The house smelled like cinnamon and pine, the way it always did in December. Twinkle lights draped the banister like golden vines, and the massive Christmas tree in the living room window glowed softly against the dark, snowy night outside. Everything looked perfect. Warm. Safe.
Everything except the way my pulse hammered in my throat the second the doorbell rang.
I knew who it was before Mom even called out, “Lila, honey, can you get the door? Mia and her dad are here!”
I smoothed my sweater—soft cream cashmere that clung just enough—took a breath that did nothing to steady me, and walked to the foyer.
Damien stood on the porch, snowflakes melting in his dark hair. He wore a charcoal wool coat that made his shoulders look impossibly broad, and the porch light carved sharp shadows across his jaw. Behind him, Mia bounced on her toes, cheeks pink from the cold, waving a bottle of red wine like a trophy.
But I only saw him.
“Evening, Lila,” he said, voice low and smooth, the kind of voice that could give orders in a boardroom or whisper filthy things in the dark. His gray eyes flicked over me—just a second longer than polite—before settling on my face. “You look… festive.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Thanks. Come in, it’s freezing.”
He stepped past me, bringing the cold and the faint scent of cedar and something darker—his cologne, the one that had haunted me for two years now. I shut the door, trying not to stare at the way his coat pulled across his back as he shrugged it off and handed it to Dad.
Mia hugged me hard, chattering about her new job, the traffic, how excited she was for Christmas Eve in six days. I nodded in all the right places, laughed when I was supposed to, but my attention kept sliding to Damien as he greeted my parents with that easy, commanding charm. He shook Dad’s hand firmly, kissed Mom on the cheek, accepted a glass of bourbon like he belonged here.
He didn’t. Not really. He belonged in penthouses and corner offices, not our cozy suburban dining room. But Mia had insisted he spend more holidays with us since her mom passed five years ago. “He’s lonely,” she’d said. “And you guys are basically family.”
Family. Right.
We migrated to the table—roast chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, green beans with almonds, the usual pre-Christmas “casual” dinner that Mom still went all-out for. I ended up seated directly across from Damien. Of course I did.
Conversation flowed easily. Work, holiday plans, Mia’s latest dating disaster. Damien listened more than he spoke, but when he did, everyone leaned in a little. He had that effect. Quiet authority. Like the room adjusted its volume to accommodate him.
I tried not to stare. Failed miserably.
He caught me once, mid-sentence while Mia was describing some awful Tinder guy. Our eyes locked. He didn’t smile, didn’t look away. Just held my gaze until I felt it everywhere—warmth spreading low in my belly, thighs pressing together under the tablecloth. Then he lifted his glass, took a slow sip, and turned back to Mia like nothing had happened.
I excused myself to the kitchen for more wine. Anything to breathe.
The kitchen was quieter, lit only by the string lights over the window and the soft glow from the oven. Snow tapped gently against the glass. I set my glass down harder than I meant to, gripping the counter.
Get it together, Lila.
Footsteps behind me. Heavy, deliberate.
I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to.
“Need a hand?” His voice was closer than I expected, right at my back.
I swallowed. “I’ve got it.”
He didn’t move away. I could feel the heat of him, inches from me. Smell that cedar and spice. My heart slammed against my ribs.
“You’ve been quiet tonight,” he said, low enough that no one in the dining room would hear. “Everything all right?”
I forced a laugh. “Just… tired from finals.”
A pause. Then: “You graduated last spring.”
Shit. He remembered.
I turned then, leaning back against the counter to put space between us. He was closer than I thought—close enough that I had to tip my head up to meet his eyes. They weren’t kind tonight. They were sharp. Curious. Dark.
“Yeah,” I managed. “Job hunting now. Adulting.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth for a beat, then back up. “You’ll do fine. You’re… determined.”
The way he said it—like he saw more than I wanted him to—made my skin prickle.
“Thanks.” My voice came out breathy. Pathetic.
He reached past me for the open bottle on the counter, his arm brushing mine. Not accidental. I knew it wasn’t. The contact was brief, but it burned. When he straightened, he was even closer, his body caging me without touching.
“Careful, Lila,” he murmured, so quietly I almost didn’t hear it over the blood rushing in my ears. “Some fires burn hotter than others.”
Then he was gone, back to the dining room with the bottle in hand, leaving me trembling against the counter.
I stayed there longer than I should have, pressing my thighs together, trying to slow my breathing.
This was wrong. So wrong.
He was Mia’s dad. Forty-five to my twenty-two. Off-limits in every possible way.
But I’d been dreaming about him for years—since the summer I turned twenty and noticed the way his shirts stretched over his chest, the way his eyes lingered when he thought no one saw. Innocent glances had turned into stolen moments in my mind: his hands on me, his mouth, his voice telling me exactly what to do.
And tonight, for the first time, it felt like he might be thinking it too.
I rejoined the table eventually, cheeks flushed, wine glass refilled. Damien didn’t look at me again for the rest of dinner.
But when they left hours later—Mia hugging everyone, promising to be back tomorrow to help decorate the tree—he paused at the door.
His hand brushed mine as he took his coat. Just a graze of knuckles. Deliberate.
“Goodnight, little one,” he said quietly, eyes locked on mine.
Then he was gone, into the snow with Mia, taillights disappearing down the street.
I stood in the doorway long after they left, cold air biting my skin, heart racing.
Six days until Christmas Eve.
Six more days of pretending.
Six more days until the house would be full of people and lights and chaos—and a hundred places to hide.
I closed the door, leaned against it, and let out a shaky breath.
This was only the beginning.
And I was already burning.
