.

And then the door creaked open, letting in a rush of cold air and the scent of sawdust and winter.

Caleb stepped inside, shoulders dusted with snow, the warmth of home meeting him in a wash of gold light and silver shimmer.

He paused — just long enough for his gaze to find her, standing beside the glowing tinsel tree — and the corners of his mouth curved into something small, quiet, and full.

The fire cracked softly in the hearth. The lights on the tree twinkled.
And for the first time all day, Lena breathed easy again.

Caleb lingered just inside the doorway for a heartbeat longer than usual, letting the warmth sink in, the scent of cinnamon and pine wrapping around him like a memory. The sharp edge of winter still clung to his coat, but the room — and she — melted it right off him.

He dropped his gloves on the entry table, the soft thud echoing in the hush that always seemed to fall when he first came home. His eyes moved from the fire to the gleam of the ornaments, then finally to her — barefoot, flushed from the heat, standing proud beside a tree that glittered like it had been waiting all day just for him to see it.

“Well, this is a sight for sore eyes,” he said finally, voice low and rough from the cold, a grin tugging at his mouth. He brushed a few melting flakes from his hair and leaned the axe against the wall. “You, tinsel, and Sinatra — didn’t think I’d ever walk into that combination before December.”

He crossed the room slowly, the floor creaking under his boots, taking in the details the way a man did when he wanted to remember every piece of something. The cardinal near the top. The tartan on the couch. Her hand still curled around a strand of silver tinsel like she wasn’t quite done fussing with it.

“Looks good,” he said, softer now. “Different. But good.” His smile crooked a little deeper, eyes flicking toward the retro shine of the tree. “Grandma June would’ve called this fancy.”

He stopped beside her, close enough that the chill still clinging to him met the warmth of her shoulder. For a second, he just watched the reflection of the firelight dancing in her hair, how the glow turned her eyes to gold.

“Everything alright?” he asked quietly. “You don’t usually pull the holiday card before I’ve even cleaned up from the last job.” His hand brushed her arm — not demanding, just steady, grounding. “Something about this year got you in a hurry?”

When she hesitated — just enough for him to notice — Caleb let his hand slide down, fingers curling lightly around hers. “Hey,” he murmured, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth, trying to draw her out the way he always did. “You can tell me if you’re secretly auditioning for one of those holiday movies. I’ll chop the tree down, wear the flannel, play the rugged love interest. Full commitment.”

The joke landed soft between them, and he caught the flicker of a smile on her lips. But beneath it, something in her eyes lingered — that faraway shine that told him there was more beneath the surface.

He didn’t push. Not yet.

Instead, he tugged her a little closer, wrapping his arm loosely around her waist. “You did good, Len,” he said after a moment, voice gentling. “Place feels like it’s breathin’ again. Like you gave the room a heartbeat.”

He pressed a kiss to her temple, the scent of her hair familiar and grounding. “Though I gotta admit,” he added with a faint, teasing drawl, “this aluminum masterpiece doesn’t exactly scream Evergreen lumberjack tradition. You sure you didn’t steal this from the set of a Vegas lounge?”

She swatted at him, and he laughed — low, warm, real — the kind of sound that filled the house right back up.

Then, quieter, his words softened again. “Still,” he said, thumb tracing a slow line against her hip. “I like it. Kinda feels like you — different, a little unexpected, but somehow it just… fits.”

He looked around once more, the firelight flickering across his face, and then back down at her. “What’d I do to come home to this, huh?”

And though his tone was playful, the question underneath it was honest — full of the quiet awe that came from a man who knew exactly how lucky he was to walk into a house that felt like love.

Lena felt her chest loosen, that familiar little knot of tension she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying all day finally easing the second he smiled at her like that. He always had that effect on her — like he could walk through the door and pull the air right back into her lungs without even trying.

“Rugged love interest, huh?” she said, voice soft but teasing as she tilted her head to look up at him. “You do realize you’ve been playing that role for years now, right? The flannel, the axe, the tragic backstory about the one that got away before the Christmas festival— it’s very on brand, Maren.”

