JESSICA BERKELEY.
The boxes are heavier than they look.
Dust rises the moment I drag one open, the faint scent of old wood and stored fabric filling the air. I crouch by the floor, pushing aside layers of wrapping paper until the first string of lights appears, tangled beyond reason.
“Of course,” I mutter under my breath, lifting the mess carefully.
From behind me, I hear movement.
“Are you planning to fight that thing or decorate it with it?”
I don’t turn immediately. “I had a plan.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
I glance over my shoulder. Devin stands by the doorway, leaning slightly against the frame, watching me like this is entertainment. His sleeves are rolled just enough, his posture relaxed, like he has no intention of stepping in.
I narrow my eyes slightly. “You could help.”
“
