November in the Georgia mountains is a revelation. Gold and crimson leaves carpet the ground. Every breath, clean and purposeful, fills my lungs. Yet lately, it’s not the scenery taking my breath away. It’s Rhea’s hand in mine, grounding me in the present, letting me glimpse a future I once doubted.

Since Halloween night, a fundamental shift has occurred between us. There haven’t been grand declarations, no passionate speeches, just quiet, meaningful change. Now, when we walk together, she reaches for my hand. There are times when I catch her looking at me with an expression that makes my chest tight with hope. With each passing day, the space between us shrinks. Touches and conversations gradually drift into new, vulnerable territory we’ve carefully avoided.

This morning is no different. I’m sitting at my usual table in Mountain Mornings, working on lyrics but mostly just watching Rhea move behind the counter with the efficient grace I’ve grown to love. The morning rush has died down, and she’s restocking the pastry case when Mrs. Patterson approaches me with the conspiratorial air of a CIA agent about to share classified information.

“That girl is smitten with you,” she announces, settling into the chair across from me uninvited.

“Mrs. Patterson. Good morning to you, too.” I close my notebook and smile at the woman.

“Don’t you ‘good morning’ me, young man. I’ve been watching the two of you for weeks now, and that girl lights up like a Christmas tree every time you walk through that door.”

I glance over at Rhea, who’s pretending not to listen while obviously hanging on every word. Her cheeks are pink, and she’s arranging the same three muffins with unnecessary concentration.

“I’m pretty fond of her myself,” I admit, because even a blind man can see that truth.

“Fond.” Mrs. Patterson scoffs. “You look at her like she hung the moon and personally arranged all the stars. When are you going to do something about it?”

“We’re taking things slow.” Why am I answering her questions?“Slow is good. Slow is smart. But there’s slow, and there’s glacial.” She leans forward. “That girl’s been hurt before. She needs to know you’re serious about her.”“I am serious about her.”

“Then show her. Grand gestures are nice, but it’s the little things that count. You know, the everyday choices that prove you’re not going anywhere.” Mrs. Patterson smiles, stands, and heads off to find her next target, leaving me sitting with her words bouncing around in my head.Show her.The little things.Everyday choices.I’m still pondering this when Rhea approaches my table with a fresh cup of coffee and a smile that makes me forget how to form coherent thoughts.

“Surviving Mrs. Patterson’s relationship advice?” She slides into the chair the older woman vacated.

“Barely. Does she give unsolicited counsel to all your customers, or am I special?” I ask, but I already know the answer.

“You’re special. She’s decided you’re her personal project. She asked me yesterday if you were ‘courting’ me properly. Used that exact word. Courting.” Rhea’s smile turns mischievous.

“And what did you tell her?” I arch a brow in curiosity.

“That I didn’t know we were living in a Jane Austen novel.”

We sit in comfortable silence, unspoken feelings hanging between us. There’s so much I want to say, but I’m scared to move too fast and break whatever trust I’ve managed to reestablish. Rhea glances at the window, as if searching for answers. I almost sense her unraveling her doubts, deciding how much to risk at this moment.

“Gray,” she says softly, and her tone makes me look up from my coffee. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“What did you usually do for Thanksgiving before we started dating?” She cocks her head to the side in a cute manner, waiting for me to answer.

The question catches me off guard. “Depends on the year. Sometimes we were on tour, other times we were at home with my adoptive parents or at one of the guy’s family’s homes. Why?”

“I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me this year. Nothing fancy, just… us. If you don’t have other plans.” She’s suddenly more nervous than she was just a moment ago.

The invitation jolts something inside me. Thanksgiving dinner, just the two of us. The intimacy in her offer makes my heart thunder as I realize this is exactly what Mrs. Patterson meant—quiet gestures, deeply meaningful, and proof of hope.

“I’d love that. But only if you let me help with the cooking. I’m not letting you wait on me for an entire holiday.” My words rush out before she can rescind the invitation.

“Deal. Though I should warn you, I’m very particular about my stuffing recipe,” Rhea informs me.

“I live in fear of your culinary standards.”

She laughs, and the sound settles the uncertainty stirring in my chest. We’re going to spend Thanksgiving together, like a couple of people who are creating something real and something we can hold on to.

The next two weeks blur by. Coffee and woodsmoke fill the cabin. Rhea stays later, and we move easily from work to quiet nights by the fire. Sometimes she dozes at my side as the trust between us grows each evening.

