The Christmas Arrangement

Sixteen

Kaden:

The waiter dropped off our plates—hers a mountain of pasta drowning in cream sauce, mine a perfectly seared steak. Emma’s eyes went wide.

“You weren’t kidding,” she said, pointing her fork at me. “You really do eat like a man who could chop wood for twelve hours.”

“I can chop wood for twelve hours.”

“That’s not the point,” she muttered, twirling her pasta with exaggerated delicacy. “The point is that you’re a walking stereotype with a good jawline.”

My brows lifted. “A good jawline?”

Color rose fast in her cheeks. “I said nothing.”

“You said everything.”

She hid behind her water glass, which only made her more obvious. I watched her for a moment—her cheeks flushed from warmth and embarrassment, her shoulders softening, her guard lowering ounce by ounce. Every version of her hit me harder than the one before.

We ate, talked, teased each other. The longer we sat, the more the fake lines blurred—the more real this started to feel.

Halfway through dinner, she dabbed sauce off the corner of her mouth and asked, “What’s the thing you wish people knew about you?”

I didn’t expect the question. Not from her. Not when those eyes were looking at me like she already knew half the answer.

I cut a piece of steak and set my knife down. “I guess… I wish people knew I’m trying. That I’m doing my best. For Avery. For… everything.”

Emma’s expression gentled. Soft. Warm. Understanding in that way she has that feels like sunlight breaking through gray.

“I know,” she whispered.

“You don’t,” I said, shaking my head. “But you’re trying. And that matters.”

Her breath stilled. Just… stopped. Then she whispered, “What about you? What’s something you wish I knew?”

I looked at her. Really looked.

“That you’re stronger than you think,” I said quietly. “And you don’t have to be scared of anyone needing you.”

Her lips parted. “Kaden…”

“I mean it.”

Because I did.

Because this thing between us was no longer something I could shove behind a boundary or bury under a lie for court.

Something was shifting. Had already shifted.

And we both knew it.

We walked out into the cold after paying, the night air sharp and clean, snowflakes drifting down like slow-falling sparks. Emma pulled her coat tight around her and stepped closer to me automatically—gravity more than choice.

“God,” she whispered, breath fogging in the air. “It’s freezing.”

“Come here,” I said.

She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think twice. She slid under my arm like she belonged there, and I tucked her against my side as we walked toward the truck.

“We look real,” she murmured.

I looked down at her. “We feel real.”

Her steps faltered, but she didn’t pull away.

“Is that… a bad thing?” she asked, voice small.

I thought about Avery’s little hands clinging to her shirt.

I thought about Emma cheering over a car she barely helped push.

I thought about her face when I slipped that ring on her finger.

“No,” I said, my voice low. “Not even a little.”

She exhaled shakily. “Good.”

I opened the passenger door for her. She climbed in slowly, turning her hand so the ring caught the dim parking lot lights.

Kaden, don’t screw this up.

I shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side, heart pounding harder than it should’ve. When I got in, she was still staring at the ring.

“Hey,” I said softly. “You okay?”

She nodded. Looked at me. Really looked.

“This is the first time I’ve ever worn a ring someone picked for me,” she said. “It feels… big.”

“It is big,” I admitted. “But we don’t have to rush anything.”

Her voice shook. “What if I don’t want to rush… but I also don’t want to stop?”

Every single thought in my head went quiet.

I reached for her hand—the one with the ring. She let me. Her fingers slid between mine like they’d been waiting to.

“You don’t have to stop,” I murmured.

Her breath hitched.

“Okay,” she whispered.

And that one word?

That one, tiny, trembling word?

It felt like the start of something neither of us could take back.

Something real.

Something inevitable.

The truck was warm, but the air between us wasn’t.

Not really.

It was charged, tight, humming like a live wire someone had tucked under the console. Emma’s hand was still in mine—she hadn’t pulled away when I’d started the engine, and I hadn’t exactly been eager to let go.

Her fingers were small, soft, warm.

Too warm.

Warm enough to drag every sane thought I had straight off the road.

She looked out the window, snow drifting in lazy spirals across the headlights. Her thumb brushed the inside of my hand without her realizing it, a tiny, absent-minded stroke that went straight to my spine.

I swallowed hard.

“You’re quiet,” she murmured, still not looking at me.

“So are you.”

She shifted just enough that I caught her profile—pink cheeks, lashes lowered, lips parted like she was trying to breathe normally and failing.

“I… feel different,” she admitted. “After today.”

I forced my eyes back to the road. “Different how?”

She hesitated. Then—soft, honest:

“Like everything’s tilted, and I’m still trying to catch my balance.”

That hit me harder than it should’ve.

I squeezed her hand gently. “Emma.”

She finally looked at me. And that was my mistake.

The second her eyes met mine, something hot and tense punched through the center of the cab. Her breath caught, her hand tightened on mine, and she stared at me like I was something she wanted but didn’t know if she was allowed to reach for.

“We’re supposed to be pretending,” she whispered.

“We are,” I said.

I didn’t let go.

She stared down at our hands. “Then why does it feel like we’re not?”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The truth was sitting too close to the surface, and the last thing I needed was to spill everything in a moving vehicle on an icy road.

She shifted again, her knee brushing my thigh—accidental, but not really. Not with the way she froze after, like she could feel the exact moment my muscles tightened in response.

“Kaden…” her voice was barely there. Fragile. Wanting.

I exhaled through my nose, slow and controlled.

Or at least pretending to be.

“Emma, if you keep doing that—”

“Doing what?” she asked, too innocent, eyes shining like she knew exactly what.

“That,” I growled, the word low, rough, unable to hide how badly she was undoing me.

Her breath stuttered.

We drove another mile in silence—if silence counted as her hand still in mine, her knee pressed lightly against my leg, the mattress-thick tension fogging up the cab more than the heater ever could.

Then she whispered, “Were you serious? Earlier?”

“About what?”

“Not rushing,” she said softly. “But… not stopping.”

I tightened my grip without thinking. “Yeah. I was serious.”

She bit her lip, and something wild inside me snapped its chain.

“Emma—don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” she breathed.

“Like you want me to pull this truck over.”

Her inhale was sharp, audible.

And this time, she didn’t pretend.

“What if…” she whispered, barely breathing the words, “I don’t want you to pull over.”

I felt that. Everywhere.

My fingers flexed around hers, knuckles white. “Jesus, Emma.”

Her pulse jumped beneath my thumb.

The snow outside thickened, swirling faster, the world narrowing down to the beam of headlights and the way she was leaning just slightly toward me—like gravity had finally stopped pretending too.

“I’m not good at this,” she said softly.

“At what?”

“Wanting someone,” she confessed. “This much.”

I almost missed the turn onto the long driveway.

The truck rolled to a stop in front of the house, engine idling, heat blowing. But neither of us moved. Neither of us breathed right.

I turned toward her.

She turned toward me.

The ring on her finger glinted between us like a promise we weren’t supposed to acknowledge yet.

“Emma,” I murmured, voice low and rough, “tell me to let go.”

Her fingers tightened around mine instead.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

And that?

That was the moment everything changed.