CHAPTER FIVE — Decorating the Spaces Between Us
935 Words
Christmas Eve arrived.
No alarms. No rushing crowds. No work pulling me in opposite directions. Just pale morning light slipping through frost-laced windows and the soft scent of pine and coffee filling the cabin.
I woke slowly, wrapped in unfamiliar peace.
For the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel the urge to run from the day.
I dressed and stepped into the hallway, pausing when I heard laughter light, bright, unmistakably Ivy’s. I followed the sound into the living room and stopped short.
Landon was kneeling on the floor, trying and failing to untangle a string of Christmas lights. Ivy sat cross-legged beside him, very seriously supervising.
“No, Daddy, not like that,” she said, hands on her hips. “You’re making it worse.”
“I’m aware,” he muttered. “The lights are fighting back.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
They both looked up.
Landon’s gaze met mine instantly, storm-gray eyes softening the moment they landed on me. Something unreadable flickered there relief, maybe. Or something warmer.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning,” I replied, suddenly very aware of myself.
Ivy scrambled to her feet. “Mira! Today we decorate EVERYTHING.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Everything?”
“Yes,” she said solemnly. “It’s Christmas Eve. That’s the rule.”
Landon sighed. “She made the rule.”
I smiled. “Then I guess we have no choice.”
The tree stood in the corner of the living room real, tall, and slightly crooked. It smelled like winter and memories and something old-fashioned and grounding.
We worked slowly.
Ivy handled the ornaments with reverence, carefully choosing where each one belonged. Landon lifted her up to place the star, steady hands firm around her waist.
I watched the two of them, my chest aching in a way that felt both gentle and profound.
This wasn't a performance. This wasn’t a show.
This was a man who loved his child with his whole being.
And somehow he was letting me witness it.
“Can you hand me the silver ones?” he asked, glancing at me.
I did, our fingers brushing again this time lingering just a second longer than necessary.
Something passed between us.
Not heat.
Not urgency.
Understanding.
By afternoon, the cabin glowed.
Lights twinkled softly. Stockings hung above the fireplace. Ivy had insisted on placing one for me too.
“It’s temporary,” she said seriously. “But Christmas doesn’t like when people are left out.”
Landon hesitated when she hung it.
I saw it the way his shoulders tightened, the way his eyes lingered on that extra stocking like it meant more than it should.
But he didn’t stop her.
And that meant everything.
Later, while Ivy napped curled up on the couch, Landon and I stood in the kitchen preparing dinner together. The space was small, forcing closeness.
Comfortable closeness.
Our elbows brushed. Our hands passed plates and spices without thinking.
“You fit here,” he said quietly.
I paused. “What?”
He didn’t look at me right away. “I don’t mean permanently. I just the space doesn’t feel disrupted with you in it. That doesn’t happen often.”
I swallowed. “Neither does being invited into someone’s life so easily.”
He turned then, studying my face. “It wasn’t easy. It just felt right.”
The air shifted.
Not heavy.
Intentional.
“I’m scared of that,” I admitted softly.
“Me too,” he said. “But I’m more scared of letting it pass.”
Our eyes held.
He didn’t touch me.
I didn’t move closer.
But the choice not to that restraint felt more intimate than any physical contact could have been.
That night, Ivy fell asleep early, worn out from excitement.
The cabin settled into a hush broken only by the fire.
Landon and I sat side by side on the rug, backs against the couch, sipping tea instead of wine. The lights on the tree cast gentle reflections across the room.
“This is the first Christmas that hasn’t hurt,” he said quietly.
I turned to him. “Hurt?”
He nodded. “After Ivy’s mom died every holiday felt like a reminder of what we lost. I learned how to make it good for her. But for me” He trailed off.
“And this year?” I asked.
“This year,” he said slowly, “feels lighter. And that scares me.”
“Why?”
“Because hope is a dangerous thing when you’ve learned how to survive without it.”
I rested my head back against the couch. “I came here because I didn’t trust hope anymore.”
He looked at me. “And now?”
“I think hope found me anyway.”
Our hands brushed.
This time, neither of us pulled away.
His fingers closed gently around mine not possessive, not urgent. Just steady. Reassuring.
The fire crackled.
The world stayed quiet.
And in that moment, I understood something clearly:
This wasn’t about falling fast. This wasn’t about passion or escape.
This was about choosing slowly. Carefully. Together.
Later, as I lay in bed, the lights of the tree glowing faintly through the hallway, I felt full in a way that had nothing to do with food or warmth.
I felt chosen.
Not claimed. Not rushed.
Chosen.
And I knew without fear, without doubt that whatever came next, whatever this became, it was being built on something solid.
Tomorrow will be Christmas.
And something told me it would change everything.
- Writer