Three nights before Thanksgiving, we’re sitting by the fireplace at the cabin, everyone else having gone to bed early. Rhea is curled against my side, reading one of her romance novels, and I’m half-heartedly working on a song that’s been giving me trouble for weeks.

“What’s that one about?” She glances down at my notebook.

“This song? It’s…” I hesitate, then decide honesty is always the better choice with her. “It’s about second chances. About getting something back that you thought you’d lost forever.”

She sets her book aside and turns to face me fully. “Can I hear it?”

My stomach flips. I’ve written dozens of songs since getting out of rehab, but this one feels too personal, too revealing. It’s essentially a love letter to her wrapped in melody and metaphor.

“It’s not finished yet.” It’s not a lie.

“I don’t mind rough drafts.”

She’s looking at me with those eyes that see straight through every defense I try to maintain, and I realize I’m not going to be able to say no to her. I never could, really.

“Okay.” I reach for my guitar. “But remember, you asked for this.”

I play the opening chords, letting the melody softly fill the space between us. There’s a vulnerability in the music and the tenderness of this moment that gently leads me into the song before I start to sing.“I thought I’d burned every bridge I’d ever built,Turned gold to ash with my guilt,Left nothing but empty bottles and regret,But some things are stronger than the wreckagethat we get.”“You were the light I couldn’t see,When I was drowning in my need,Now you’re here again,within my reach,Teaching me what love can be.”“Second chances,Second chances,Rare as shooting stars,You gave me mine when I was lost,Showed me who we really are.”When I finish, silence fills the space between us. Rhea clutches her mug so tightly her knuckles whiten. The small gesture throbs with meaning, so much so that I can’t breathe for a second. Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears as she quickly blinks them back.

“Gray. That’s beautiful,” she whispers in a voice heavy with emotion.

“It’s about you, about us, and about how grateful I am that you’re giving me another chance to get this right.”

She doesn’t respond with words. Instead, she shifts closer, her hand coming up to cup my cheek. Her thumb brushes across my skin, and I lean into the touch like a man who’s been wandering in the desert and finally found water.

“I’m scared,” she admits quietly.

“Of what?”

“Of wanting this too much. Of believing in us again and having it fall apart.” Her honesty is refreshing, and I’d honestly be worried if she wasn’t afraid after everything I’ve put her through.

I set my guitar aside and take her hands in mine. “I’m scared too— terrified, actually. But Rhea, I’m not the same man who let you down before. Recovery isn’t just about not drinking. It’s about learning to be present, to communicate, to show up for the people you love even when it’s hard.” I recall a particular moment during my rehabilitation journey when everything shifted. I was in a group meeting and finally opened up about my fears and failures. It was an unplanned, raw outpouring that left me feeling exposed yet liberated. Sharing my struggles made me realize the importance of vulnerability and honesty in my relationships. It was a small step, but it marked the beginning of my commitment to change, not just for myself, but for us.

“I know. I can see that. It’s just…” she begins but stops.

“Just what?”

“I spent so long protecting myself from hoping for too much from you. It’s hard to let those walls down.”

I understand. God, do I understand. But sitting here with her hands in mine, her face lit by firelight, I need her to know that this time is different. “What if we don’t think about forever? What if we just focus on the present moment, right now, today? I’m here, you’re here, and we’re choosing to give it a try. That’s enough for now.”

She considers this, and I can see the internal debate playing out across her features. “Okay. Right now sounds manageable.”

“Right now, I’d really like to kiss you.” The words slip out before I can stop them, honest and vulnerable and completely terrifying, but Rhea doesn’t pull away.

Instead, she moves closer, her eyes never leaving mine. “Right now, I’d really like that too.”

I lean forward slowly, giving her every opportunity to change her mind, but she meets me halfway. When our lips finally touch, it’s soft, tentative, and perfect. She tastes like the peppermint tea she was drinking earlier, and her mouth moves against mine with careful exploration.

It’s nothing like the desperate, needy kisses of our past. This is steady, sure, and full of promise. When we finally part, she rests her forehead against mine, and we stay like that for a long moment, breathing the same air.

“That was nice,” she whispers, and I can hear the smile in her voice.

“Just nice?”

“Okay, it was pretty amazing.” She laughs, and the sound goes straight to my dick, which is already straining against my zipper just from kissing her.

“Better.”

