He studies me for a beat, then nods. “No faces. Just…whatever you said. Socks.”
“Rustic intimacy,” I say, smiling. “You’re a natural.”
He snorts. “Don’t get used to it.”
Pretty sure I already am.
We eventually peel ourselves off the couch and shuffle into morning mode. He pokes up the fire as I set water to boil and pull out my tripod and the little remote I keep in my tote like a tiny magic wand.
I dig in my bag for my cozy socks—the red ones with little white snowflakes on the toes—and wriggle into them. When I glance up, Rhett’s watching me from by the stove, holding his own pair of thick wool socks.
“What?” I ask, feeling my cheeks go warm.
“Nothing,” he says, but his mouth does that almost-smile thing. “You’re very…on brand.”
“As in festive and irresistible?” I ask, wiggling my toes at him.
“As in impossible to ignore,” he says, a little rough, and I have to look away before my heart explodes.
We set up the first shot with our feet stretched out toward the stove, socks side-by-side. I hit record, tuck the remote out of frame, and lean back until my shoulder finds his.
“Don’t move,” I whisper.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he says.
The flames lick quietly behind the glass, casting orange light over our legs. My brain is already editing the footage—bells from yesterday’s ride overlaid with this cozy visual. A soft piano track. Simple text:Sometimes the quiet moments are the loudest.
Once I’ve got enough, we shift to the couch.
This time, it’s intentional.
I set the phone on the tripod across the room and aim it just right: couch, quilt, blurred edges of the stove, no faces. Just silhouettes and touch. I hit record, tuck the remote under the quilt, and curl into Rhett’s side.
His arm wraps around me automatically. Like he’s done this a thousand times.
Like I’ve been here longer than two and a half days.
I rest my head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It’s steady. Real. I think about my stupid dream the other night, and how this feels like the waking version—better because I chose it, he chose it, and we’re both here for it.
“Tell me about you,” he murmurs, fingers tracing slow patterns along my upper arm. “Growing up.”
I swallow. There are stories I tell easily—college, the agency, how I once accidentally green-lit a Santa mascot with eyes that terrified children.
This isn’t one of them.
“I grew up about an hour from here,” I say slowly. “Small town. Mom, Dad, one younger brother. My dad ran a hardware store. My mom taught preschool. It was…nice. Warm. Loud at dinner. Birthday cakes from a box that somehow always tasted better than anything from a bakery.”
He listens. Really listens. His fingers don’t stop moving.
“Dad was the kind of guy who fixed everyone’s stuff,” I go on. “Leaky sinks, stubborn doors, broken hearts. He’d show up with his toolbox and a joke and make things better for a while.” My throat tightens. “I always wanted to be like that. Fix things. Just…in my way.”
His arm tightens around me.
“A few years ago he got sick,” I say quietly. “Fast. The kind of fast that feels like someone hit fast-forward on your life without asking.” I stare at the stove, eyes burning. “I took time off work to help Mom and my brother. We all tried to squeeze a lifetime into hospital visiting hours.”
I stop, swallowing around the lump in my throat.
“He died in December,” I say. “Right before Christmas. The tree was still up. The presents were still wrapped. We left everything just…sitting there for weeks. It felt wrong to open them. Like it was a party he’d been uninvited from.”