She grinned when his mouth twitched, even as his thumb brushed that slow, steady circle against her hip — the one that always gave her away. Her eyes softened despite her best effort to keep them playful.

Truth was, she had done all this for him — the early decorating, the lights, the warmth — because she couldn’t stand the idea of being gone when the season truly started. She wanted to soak up every flicker of normal before she had to trade it for airports and palm trees.

She leaned into him a little, resting her hands lightly against his chest, the scent of sawdust and cold air clinging to him. “Figured I’d get a head start this year,” she said, trying to sound breezy. “Wanted to make sure I wasn’t labeled the town Grinch for waitin’ too long.”

It earned her a look — one brow raised, that quiet knowing half-smile he gave when he could tell she was only half telling the truth.

Her own smile faltered for a heartbeat before she sighed softly, eyes flicking toward the silver tinsel tree. The firelight caught on the ornaments, scattering gold across his face and her reflection in the glass. “Alright,” she murmured, “maybe it’s less about the decorations and more about… wantin’ a little extra cheer while I can.”

Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve, her tone gentler now. “Got offered somethin’ today. Down in Florida. Means I’ll be gone a bit around Christmas.”

The words came out quiet, careful — not because she thought he’d be angry, but because saying them made it real.

She swallowed, forcing a small, crooked smile. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m not runnin’ off to join the circus or anythin’,” she said, trying to pull the teasing back into her voice. “It’s work. Good work. Just… far.”

Her eyes met his again, that familiar mix of strength and softness glinting there. “I know you’ll tell me to go, and I will. But I still hate the thought of missin’ all this — the lights, the cider, you cussin’ under your breath while you untangle the garland.”

She smiled then, small but real, and lifted a hand to his jaw, her thumb brushing over the stubble there. “So I figured I’d cheat a little. Bring the Christmas magic in early. That way, even when I’m down there in the heat and humidity, I’ll know I already had a little bit of this first.”

Her voice softened to almost a whisper. “A little bit of home.”

Caleb went still for a beat — just long enough for the hum of the heater and the faint crackle of the fire to fill the space between them. His hand stayed right where it was at her hip, steady, like the contact itself was an anchor he wasn’t ready to let go of.

“Florida,” he repeated finally, low and quiet — not a question, just tasting the word like it didn’t quite belong in the same sentence as her.

He breathed out through his nose, slow. Then he nodded once, the small, sure kind of nod that meant he’d already decided not to let her see the ache that came with it. “Guess that explains the early tree,” he said, voice rough but not unkind. “Was startin’ to think maybe I’d slept through Thanksgiving.”

The attempt at humor softened the edges, but his eyes didn’t leave hers. “You don’t owe me a speech, Lena. If it’s good work, you go do it. World’s too damn small for you to stay still.”

He brushed his thumb along her jaw — the faintest touch, enough to tilt her chin back toward him when she started to look away. “Just wish I’d been there to see you light up when you got the offer. Should’ve been the first one you told.”

Her mouth parted like she might answer, but he just smiled — that quiet, uneven thing that never quite reached full strength when his chest was tight. “You’re thinkin’ about what you’ll miss,” he said softly. “But I’m thinkin’ about how this house is gonna look the day you come back. Fire goin’, your slippers by the door, tinsel in your hair ‘cause you’ll swear you only meant to fix one branch.”

He leaned in then, resting his forehead against hers. “You’ll be down there buildin’ somethin’ new,” he murmured. “I’ll be right here keepin’ what we’ve already built in one piece. That’s the deal, yeah?”

When she gave a small nod, he smiled again — easier this time. “Besides,” he added, straightening just enough to look down at her, “I’ve survived a few Christmases with just your dog and my poor cookin’. I’ll manage.”

His tone warmed, teasing now, but the weight beneath it stayed real. “You know what this means, though,” he said. “You gotta take somethin’ with you. A reminder of home.”

He gestured toward the gleaming tree. “I’ll rig one of those ornaments into your carry-on. TSA won’t know what hit ‘em.”