We don’t rush into anything more. We sit together by the fire with her hand in mine, talking quietly about everything and nothing until the logs burn down to embers. When she finally says she should head home, I walk her to her car and kiss her goodnight under the stars.

A few days later, Thanksgiving morning dawns clear and cold, frost painting intricate patterns on the cabin windows. The days leading up to today have been busy and calm in equal measure, a quiet anticipation building between us. I wake up earlier than usual, a sense of wholeness coursing through me like electricity. Today feels significant, like a turning point in whatever story Rhea and I are writing together.

I arrive at her apartment at noon, carrying bags of groceries for my contribution to our meal. When she answers the door, I step inside and find her kitchen in a state of organized chaos. She’s wearing an apron over jeans and a soft sweater, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, and she looks so fucking beautiful it stops me in my tracks.

“You’re early,” she says, but she’s smiling as she rises on her toes to kiss my cheek. The casual affection makes my heart race.

“I brought reinforcements.” I hold up bags of groceries. “And I promise to follow all kitchen orders without question.”

“Dangerous promise. I might abuse that power.”

“I’m counting on it.”

We spend the afternoon cooking together, and it’s everything I never knew I wanted. Rhea moves around her small kitchen with confident efficiency while I try not to get in her way. She tastes everything with the serious consideration of a professional chef, adjusting seasonings with the kind of precision that makes me understand why Emma trusts her to run Mountain Mornings.

“Can you check the sweet potatoes?” she asks, elbow-deep in stuffing preparation.

I open the oven and peer inside. “How do I know if they’re done?”

“Poke one with a fork. If it goes in easily, they’re ready.”

I follow her instructions, oddly proud when I successfully identify properly cooked sweet potatoes. “Ready for mashing.”

“Perfect timing.”

We work in sync. Our elbows brush as she passes me a spoon. It feels as natural as if we’ve always shared this rhythm. I hand her ingredients before she asks. She finds the right pan, wordlessly. These everyday moments, quiet proof of what Mrs. Patterson meant, settle between us.

By four o’clock, we’ve produced a feast that would be impressive even with a full kitchen staff. Turkey, stuffing, mashed sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, and homemade rolls that smell like heaven.

“I can’t believe we pulled this off,” Rhea says, surveying our handiwork with satisfaction.

“You pulled this off. I just followed orders.”

“A good order follower, though. You might have a future in kitchen assistance.”

We eat at her small dining table, which she’s set with actual cloth napkins and candles that cast a warm glow over everything. The food is incredible, but it’s the conversation that makes the meal perfect. We talk about everything under the sun, from childhood Thanksgivings and funny tour stories to books she’s read and songs I’m working on. Easy topics that gradually give way to deeper ones.

“What are you most thankful for this year?” she asks as we’re finishing our second helpings of everything.

The question could be loaded, but she asks it with genuine curiosity rather than expectation.

“Recovery,” I reply immediately. The contrast between the sharp, hospital-disinfectant smell of rehab and the warm, turkey aroma from today floods my mind, bringing the reality of my journey into focus. “Getting my life back and getting myself back, but mostly, getting the chance to be here with you, like this.” The layers of past and present sensations intertwine, making my own thankfulness more profound.

She reaches across the table to take my hand. “I’m pleased about your recovery, too, and for the courage to answer your calls, even when I was scared to.”

“What scared you the most?”

“That you hadn’t really changed. That I’d fall for the same promises and end up right back where I started.” She pauses, considering. “But also, that you had changed, and I’d have to figure out how to love this new version of you.”

“And? Have you figured it out?” and I hold my breath waiting for her answer.

She looks at me with those eyes that see everything. “I’m working on it, but I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

After dinner, as if drawn by quiet agreement, we both stand and clear our plates from the table. Rhea pours two cups of coffee that she had brewed earlier, and we move to her couch, each carrying our cups to settle in together before the fire.

She curls up against my side, and I wrap my arm around her, marveling at how right this feels. It’s so easy to just exist together without drama or chaos or the constant undercurrent of worry that used to characterize our relationship.

“Gray?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.” Her words strike me like lightning, tearing through every defense I have.

For a moment, fear knots in my stomach. Will she really trust me this time? Doubt crackles between us, fragile and raw, but she loves me. Right now. Present tense. All my broken wholeness is fully seen.

“I love you too.” The words feel both monumental and as natural as breathing. “So much, Rhea. More than I knew how to before.”

