A Christmas to remember
1550 Words
Ethan's POV
The morning passed quickly, and soon Claire was heading out into the village with her notebook and camera. She was like a whirlwind, talking to anyone who would listen, jotting down stories about the tree and the wishes it had supposedly granted over the years.
Some of the tales were ridiculous—people claiming they’d wished for wealth or fame and gotten it—but others were oddly touching. A woman tearfully shared how she’d wished for her son to recover from an illness, and he had. Another man said he’d wished for love and had met his wife shortly after. Claire listened to it all with a mix of skepticism and curiosity, her smile never faltering.
I wasn’t planning on going into town—Christmas wasn’t my thing—but I ended up tagging along. Maybe it was because of her, or maybe it was because I had a wooden toy train I’d carved for one of the local kids. Watching the boy’s face light up when I handed it to him... it reminded me that Christmas could still mean something, even if it wasn’t for me.
By the time evening rolled around, the village was aglow with lights, the tree standing tall and radiant in the square. Claire and I stood side by side, watching as people made their wishes.
“Are you going to make one?” she asked, her voice quiet, almost wistful.
“I don’t believe in this stuff,” I said, but the truth was, I was tempted.
She closed her eyes and clasped her hands together, whispering a wish I couldn’t hear. When she opened her eyes again, she looked at me expectantly.
“Your turn,” she said.
I sighed, closing my eyes briefly and making a wish I wasn’t sure would come true. When I opened them again, the crowd around us was smiling, whispering to each other.
“What’s going on?” Claire asked, looking around.
“You’re under the mistletoe!” someone shouted.
I glanced up, and sure enough, the offending sprig was hanging above us. My face heated, and I took a step back. “We don’t have to—”
“Oh, come on,” Claire interrupted, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “You’ve already seen everything. What’s a little kiss?”
The crowd laughed, and my breath hitched. For a split second, I froze. She couldn’t possibly mean—
But she leaned in before I could finish that thought.
Her lips brushed mine softly at first, tentative, testing the waters. My heart stuttered, then roared to life, pounding in my chest so loudly I thought she might hear it. Her lips were warm, soft, and inviting, with a faint taste of cocoa and peppermint lingering from earlier. I hesitated for a heartbeat before giving in completely. My hand lifted to cup her cheek, my thumb brushing against the soft curve of her jaw. She leaned into the touch, her lips pressing more firmly against mine, and suddenly, the rest of the world ceased to exist.
Her scent surrounded me, a mix of vanilla and something uniquely her. The cool air of the evening was sharp against my skin, but where we touched—her lips on mine, her cheek beneath my palm—it was nothing but heat.
She tilted her head slightly, deepening the kiss just enough to make my pulse race. My other hand moved without thought, settling lightly on her waist, the curve of her body fitting against me like it had always belonged there.
It wasn’t just a kiss; it was a spark, a jolt of electricity that shot straight through me and left me dizzy. Her lips parted slightly, just enough for me to feel her soft, warm breath against mine.
I wanted more. I wanted to pull her closer, to drown in her taste and her warmth, to lose myself completely in this moment. But I reined it in, barely, reminding myself of the crowd still watching us.
When she finally pulled back, her lips were slightly swollen, her cheeks flushed with color that had nothing to do with the cold. Her eyes met mine, wide and searching, and for a moment, neither of us said a word.
The crowd around us erupted into cheers and whistles, breaking the spell. Claire turned her face toward them, laughing softly, but her cheeks remained pink.
She glanced back at me, her grin radiant, and said lightly, “Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“Not bad at all,” I murmured, my voice lower than I intended.
“Well,” she said lightly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Merry Christmas, Ethan.”
“Merry Christmas,” I replied, my voice rough.
But the truth was, it wasn’t just “not bad.” It was everything. And as I stood there, watching her laugh and bask in the attention, I realized something terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
I wasn’t just attracted to Claire. I wanted her. Completely.
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I still felt the warmth of her lips against mine as we wandered deeper into the heart of the festivities. My hands were jammed into my pockets, not because of the cold, but because I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I let them dangle freely. Touch her again? Reach for her hand?
Ridiculous.
The kiss wasn’t supposed to mean anything—it was tradition, a momentary lapse. Yet, every time I glanced at Claire, her cheeks still pink and her lips curved into an easy smile, my mind replayed the way she’d looked at me before leaning in.
I couldn’t stop staring. The way her hair framed her face, the way she moved—effortlessly charming and completely unaware of the storm brewing inside me.
Claire, of course, was oblivious to my inner turmoil. She’d thrown herself into the festivities, dragging me along as though she hadn’t just flipped my world upside down.
Come on, Ethan,” she called, waving me over to yet another stand. This time, it was handmade ornaments.
The older woman behind the counter grinned as Claire marveled over the tiny carved snowflakes. “These are beautiful,” she said, picking one up delicately.
“My husband made those,” the woman said proudly. “He’s been crafting for over forty years.”
“That’s amazing,” Claire said. She turned to me, her eyes sparkling. “Do you make things like this?”
I shrugged. “Not snowflakes.”
The woman’s gaze shifted to me, her brow furrowing in recognition. “You’re the Turner boy, aren’t you? Your father used to bring you here when you were little.”
I nodded, a polite smile fixed on my face. Claire glanced at me, curiosity flickering in her eyes, but thankfully, she didn’t press.
The rest of the day was a blur of activities: Claire chatting with locals for her article, us sharing a bag of roasted chestnuts, her laughter ringing out as we watched the children’s choir perform near the tree.
And through it all, I couldn’t stop watching her.
She was radiant, her excitement palpable as she listened to each story about the tree and the wishes it had supposedly granted. Some were ridiculous, sure, but she listened with the kind of genuine interest that made people open up to her.
It was impossible not to be drawn to her.
At one point, she pulled me into a snowball fight with some of the kids. She was surprisingly competitive, ducking and weaving as she fired snowballs at me with a mischievous grin.
“Is that all you’ve got, Turner?” she taunted, laughing as I missed her by a mile.
“You asked for it,” I said, scooping up a handful of snow.
I managed to land one squarely on her shoulder, and she let out an exaggerated gasp. “You’re so going down,” she said, her eyes gleaming.
For the first time in years, I found myself laughing—really laughing—as we pelted each other with snow.
By the time evening rolled around, the crowd had thinned. The tree glowed softly against the darkening sky, and Claire stood beside me, her expression thoughtful as she stared up at it.
“What did you wish for?” I asked quietly.
She hesitated, her lips pressing together as though she wasn’t sure how to answer. “Something good,” she said finally. “Something real.”
The vulnerability in her voice caught me off guard. I wanted to ask her what she meant, but before I could, someone called out from behind us.
“You two look good together!”
Claire turned, startled, and I glanced over my shoulder to see an older man smiling at us.
“You make a nice couple,” he said, nodding approvingly.
“We’re not—” I started, but Claire cut me off with a laugh.
“Thank you,” she said, her cheeks pink.
I said nothing, my throat tight as she turned back to the tree.
I made a wish of my own. Not for me—never for me. But for her.
Because if anyone deserved to have their wish come true, it was Claire.
- Writer