She laughed — soft and reluctant — and he caught it with a grin of his own. “There it is,” he murmured. “That sound. That’s what I’m gonna miss most.”

Caleb cupped her face in both hands then, thumbs brushing the warmth in her cheeks. “You don’t have to try to make it easier by rushin’ the holidays, Len. It already feels like Christmas soon as I walk through that door.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering there a moment before whispering against her skin, “Go chase the sunshine, sweetheart. I’ll keep the snow waitin’ for you.”

Lena laughed softly against him — a real laugh this time, the kind that cracked through the quiet and let the warmth spill out again. “Well, that’s good,” she murmured, eyes glinting as she leaned back just enough to look at him. “Because you were the first one I told. Figured I couldn’t say yes to anything ‘til I ran it by my resident rugged love interest.”

Her thumb brushed along the edge of his jaw, the gesture playful but threaded with something tender. “You know me — I might be the one leavin’ town, but I still like to pretend you’re the boss of me every now and then.”

The teasing made his mouth twitch, and the sight of it loosened something in her chest. God, he made everything feel easier just by standing there. The ache of what she’d be missing still lingered beneath the surface, but it didn’t feel so heavy with him holding her like that.

She smirked faintly, tilting her head. “But since you’re so supportive, I better warn you right now — this house better be in perfect shape when I get back. No slippin’ into ‘boy mode’ while I’m gone. If I come home to a sink full of dishes and mystery stains on my throw pillows, I’ll revoke your right to the good view.”

Her tone dropped slightly, a spark of mischief lighting her eyes as she tugged him closer by the collar. “And you know exactly which one I mean.”

She felt his chest shake with quiet laughter, and her smile softened into something more wistful. Her fingers stayed hooked in his shirt as she sighed, the playfulness thinning into something real again.

“Wish you could come with me,” she admitted, voice low. Then, unable to resist, she added with a grin, “You sure I can’t just sneak you into my carry-on? I’ll pack light — leave room next to the boots. TSA’ll never notice one lumberjack if I hide you under the flannel.”

He gave her that look — the half-arched brow, the quiet disbelief that always made her grin wider — and she laughed, shaking her head. “What? You really want me goin’ all that way alone? I might trip over some Florida palm tree and fall right into the arms of another rugged stranger. You remember how that went last time.”

Her eyes danced up to his, the teasing fading into something softer, steadier. “Don’t worry, though. That was a one-time thing,” she murmured, fingertips brushing against his chest in a slow, absent motion. “They broke the mold after you, Maren. I checked.”

For a moment, they just stood there — the glow of the tinsel tree reflecting in both their eyes, the warmth of the fire painting the edges of everything gold.

And as she leaned in again, resting her forehead against his, Lena realized she wasn’t dreading the leaving quite as much anymore. Because she knew, without needing him to say it, that home would still be here — steady and warm and waiting — when she found her way back.

Caleb grinned, that slow, easy kind of smile that came with a little shake of his head and a spark of amusement in his eyes. “Darlin’, you couldn’t fit me in a carry-on if you tried. I’m all elbows and attitude,” he said, voice low and drawling, roughened by laughter. He slid his hands down her sides until they rested at her hips, thumbs stroking lazy circles through the fabric of her shirt. “Besides, you’d miss me complainin’ about your radio stations and stealin’ your coffee in the mornin’. You’d get bored before you even hit the Georgia line.”

He bent a little, catching her gaze under the glow of the tinsel lights. “And don’t you worry about this house. It’ll be standin’ same as you left it. I’ll keep the firewood stacked, the dishes washed, and the mystery stains to a respectable minimum.” His grin crooked wider. “Can’t promise I won’t miss your bossin’, though. This place gets real quiet when it’s just me and the hum of the heater.”

The teasing softened into something gentler. “Truth is, I’d follow you anywhere if I thought I wouldn’t get in your way. But this—” he tipped his chin toward the window, toward the snow starting to drift again— “this is your season to chase a bit of sunshine. You go make somethin’ of it, Len. I’ll be right here, keepin’ the lights on.”

He brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek, his touch slow and warm. “And as for that other rugged stranger you’re talkin’ about…” He leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed her skin. “He can’t build a porch like mine. Can’t fix your greenhouse door in a snowstorm. Sure as hell don’t know how you take your coffee.”

Lena’s laugh came out soft against his throat, and he smiled into her hair. “So, no. You go ahead and let Florida have you for a spell. I’ll be here, countin’ down the days ‘til that old truck of yours comes rumblin’ back up the drive.”

He tilted her chin up with two fingers, the corners of his mouth curving in that quiet, confident way of his. “Just promise me one thing, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. “When that plane lands and you’re standin’ in all that sunshine, you’ll think about me freezin’ my tail off up here and at least send a picture. Give a man somethin’ to warm his hands on.”

Then he kissed her — slow and sure, like he was sealing every word between them — before pulling back just far enough to add, with a wink, “And don’t worry about the good view. I’ll keep it dusted off ‘til you’re home.”

Lena couldn’t help it — the laugh that escaped her was small, breathy, and entirely helpless. The kind that cracked through the last of her composure and left nothing but warmth behind.

“God, I love you,” she whispered before she could stop herself, the words slipping out quiet but certain, soft as snowfall. “You know that, right? I mean, really love you — the kind that makes me wanna shake my head at myself ‘cause I swore I’d never turn into one of those sappy women who can’t go ten minutes without sayin’ it.”

She rose onto her toes, her hands sliding up his chest until her palms rested just beneath his collar. Then she kissed him — once, twice, again — quick little presses that landed wherever she could reach: his cheek, his nose, the edge of his jaw, the corner of his mouth. Each one punctuated by the faintest laugh between them.

He caught one on his chin when she misjudged the angle, and she laughed harder, half muffled against his skin. “See?” she murmured between kisses. “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.”

When she finally pulled back, her forehead rested against his, and she breathed him in — woodsmoke, winter air, and home.

“I’ve spent my whole life tryin’ to be the one who doesn’t need anybody,” she said softly, eyes flicking up to his, “and then you had to go and ruin it by makin’ me feel safe enough not to hide behind all my bite.” Her lips curved into a small, shy smile that didn’t quite match her usual sass. “You’re a real menace, Maren.”

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The tinsel tree shimmered in the corner, the silver branches swaying faintly with the heater’s hum, and the snow outside deepened to quiet.

Then Lena exhaled and gave his shirt a playful tug, her tone lightening again. “Alright, Mr. Porch Builder, we’ve got two options before I go get sentimental again.” She nodded toward the kitchen. “We can order somethin’—I’m thinkin’ Thai, maybe pizza if you behave—or you can work your reheatin’ magic on whatever leftovers are still survivin’ in the fridge.”

She glanced back at the glowing tree, mischief curling back into her smile. “Either way, I’m not sittin’ still yet. These halls aren’t gonna deck themselves.”

With that, she gave him one last kiss — soft and lingering this time — before stepping away just far enough to grab another strand of garland, her laughter low and bright as the tinsel caught the firelight.

Caleb stood there for a moment after she said it — God, I love you — like the words had knocked the breath right out of him. Not because he hadn’t heard them before, but because every time she said them, it hit the same way: quiet, certain, bone-deep. The kind of thing that didn’t echo so much as settle.

He let out a low laugh, rough around the edges, brushing his thumb over her bottom lip when she pulled back. “Reckon I do know,” he murmured, a slow smile tugging at his mouth. “But it still sounds real good comin’ from you.”

When she kissed him again — all quick and scattershot and soft — he didn’t try to stop her. Hell, he couldn’t if he wanted to. He caught her laughter with his own, a deep rumble in his chest as he tipped his head slightly, meeting her halfway. “Hopeless, huh?” he said against her cheek. “If this is what hopeless looks like, I’ll take it any day.”

He brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear. The look in her eyes — that mix of fire and something so tender it could undo a man — just about leveled him. “You call me a menace,” he said, voice quieter now, “but you’re the one out here knockin’ a man flat with a smile and a handful of tinsel.”