She tilts her face up to mine, and when I kiss her this time, it’s with the knowledge that we’re not just remembering what we used to be. We’re discovering what we can become.

When we finally part, she settles back against my chest with a contented sigh.

“Best Thanksgiving ever,” she murmurs.

“Best Thanksgiving ever,” I agree, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Outside, the sun begins to set over the mountains, bathing them in hues of pink, purple, and orange. Inside Rhea’s warm apartment, holding the woman I love while she dozes against my shoulder, I feel like the luckiest man alive.

Sobriety gave me my life back, but Rhea gave me a reason to live it. As the future unfolds—fragile and bright, I let myself hope for a lifetime of sunsets and laughter, every day earned, every joy sharper for the struggle behind it.The pounding on my apartment door at four in the morning jolts me out of bed. I peek through the peephole, and four familiar faces grin back at me. Even though I’m annoyed, seeing my friends brings a rush of comfort.“What fresh hell is this?” I mutter as I unlock the door, finding Case in Point, standing in my hallway, each looking smug, like the world’s most attractive early morning intervention team.“Black Friday! We’re going shopping! Where’s Gray?” Parker announces with the enthusiasm of someone who’s clearly been awake for hours.

“It’s four in the morning,” I protest.

“Exactly!” Cody bounces on his toes. “We have to beat the crowds to the good stuff.”

I stare at them, trying to process this development through my sleep-addled brain. “You guys want to go Black Friday shopping? Since when do any of you shop for anything that isn’t delivered directly to your door?”

“Since we realized we have no idea what to get anyone for Christmas, and you’re the only person we know who actually enjoys shopping,” Andrew explains.

“Also, we figured dragging you out of bed at an ungodly hour was better than trying to navigate the retail wilderness alone.” Zep grins like a mischievous kid.

“Emma’s in on this conspiracy?” My hands fly to my hips in mock frustration.

“Emma planned half of it. She made a list of stores along with their driving directions. Very thorough. Color-coded.” Parker sounds prouder than any man with a crush should.

I accept the thermos gratefully and take a long sip of perfectly prepared coffee. “How long do I have to get ready?”

“Fifteen minutes? We want to hit the first store when it opens at five.” Andrew cringes when he sees my eyes widen in surprise.

“Fifteen minutes? I need at least thirty to look human.” How the hell am I supposed to walk around with these gorgeous men when I’m freshly awake and only have fifteen minutes to prepare?

“You look beautiful,” Gray says softly, his sincerity cutting through my doubts and making my heart skip.

“Flatterer. Twenty minutes, and I’m bringing snacks because you’ll all be cranky and impossible by noon if your blood sugar drops,” I negotiate.

Twenty-three minutes later, I squeeze into the middle seat of Andrew’s SUV, wedged between Gray and Zep. Balancing my coffee in my lap, I fasten my seatbelt and glance around at everyone as Andrew starts the car. I wonder how my Friday turned into a shopping trip with five guys who shop like sheltered twelve-year-olds.

“So, what’s the plan?” I ask as we wind through the dark mountain roads toward the nearest actual shopping center.

“We hit the electronics store first,” Cody explains, consulting what appears to be a hand-drawn map. “Then the department store, then that outdoor gear place, then lunch, then we improvise.”

“What exactly are you looking for?”

“Christmas presents,” Wyatt says unhelpfully.

“For whom?” I lift a brow, hoping he’ll help me out a little here.

They exchange glances, and from the looks on their faces and the way Andrew shrugs, it’s clear they have no idea what they’re doing.

“Okay.” I switch into assistant mode. “Let’s start with who you need to buy for. Andrew, who are you buying for?”

“My parents, everyone here, and the road crew…” Andrew’s list trails off despairingly.

“Parker, what about you?” I steer the conversation toward one of the guys who may actually have his life together.

“I need something for my sister and her kids. And maybe something for Emma?” The last part is said with careful, casual hope that fools absolutely no one.

“Aw, Parker has a crush,” Zep teases, earning an elbow.

“What about you, Sir Galahad?” I turn to Zep. “Planning to impress a certain diner waitress and her adorable son?”

Zep’s cheeks turn pink in the dim light of the car. “I might have been thinking about getting Jake a few things for Christmas. If that’s not weird. Is that weird?”

“It’s sweet. What five-year-old doesn’t love presents from a knight in shining armor?” I reassure Zep.

“Gray needs to get something amazing for his girlfriend.” Cody pipes up from the front seat.

