Holiday Romance ·

When the Outside Knocks Back

The interruption comes the way all real ones do—uninvited, inconvenient, and impossible to ignore.

His phone rings.

The sound cuts through the room like a blade.

He stills immediately, body tightening, eyes flicking toward the device on the side table as if it’s something volatile. I watch the shift with a kind of detached clarity, like I’m seeing the mechanics behind the man for the first time.

“This is what it looks like,” he says quietly. “When control snaps back into place.”

He picks up the phone.

“Yes,” he says.

I don’t hear the voice on the other end, but I don’t need to. His posture changes—straightening, fortifying, becoming the version of himself the world expects.

A pause.

“No,” he continues. “She’s here.”

My chest tightens at the word she.

Another pause, longer this time.

“That’s not necessary,” he says. “I’ll handle it.”

I stand, suddenly restless, the sense of being discussed without being present prickling under my skin.

When he hangs up, he doesn’t look at me right away.

“That was your friend,” he says.

I blink. “She has your number?”

“Yes.”

“Of course she does,” I mutter.

“She’s on her way,” he continues. “She heard the roads were open.”

The words hit harder than I expect.

“Already?” I ask.

“She’s worried,” he says. “And suspicious.”

That makes something sharp spark in me. “Of what?”

He finally looks at me then, expression serious.

“Of me.”

I let out a breath that’s half laugh, half disbelief. “That’s fair.”

“No,” he replies. “It’s not. But it’s understandable.”

I cross my arms. “You sound defensive.”

“I am,” he admits.

The admission startles me more than denial would have.

“She’s going to walk in and see exactly what she expects to see,” I say. “And you won’t be able to control that.”

His jaw tightens.

“I’m not worried about perception,” he says. “I’m worried about pressure.”

“On you,” I say.

“On you,” he corrects. “She’ll try to pull you out of this before you understand it.”

“And you don’t want that.”

“I don’t want you cornered,” he replies. “Either way.”

I search his face. “Then why do you look like you’re bracing for impact?”

He hesitates.

Because this time, the truth isn’t neat.

“Because when someone threatens_toggle something I care about,” he says slowly, “my instinct is to close ranks.”

The phrase sends a chill through me.

“That sounds… territorial,” I say carefully.

“Yes,” he replies. “It is.”

The honesty is unsettling—but also clarifying.

“And that scares you,” I say.

“It should,” he agrees.

I step closer.

“Then don’t do it,” I say quietly. “Don’t protect me from choices I can make myself.”

He studies me, something fierce and conflicted moving behind his eyes.

“She’s my daughter,” he says. “And she’s your friend.”

“I know.”

“And she’ll assume imbalance,” he continues. “Power. Influence. Intent.”

“And?” I ask. “Is she wrong?”

Silence.

It stretches, taut and dangerous.

“No,” he says finally. “Not entirely.”

My heart pounds. “Then say it.”

He exhales, a long, controlled release.

“I want you,” he says. “And I don’t trust myself not to want you too much.”

There it is.

The raw edge.

“And what does that make you want to do?” I ask.

His voice drops.

“Keep you close.”

My pulse spikes—but I don’t step back.

“And what are you going to do instead?” I ask.

He closes his eyes briefly.

“Let you speak for yourself.”

When he opens them again, something has shifted. The tightness is still there—but it’s no longer dominant.

“She’ll be here in ten minutes,” he says. “If you want to leave before then, I’ll help you pack the car.”

I shake my head. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” I repeat. “I’m not disappearing to make this easier. And I’m not letting you be framed as something you’re not without context.”

He watches me closely.

“You’re choosing confrontation,” he says.

“I’m choosing agency,” I reply.

A beat.

Then he nods.

“All right,” he says. “Then I’ll stand where I belong.”

“And where’s that?” I ask.

He meets my eyes.

“Beside you,” he says. “Not in front.”

Outside, a car crunches over gravel.

The sound of arrival.

The outside world has found us again.

And this time, I’m not bracing to escape it.

I’m bracing to be seen.