When she tugged at his shirt and started talking about dinner, he huffed a laugh through his nose, the kind that came from somewhere easy and content. “Well, I’d vote Thai,” he said, leaning back just enough to study her face. “But I got a feelin’ you’d never forgive yourself if those garlands went undecorated while you’ve got the energy to boss ‘em around.”

He took the strand from her hands before she could move, looping it loosely over his arm. “Tell you what,” he said, that familiar spark returning to his voice. “You keep orderin’ me around, and I’ll hang this wherever you point. I don’t mind playin’ assistant to the prettiest foreman in the Rockies.”

He bent down, brushed his lips against the crown of her head, and murmured, “But only if there’s pizza afterward. You know I’m a simple man with simple needs.”

When she shot him that sideways look — the one equal parts challenge and affection — he grinned wider. “Alright then,” he added, stepping back just enough to catch the shimmer of silver in her hair. “Let’s deck these halls, darlin’. Figure if you’re leavin’ soon, this house oughta shine bright enough for both of us.”

And as he reached up to hook the garland over the mantel, the firelight caught on the curve of his smile — that quiet, contented look of a man who knew exactly what he had, and exactly how lucky he was to come home to it.

Lena couldn’t even pretend to hide the smile tugging at her lips. It was one of those moments that didn’t need to be grand to feel perfect — just the two of them in the soft glow of the fire, silver garland draped between their hands like a shared secret.

“Fine,” she murmured, eyes bright as she handed it over to him. “You win this round, assistant.”

Her fingers brushed his when he took it — a small, unintentional spark that still sent warmth all the way through her. And then she just… watched. Watched as he stretched up, looping the garland over the mantel with that easy kind of competence that always made her chest ache a little. He didn’t fuss or measure or overthink. He just did — steady, certain, his shoulders moving beneath the worn flannel she loved best.

There was something about seeing him like that, surrounded by firelight and Christmas sparkle, that made her heart ache in the sweetest way. Maybe because he’d never been the kind of man who needed attention. He didn’t try to fill the silence; he made it feel safe.

Her smile deepened, eyes softening as she took in the picture he made — this quiet, beautiful contradiction of strength and tenderness, hanging tinsel like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She pulled her phone from her pocket, thumb hovering just long enough to glance back at him before tapping through the familiar pizza order — his favorite toppings without even having to think twice. Pepperoni, green peppers, and extra cheese. Always extra cheese.

When she set the phone down on the coffee table, she straightened and padded across the room to join him again. Her hand brushed along his back as she passed, fingers tracing the faint outline of muscle through soft flannel before she reached for another strand of garland.

“Looks good,” she murmured, her voice low and full, more for him than the room. “You make it look easy.”

He turned just slightly, and she caught the reflection of the tree lights dancing across his face — and something in her chest squeezed tight. God, she was smitten. Helplessly, hopelessly, happily so.

She handed him the next length of garland, standing close enough that their shoulders brushed as they worked. The house hummed around them — fire crackling, Bing Crosby crooning softly through the old radio, snow whispering against the windows — and for a moment, Lena forgot all about flights and deadlines and Florida sunshine.

All she knew was this: the warmth of his presence beside her, the golden light spilling across their hands, and the quiet joy of building a moment she already knew she’d miss.

Caleb looped the garland over the mantel one last time, stepping back just far enough to take it all in — the glow of the fire, the way the tinsel caught the light, and her reflection in the window, watching him like he was something worth looking at.

“Easy?” he echoed, that low, easy drawl curling around the word. “Nah. Just makes it look that way when you’re helpin’.” He turned his head slightly, catching her eye with a small grin that was more felt than seen. “You do realize this place looks like somethin’ out of one of those Hallmark movies you pretend not to like, right?”

Her elbow nudged him, light and warm, and he laughed under his breath — that quiet, rumbling sound that always came easier around her. “What? I’m just sayin’,” he went on. “You, me, the tinsel tree, Bing singin’ through the static… all we’re missin’ is a snowstorm to trap us in here for three days straight. Not that I’d mind.”

