Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
His entire body goes rigid. Then—quietly, almost reluctantly—he nods.
Holly pries open the box, pulling out ornaments like small treasures. Ash watches with a hollow expression.
“You okay?” I murmur.
“No.” It’s not loud. It’s not obvious. But it’s honest.
I move closer. “Talk to me.”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
Holly pulls out a small felt stocking with her name stitched in crooked letters. “Mom made this!” she says proudly.
Ash swallows again, throat working.
Lucy, don’t stare. Don’t get attached. Don’t do the thing you always do—feel too much. But God, I’m already too close. I sit on the arm of his chair and lower my voice. “What happened when your sister left?”
His eyes flick up to mine—dark, guarded, storming.
Then he exhales slowly, shoulders sinking. “She called me the night before she shipped out,” he says quietly. “Told me she didn’t have anyone else. Told me she was scared Holly wouldn’t understand.”
His voice gets low, raw. “Told me she was trusting me with her kid. Her whole world.”
My chest aches. I whisper, “That’s a big thing to carry.”
“Yeah,” he says, defeated. “It is.”
He watches Holly lift ornaments with that focused, innocent joy only kids have.
“She cried on the phone,” he says, voice barely above a breath. “Told me she didn’t want Holly to see her leave. Said she couldn’t do it. So she put her on a plane to me the next morning.”
Oh, God. “Ash…”
“She said it was better that way,” he mutters. “Cleaner. Easier.”
“For who?” I whisper.
He shakes his head again. “She misses her. Badly. Won’t say it. But she does.”
“She’s six,” I say softly. “She feels everything.”
He looks at me—finally, fully.
“And I can’t… I can’t replace her mom.”
“You’re not trying to,” I tell him gently.
“I am,” he says, voice thick. “I’m trying every damn day.”
And then I understand. Why he doesn’t decorate. Why he looks at Christmas like it’s something he wants to run from. Why he’s building walls so high around himself he can’t see over them. He’s terrified of Holly getting attached. Terrified of losing her. Terrified of failing her.
And maybe…maybe terrified of letting himself care too much. For her. For me.
Holly waddles over with the stocking, holding it high. “Uncle Ash, can we hang this?”
He clears his throat. “Kid—”
She frowns, lip wobbling. “Mommy made it.”
Something cracks in his expression—not a break, not a crumble, but a single fracture in the armor he wears like a second skin. He kneels down to her level. “Okay,” he murmurs. “We can hang the stocking.”
Holly squeals and runs to find tape. When she disappears into the kitchen, Ash stands slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Thanks for the cookies,” he mutters. “You can go now if you want.”
I stare at him. Go? After that? Absolutely not.
I step in front of him. “No.”
He looks startled. “What do you mean, no?”
“No, I’m not leaving you like this.”
“I’m fine,” he snaps.
“You’re lying.”
He locks his jaw.
I soften my voice. “Ash. Let me help.”
“I don’t need help.”
“Ash—”
“Lucy.” My name is a warning. A plea. A boundary. But I don’t move.
“Why don’t you decorate?” I ask quietly. “Really.”
He looks at the empty living room walls like they’re ghosts.
“Because,” he finally whispers, “if I decorate… it means this is real.” My heart stops. “And if it’s real…” His voice cracks. “It means one day she’ll have to leave. And I can’t—” He shakes his head hard. “I can’t let her get comfortable like that. Not when it’s temporary.”
My throat tightens. “Ash… no.”
Before I can touch him, he steps back, breathing too fast. “She’s not mine,” he rasps. “I did my best to be in her life before but even then I only saw her a few times a year–I mean, I’m the only man that’s ever been in her life. Her only father figure. And this—this whole thing—will disappear when my sister comes home. ”
“And when is that?” I ask softly. “I don’t know.” His voice breaks again. “Could be months. Could be a year. Could be longer.”
“And until then,” I whisper, “you’re giving her everything.” He flinches. “You think she doesn’t know that?” I press gently. “You think she doesn’t feel how much you love her?”
His jaw flexes. Not with anger. With fear.
Holly runs back in, tape dangling off her tiny fingers. “Lucy! Help me hang it!”
I smile at her. “Of course.”
I grab the tape and help her secure the little stocking above the fireplace. It fits perfectly, dangling slightly crooked, but full of heart.
Holly claps. “There!” Ash watches us—silent, guarded, shaking slightly. Holly beams up at him. “Now it looks like Christmas!”
He swallows hard, trying to smile. “Yeah, kid. It does.”
For just a moment, he looks like a man standing in the doorway of something he wants but can’t admit he’s afraid to reach for.
A home. A family. Love.
Then the walls slam back into place.
“Bath time,” he says gruffly. “Go grab your pajamas.”