Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 33333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
She holds my gaze. “Everything needs help sometimes.”
“No,” I say. “Some things survive on their own.”
“And some things don’t survive at all unless someone gives a shit.”
Her voice breaks on the last word.
Quiet hangs heavy.
The fire pops. Wind moans against the roof. Something raw moves through her expression—and before she can bury it, I see it.
Pain.
Old. Deep. Bone-level.
I don’t ask. I shouldn’t. But I do.
“What happened to you, Aspen?”
She doesn’t speak for a long moment. Then she places the pumpkin on the mantle and breathes out.
“My parents died on Halloween.”
The words steal the breath from my chest.
She stares at the fire when she continues. “I was twelve. Drunk driver. On their way home from my uncle’s costume party.” She laughs, brittle. “Imagine that. Some people can’t look at Christmas without crying. For me? It’s pumpkins and candy corn.”
I don’t move. I don’t interrupt. I don’t fucking breathe. Because if I do, I might cross the room and drag her into my arms before she’s ready.
She goes on. “I moved in with my aunt after that. She made me throw out my costumes. Said it was unhealthy to keep clinging to childish things.” Her eyes shine but she doesn’t cry. “So I did what I had to. I survived. I grew up. I learned how to smile when I didn’t want to. And every October… I decorated alone. Big. Loud. Stupid. Glittery. Weird. Because it was the only time I ever felt—” Her voice cracks again. “—anything good. Like they were still with me.”
Fuck.
I hate this. I fucking hate it. The way her voice shakes. The way she finally drops the armor. The way I want nothing more than to walk over there and fix it—even though I don’t know how.
I step closer before I can stop myself. “You don’t have to tell me more.”
“I know,” she says quietly. “But I wanted to.”
I don’t touch her.
I want to.
God, I want to.
But whatever this is, whatever is happening in this room, it feels sacred. If I grab her now, if I drag her in too hard, I’ll wreck it. And some stupid animal part of me wants—needs—to protect this moment, like if I do, I protect her.
So I just stand there.
Closer.
Still not close enough.
She wipes her cheek, even though no tears fall. “You’re going to say it was a long time ago. That I should move on.”
“No,” I say. “I’m not.”
She looks up, surprised.
“You don’t have to move on,” I tell her. “You just have to live.”
She blinks. “That was almost profound.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” I mutter.
Her smile is small. But it’s real.
She squeezes a pumpkin plush in her hands. “You still hate Halloween?”
“I never said that.”
“You implied it.”
I shrug. “I don’t hate it. I just don’t get it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s loud. Messy. Pointless.”
She smirks faintly. “So am I.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “You are.”
She narrows her eyes. “Was that an insult?”
“No.”
And we stand there—close, warm, suspended in something neither of us can run from now.
Later—when the candles burn low and fatigue pulls at her shoulders—I walk her to my room. “I’ve got some things to do before I hit the hay. I’ll sleep on the couch downstairs tonight to give you some privacy—”
“No!” She’s interjects. “I mean, you don’t have to. I don’t mind sharing a bed with you. Warmer that way, it’s about as cozy as an igloo in this place.”
I pause, letting her words linger between us. “Okay…I’ll be up a little later then.”
She hesitates in the doorway. “Okay. Thanks. Goodnight, Mountain Man.”
“Night, witch.”
She goes inside. Closes the door.
But the silence afterward feels wrong.
I go to the kitchen. Open a drawer. Close it again.
It takes me a while to find what I’m looking for. One tiny bag tucked behind emergency batteries and old receipts.
One single, stupid bag of candy corn I used to bribe kids who made it to the lodge on Halloween night. I kept it because I hate waste.
Now I’m glad I did.
I stand outside the bedroom door way too long listening to her hum softly in the shower before I finally do it—set the candy corn gently on her pillow.
A silent offering.
Her holiday. Her comfort thing.
No questions. No pity.
Just—I see you.
Then I go back downstairs before I do something irreversible.
I lay on the couch but I don’t sleep.
I keep waiting to hear her door creak open. Her soft footsteps in the hallway. Her voice.
A quiet “thank you.”
It never comes.
But that’s okay.
She doesn’t owe me anything.
I’m the one who owes her now.
Because somewhere along the way, between the glitter and the wreckage of us, I made a decision.
Aspen Taylor isn’t a guest anymore.
She isn’t a problem or a complication.
She sure as hell isn’t leaving.
She is mine.
Not officially.
Not out loud.
Not yet.
But I know it in my bones, and one day soon she will, too.
So help me—I’ll make sure she never feels alone again.