He leaned down a little as he spoke, his cheek brushing her temple, the words more a murmur than a statement. “You got a way of makin’ simple things feel like they matter more than they should, Lena. String lights, pizza, a handful of garland—somehow it all turns into somethin’ I don’t ever wanna rush through.”

He reached for the next strand she offered, fingers brushing hers again. That little spark — same as before, same as always — jumped between them, and he didn’t bother pretending not to notice this time. His hand lingered just long enough to mean something before he hooked the garland over the last nail and stepped back beside her.

“There,” he said quietly, tilting his head to take in the finished view. The firelight flickered across his face, warm and sure. “Reckon that’ll do. You’ve officially turned this cabin into a postcard.”

He looked at her then — really looked. The way the lights painted gold across her hair, the softness in her eyes that she tried to disguise behind all that sass. “And here I was thinkin’ nothin’ could outshine that tree,” he said, voice dropping low, steady. “Guess I was wrong.”

When she rolled her eyes, half-flustered, he smiled and reached down, curling an arm around her waist and pulling her close enough that the scent of cinnamon and pine pressed between them. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmured against her hair. “Pizza’ll be here soon. Let’s sit a while before you find somethin’ else to decorate.”

He brushed a kiss against her temple, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary before adding, softer still, “You don’t know it yet, but you already gave me my Christmas. Right here.”

And when she leaned into him, the two of them framed in the shimmer of the tinsel tree and the hush of falling snow, Caleb thought — not for the first time — that if every winter looked like this, he’d never need another reason to stay.

Lena let herself melt against him for a moment, just long enough to soak in the warmth and the quiet rhythm of his breath against her hair. Then, with a grin that curved slow and sly, she tilted her head back to look at him.

“Oh, honey,” she said, her voice a low purr of amusement, “if you think I’m done, you clearly don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

He raised a brow, and she laughed — that bright, conspiratorial sound that always made the corners of his mouth twitch. “The living room might be done,” she said, gesturing around at their tinsel masterpiece, “but the rest of this place? Fair game. I’m talkin’ garland in the hallway, wreaths in the kitchen, maybe even a mistletoe ambush or two. You’re not gettin’ rid of me that easy, Maren. By the time I leave for Florida, you’ll have Christmas hangin’ from the rafters.”

He just shook his head, that small, fond grin tugging at his mouth again, and Lena swatted lightly at his chest before turning toward the couch. “Don’t look so worried,” she teased over her shoulder. “You’ll thank me when you realize you can’t move an inch without a reminder of me starin’ you down from a glittery ornament.”

She dropped onto the couch with a soft sigh, the fire casting amber shadows across her legs as she stretched out, draping them casually across his lap when he joined her. “Mmm. That’s better,” she murmured, reaching for the remote. With a flick, Bing Crosby faded into silence, replaced by the opening credits of White Christmas. “There. Now it’s officially festive.”

Caleb’s hand came to rest on her knee, easy and familiar, his thumb tracing a slow line through the fabric of her leggings. Lena felt the warmth of it spread through her like a quiet hum.

She reached for her phone on the coffee table, checked the screen, and smirked. “Pizza’s about fifteen minutes out,” she announced, half to him, half to herself. “Perfect amount of time for you to pretend you’re watchin’ the movie when I know you’re really just waitin’ for the food.”

When he gave her a look — one of those half-challenging, half-indulgent ones that always made her grin — she rolled her eyes dramatically and settled deeper against him. “What? Don’t act like I don’t know you, Caleb Maren. Man can build a porch with his bare hands but can’t resist a pizza box. It’s part of your charm.”

Her voice softened as she leaned her head against his shoulder, her smile lingering even as her eyes drifted toward the flicker of the fire. “Still,” she murmured, quieter now, “you make sittin’ still feel kinda nice.”

And there they stayed — her legs warm across his lap, his arm draped over her shoulders, the fire crackling softly as snow fell outside — the living room shimmering around them in silver and gold, every bit of it proof of just how much she loved him and how hard she’d worked to leave pieces of herself behind.