The word ‘girlfriend’ hangs in the air, tugging at both old wounds and new hopes. I’m reminded of last Christmas, which was long and full of small disappointments with a fragile wish for things to change.

Gray’s hand finds mine in the dark, his fingers weaving through mine in silent reassurance. “No pressure there,” he jokes, but his tone rings with genuine understanding. He knows exactly how it used to feel, and how it feels to hope for something better.

“What about y’all? Who are we shopping for?” I ask Cody and Wyatt.

“Parents, siblings, nieces, and nephews. The usual suspects.” Wyatt is the most thoughtful gift-giver, so I know he has a better idea of what he’d like to buy than the rest of the band.

“Same. Plus, I want to get something for Mrs. Patterson because she always asks about my health like I’m her actual grandson.” Cody is so stinking cute.

My heart melts a little at the thought of Cody picking out a gift for our favorite coffee shop regular. “She would love that.”

Our first stop is the electronics store, which is packed despite the early hour. The guys immediately scatter like excited children, drawn to different displays, while the focus of serious researchers remains undivided.

Parker surveys the rows of headphones, genuine puzzlement on his face. “Why are there so many kinds?”

“Well, people have different preferences. Some are for working out, some for travel, and others for professional audio…”

“Which would Emma like?” he presses, hope in his eyes.

I study his hopeful expression and try to gauge what’s really happening between him and my friend. “What’s she like when she’s making coffee? Does she wear headphones?”

“Yes, often. She says it helps her concentrate when she’s creating new drinks. Then you want something that sounds good but doesn’t completely block outside noise, so she can still hear customers.” I point to a mid-range pair with excellent reviews. “These would be perfect.”

Parker looks at me like I’ve just solved world hunger. “You’re amazing.”

I stand on my tiptoes and look over the display to search for Gray. I find him staring at smart watches with the intense concentration usually reserved for song lyrics.

“Fitness tracker?” I bump his shoulder with mine.

“I was thinking about one for Andrew. He’s been talking about getting back in shape, but he’s terrible at keeping track of exercise.” His bewildered expression is adorable.

“That’s thoughtful. The kind of gift that says, ‘I care about your health’ without being preachy about it.”

“Exactly.” He turns to look at me with an expression that makes my stomach flutter. “You’re really good at this.”

“At what?”

“Knowing what people need. Seeing them clearly enough to find the perfect thing.”

The compliment lands deeper than I expect. It feels like he’s seeing more than my knack for gifts, as if he’s peering right into the parts of me that want to be understood most.

Our next stop is the department store, where the guys face the overwhelming reality of women’s clothing sections. I watch Zep stand frozen in front of a display of scarves, as if he’s trying to defuse a bomb.

“It’s for Lana. But there are so many colors, and what if she doesn’t like scarves? Do all women like scarves? Why are there so many different types of scarves?” Poor Zep ponders scarves deeper than I ever thought possible.

“Zep, breathe.” I guide him away from the scarf-induced panic attack. “Tell me about Lana. What does she wear to work?”

“Jeans and t-shirts usually. Her hair is always in a ponytail because she’s running around serving tables.”

“So maybe not a delicate silk scarf. What about something more practical? A nice hair clip, headband, or cozy cardigan for when the diner gets cold?” I suggest.

His face lights up. “A cardigan! She mentioned being cold during the morning shift.”

“Perfect. What’s her favorite color?”

Zep’s face falls. “I… don’t know?”

“What color are her eyes?”

“Brown. A really pretty brown, like coffee with cream.”

I lead him to a display of soft, sweater-like garments in warm, earthy tones and hand him two options. “Then you want something that would bring out those brown eyes. This camel color, or maybe this sage green.”

Thirty minutes later, Zep walks away with a beautiful cashmere blend cardigan, clearly proud and excited for Lana to see his thoughtful gift.

“Do eight-year-olds like action figures?” Andrew asks.

“No! Do I look like I get kids?” Cody replies, panicked.

“You’re basically a child,” Wyatt notes.

“That’s different! I’m an adult child who buys his own toys. Actual kids are a mystery,” Cody argues.

I step in before they can have complete breakdowns in the Lego aisle, moving between Andrew and Cody to help Andrew select age-appropriate gifts for a few neighborhood kids, while Cody examines a hardcover cookbook for his mother and a vintage band t-shirt for his music-obsessed nephew.

