Christmas morning arrived like a bruise—slow, tender, impossible to ignore.
No one had slept more than an hour or two. The cabin smelled of s*x and pine, the air thick with sweat, woodsmoke, and the faint metallic tang of spent desire. Sheets had been changed in some rooms, not in others. The living room rug still bore faint damp spots where bodies had pressed too hard, too long. No one mentioned it.
We gathered around the tree in robes and borrowed sweatshirts, hair tangled, eyes shadowed. Coffee steamed in mismatched mugs. The fire had been rebuilt, but the flames felt subdued, like they knew better than to burn too brightly today.
No one spoke at first.
Dirk moved first—quiet, efficient—setting a tray of cinnamon rolls and fresh coffee on the low table. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes.
