Bella woke before dawn.
The cabin was quiet in that deep, winter way—no wind, no creaking branches, just the low hum of the heater and the steady tick of the clock on the wall. For a long moment, she lay still, staring at the ceiling, replaying the night before.
You don't ask. You just… show up.
Ethan's words echoed softly in her chest. They hadn't been cruel. If anything, they'd been honest. And honesty, she was learning, could hurt just as much as rejection.
She slipped out of bed and padded toward the kitchen, wrapping a sweater around herself. The coffee pot was empty, but the kettle sat on the stove, already filled—Ethan's habit. Practical. Thoughtful. Always preparing for the next need.
As she waited for the water to boil, the radio crackled faintly in the background.
"—Christmas Eve festivities will proceed as planned this evening," the announcer said. "Tree lighting at six. Town hall gathering to follow. Roads are expected to remain clear through the night."
Bella's breath caught.
Christmas Eve.
She hadn't realized how close it was. Maybe she hadn't wanted to.
She poured hot water into her mug and stood by the window, watching the sky lighten slowly. Snow lay smooth and untouched outside, as if daring someone to step into it and leave a mark.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
"You're up early," Ethan said quietly.
She turned. He stood in the doorway, hair slightly messy, eyes still heavy with sleep. He looked… human. Vulnerable in a way she hadn't seen before.
"Couldn't sleep," she admitted.
He nodded, understanding without asking why. "The town's having the Christmas Eve thing tonight."
"I heard."
"You don't have to go," he added quickly. "I mean—only if you want to."
Bella studied his face, searching for what he wasn't saying. "Are you going?"
Ethan hesitated. "Lily wants to. She always does."
"And you?"
He shrugged. "I go where she goes."
There it was again—that quiet way he placed himself second. Always.
"I think it sounds nice," Bella said. "The tree lighting. Being around people."
Ethan's jaw tightened slightly. "Silver Pine doesn't do anything halfway. If you come, people will talk."
She smiled faintly. "Let them."
Something flickered in his eyes—worry, maybe. Or fear. "I don't want you to feel… pressured. Or misunderstood."
Bella stepped closer, her voice soft but steady. "I'm not afraid of people misunderstanding me, Ethan. I'm afraid of misunderstanding myself."
The words surprised them both.
Before either could respond, Lily burst into the kitchen wearing a sparkly sweater and reindeer socks. "Daddy! Bella! Is it today? Is it Christmas Eve today?"
Ethan smiled despite himself. "Yes, it is."
Lily clapped her hands. "Then we have to decorate the cabin before we go!"
Bella laughed. "Do we?"
"Yes! It's the rule." Lily paused, then added thoughtfully, "Well… it's my rule."
Ethan sighed theatrically. "Guess we're decorating."
⸻
By afternoon, the cabin looked like something straight out of a holiday postcard.
Lily had insisted on hanging paper snowflakes everywhere. Bella helped string lights along the windows, standing on a chair while Ethan steadied it with one hand. Every time she wobbled, his grip tightened instinctively, his touch firm and grounding.
"You're good," he murmured more than once, voice close to her ear.
Each time, Bella's pulse jumped.
They worked easily together—too easily. Like a rhythm they hadn't practiced but somehow already knew.
At one point, Bella reached for the top shelf and lost her balance just slightly. Ethan caught her by the waist before she could even gasp.
For a split second, neither of them moved.
His hands were warm against her sides.
Her palms rested flat against his chest.
Their faces were close enough that Bella could see the tiny crease between his brows, the careful restraint in his eyes.
Ethan pulled back first.
"Sorry," he said quickly.
Bella shook her head. "Don't be."
The air between them felt fragile after that, like ice stretched too thin.
⸻
As dusk settled, they bundled up and headed into town.
The square was glowing with lights and laughter. A massive Christmas tree stood tall in the center, decorated with ornaments and ribbons. Music played softly from speakers, and the smell of baked goods drifted through the cold air.
Lily ran ahead, tugging Ethan toward a booth selling hot cider. Bella followed, hands tucked into her coat pockets, heart full and unsettled.
People smiled at them. Nodded. Whispered.
Ruth appeared again, as if summoned by instinct. "Well, don't you three look like a picture."
Ethan opened his mouth to respond, but Lily beat him to it.
"We're together!" she announced happily.
Bella froze.
Ethan stiffened. "Lily—"
Ruth laughed gently. "That's lovely, sweetheart."
Lily looked between them, confused. "Aren't we?"
Silence fell—brief, but heavy.
Bella felt something inside her brace. She knelt in front of Lily, smoothing the little girl's sleeve. "We're spending Christmas Eve together," she said carefully. "That's what matters."
Lily nodded, satisfied. "Okay."
Ethan let out a slow breath, relief and guilt mingling in his eyes. "Thank you," he said quietly.
"For what?"
"For understanding."
Bella straightened, meeting his gaze. "I understand more than you think."
The tree lighting began then. The mayor counted down. The lights flickered on, bathing the square in gold and white. People cheered. Lily gasped in delight.
Bella watched Ethan watching his daughter, his face softened by the glow.
And she knew.
She was falling.
Slowly.
Carefully.
But undeniably.
Later, as snow began to fall again, Ethan walked her a little apart from the crowd.
"I need to be honest with you," he said, voice low.
Bella's heart thudded. "Okay."
"I don't know what this is," he continued. "And I'm not ready to promise anything. But I don't want to hurt you."
She swallowed. "Neither do I."
He nodded, eyes earnest. "Then we take it slow. No expectations."
Bella looked at him—really looked—and saw a man trying to protect everyone, including himself.
"Slow," she agreed.
They stood there, snow drifting between them, hands inches apart but not touching.
For now, it was enough.
But both of them knew—
Lines drawn in snow never stayed forever.