Because if she had to go chase sunshine, she was damn well going to make sure he had enough Christmas — enough her — to last him ‘til she came home.

Caleb looked down at her, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as her legs settled across his lap. “Mistletoe ambushes, huh?” he drawled, voice low and warm. “You sure you’re doin’ all this for Christmas and not just to keep me on my toes?”

He gave her knee a light squeeze, his thumb still tracing idle circles through the soft fabric. “You forget, sweetheart,” he added, a teasing glint in his eyes, “I’ve survived one of your spring-cleaning crusades and a full kitchen remodel. Little tinsel ain’t gonna scare me.”

When she leaned her head against his shoulder, he tilted slightly toward her without thinkin’, his nose brushing a stray strand of her hair that smelled faintly like cedar and the shampoo she always claimed was “just cheap stuff from town.” He didn’t care. It smelled like her, and that was enough.

The soft glow from the fire painted her skin in flickering gold, and for a while, he didn’t say anything. He just watched the movie start to play across the screen — white snow, red dresses, a burst of old Hollywood color — and listened to the tiny sounds that only existed between them: her slow breathing, the shift of her legs against his jeans, the quiet pop of the logs in the fireplace.

When she made the crack about the pizza, he let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “You got me pegged,” he admitted. “Man’s gotta have priorities. But for the record—” he leaned down just enough that his breath stirred the hair near her ear, “—you’re sittin’ higher on the list than any pizza I’ve ever met.”

Her answering hum was soft, half amusement, half something else, and he smiled at the sound. His hand slid from her knee to her thigh, resting there in a way that wasn’t possessive so much as grounding, his thumb drawing lazy patterns while he watched the firelight dance in the glass ornaments on the tree.

After a while, he said quietly, “You know, this right here’s my kinda holiday. You, me, a good fire, snow outside, and a pizza on the way. Don’t need a thing more.” He paused, his tone softening. “Well, maybe one thing. You stayin’ right there long as you can.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, lingering there as the movie played on. “And when you head south,” he murmured, “don’t you worry about me. I’ll keep the lights on, tree standin’, and your garland exactly where you left it. That way, when you come back, it’ll still feel like you never left.”

The doorbell rang then — the telltale sign of dinner’s arrival — but neither of them moved right away. Caleb just chuckled, a quiet rumble against her temple. “Guess that’s my cue,” he said finally, brushing a hand down her leg before standing. “Don’t move, trouble. I’ll bring the box to you.”

And as he walked toward the door, boots thudding soft against the floorboards, Lena’s laughter followed him — light and content, tangled up in the scent of pine and cinnamon and everything that made the place feel like home.

Lena’s smile lingered long after he stood, that low, rumbling laugh of his still buzzing in her chest like a secret only she got to keep. She watched him cross the room — broad shoulders, easy stride, that quiet confidence that never had to try — and thought, not for the first time, how the hell did I get this lucky?

When the door clicked shut behind him, she exhaled softly, the corners of her mouth curving into a grin that was all trouble and tenderness. “Stayin’ right here long as I can,” she murmured under her breath. “You bet your sweet ass I am.”

Her eyes flicked toward the fire for a second, the reflection of the flames dancing in the glass ornaments she’d hung just right. She wasn’t going anywhere yet — not tonight, not tomorrow. And if she had anything to say about it, Caleb Maren wasn’t getting much peace and quiet at all before she left.

He’d just have to get used to her popping up at work — hands in his back pockets, lipstick on his coffee cup, and homemade lunches disguised as “I was in the neighborhood.”

By the time the door swung open again, Lena had her smirk fully back in place. “You know,” she called out, shifting on the couch so she could face him as he came in with the pizza box, “you talk a big game about survivin’ while I’m gone, but I should probably warn you — I plan on makin’ that damn near impossible.”

He raised a brow, setting the box down on the coffee table, but she only grinned wider. “Don’t look at me like that,” she teased, eyes sparkling as she leaned back into the couch cushions. “I’m just sayin’, you might see a whole lot more of me at that shop of yours before I go. I’ve got to stockpile enough time with you to last through a Florida heatwave. Maybe help you ‘organize’ your workbench again. You know — real invasive girlfriend stuff.”

Her tone was playful, but her eyes betrayed her — soft and shining beneath the mischief, love sitting there plain as day.

Caleb started to open the pizza box, and Lena leaned forward, snagging a slice before he could even offer it. “Don’t give me that look,” she said around a bite, her grin crooked and smug. “You’re lucky I love you enough to share this couch. Otherwise, I’d be eatin’ your half, too.”

He laughed, shaking his head as he sat down beside her, and she shifted easily, curling back into his side like it was where she was built to fit. Her legs slid across his lap again, warm and comfortable, and she flicked the TV volume down a little, just enough that the movie’s hum filled the silence.

She chewed thoughtfully, then tilted her head toward him, her voice softer but no less certain. “I mean it, Caleb,” she said. “I’m not goin’ anywhere just yet. You’re stuck with me a while longer.”

She smiled as she said it — wide and unguarded, eyes glinting in the glow of the firelight.

“Hope you’re ready, ‘cause I plan on makin’ you real sick of me before I head south.”

Then she lifted her slice like a toast, smirk curving again. “To more garland, more pizza, and more visits where you’re tryin’ to work but end up distracted by me anyway.”

Her laughter bubbled up soft and bright when he chuckled beside her, and she leaned back against him, the warmth of his arm finding its familiar place around her shoulders.

If this was what it meant to stay — if this was what she’d be coming back to — she figured Florida didn’t stand a damn chance.

Caleb let the door fall shut behind him with his boot, the cold trailing off his jacket as he carried the box inside. The smell hit first — baked crust, pepperoni, that layer of melted cheese he swore she ordered extra just to test his willpower.

He caught her smirk before he even made it to the couch, that spark in her eyes already saying I win. It got him every time.

“Real invasive girlfriend stuff, huh?” he said, voice warm and low as he set the pizza down. “You mean the kind where I’m just tryna plane down a board and you sneak up behind me, stealin’ my tape measure ‘cause you think it’s funny?” He glanced over his shoulder as he straightened, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, sweetheart. Pretty sure OSHA’s got rules about distractions like you.”

When she stole the first slice, he just shook his head, amused. “Can’t even let a man sit down before the ambush,” he murmured, sliding beside her. “You’re lucky I like a woman with initiative.”

Her legs found their way across his lap again, and he didn’t bother to fight it — just rested one hand over her shin, thumb brushing lazy lines through the fabric of her leggings. “You sayin’ I’m stuck with you a while longer?” he asked, leaning back against the couch, that familiar quiet smile tugging at his mouth. “Darlin’, I’ve been stuck since the day you barged into my life with that city sass and told me my front porch was ‘structurally tragic.’”

She laughed, soft and full, and he gave her knee a gentle squeeze. “I’m not complainin’,” he added. “Hell, I’ll take all the time you’ll give me. If you wanna haunt my shop before you go, you go right ahead. I’ll even clear a corner of the workbench for your coffee cup.”

He reached for his own slice then, the steam curling between them, and lifted it slightly in return to her toast. “To garland, pizza, and you makin’ it impossible for me to get any work done,” he said with a grin. “Fair warning, though — when you come back from Florida, I’m returnin’ the favor. You’re gonna find me in your kitchen, stealin’ your tea and rearrangin’ your spice rack just to watch you lose it.”

When she laughed again, that sound he’d chase through a thousand winters, Caleb leaned over and brushed a kiss to her temple, letting it linger there a second. “Sick of you?” he murmured, quiet enough that only the fire could overhear. “Not a chance, Lena Hartley. I’ll take every version of you this house can hold.”

And as she curled back against him, the fire snapping in the hearth and the silver lights winking across the walls, Caleb thought that if she really meant to leave pieces of herself behind — well, she already had. Every corner of that house had her name on it, right down to the tinsel glinting in his reflection.