By the time we arrive at the outdoor gear store, everyone is familiar with the routine. I guide each of them in their shopping while the guys fan out to grab items, joke around, and haul the bags. Gray stays close to me, sometimes sharing his thoughts but mostly just watching as I advise Wyatt on gifts. When I pause by the doorway, Gray’s warm look draws my attention.

“You’re enjoying this,” Gray observes as I help Wyatt choose between two different camping lanterns for his adventure-loving brother.

“I am. It’s satisfying to find exactly the right thing for someone you care about.”

“Is that what you’re doing for me? Finding exactly the right thing?”

His question surprises me. My nerves and excitement around his gift have been distracting me for days. This feels like our first real Christmas together. It’s not, but it is our first healthy, present, and truly invested season together. I want his gift to show how much this new chapter means to me and how much I want to leave behind the uncertainties of last year. The memory is bittersweet, but today feels full of new certainty, and I ache to make this Christmas different and better for both of us.

“Maybe. Are you doing the same for me?” I try to act casual.

“I’ve been thinking about it since Halloween. It has to be perfect,” he muses.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect, Gray. It just needs to be thoughtful.”

“For you, those are the same thing,” he says sweetly.

We’re so close I can smell his cologne. The way he looks at me in a tender, searching way makes my heart race. There’s an electric tension. It’s the same connection that’s always been there, but now it feels stronger, steadier, and more intentional. I let myself feel it, hope edging out the old worry.

“Can I tell you something?” he says quietly, and we’ve somehow moved close enough that he doesn’t need to speak loudly for me to hear him.

“Always.”

“I love watching you take care of people. The way you just instinctively know what everyone needs, and how you make everything better just by paying attention.” His hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing across my skin. “You do that for me every day, and I don’t think you even realize it.”

Before I can respond, Parker’s voice cuts through the moment. “Hey, lovebirds! We’re starving, and Cody wants to go to Mae’s Diner.”

We spring apart like teenagers caught making out, but Gray keeps hold of my hand as we rejoin the group. The knowing grins on everyone’s faces suggest we weren’t as subtle as we thought.

“Shut up,” I tell them preemptively.

“We didn’t say anything,” Andrew protests with fake innocence.

“You were thinking it very loudly with your face,” I tease.

Lunch is at Mae’s Diner, just off Main Street and down a side street that looks like it hasn’t changed since 1975, complete with red vinyl booths and an old-school jukebox that still works. We pile into the largest booth they have, and I end up squeezing between Gray and the wall, his thigh pressed against mine in the cramped space.

“I love Mae’s,” Cody declares, studying a menu that includes a meal called the “Lumberjack Special.”

“Everything’s better when you’re shopping-induced delirious,” Parker agrees.

Our waitress is a woman in her sixties who takes one look at our group and immediately adopts us. “Y’all are not from around here,” she observes with good-natured suspicion.

“We’re staying up the mountain, but we’re starving after a shopping expedition,” Andrew explains.

“Black Friday warriors! Well, you’ve earned yourselves some real food. The meatloaf is good, but the chicken and dumplings will change your life.” She suggests her favorites.

She’s not wrong. By the time we’ve demolished plates of comfort food that would feed a small village, we’re all in that satisfied, slightly drowsy state that comes from carbs and camaraderie.

“So, what’s the afternoon plan?” I ask, consulting Emma’s color-coded schedule.

“More shopping?” Zep suggests without enthusiasm.

“Or we could check out that Christmas tree farm we’ll pass on the way back to the cabin. I want to get a head start on decorating the cabin.” Gray says, and the entire table turns to look at him.

“Oh!” I sit up straighter. “That’s perfect. The cabin needs a tree, and they probably have wreaths and garland too.”

An hour later, we’re wandering through rows of perfectly shaped evergreens while the guys debate the merits of different varieties with the seriousness of wine connoisseurs.

“This one’s too short,” Cody declares.

“That one’s too wide for the living room,” Andrew counters.

“What about this one?” Wyatt suggests, pointing to a tree that looks identical to the previous twelve they’ve rejected.

“The branches aren’t full enough,” Parker says critically.

I catch Gray’s eye and see my own amusement reflected there. “They’re never going to agree on one,” I murmur.

“Want to go find our own?” he asks quietly.

“Our own?”

“For your apartment. If you want one. We could pick it out together.”

The suggestion sends warmth spreading through my chest. A tree for my apartment, chosen together. Another step toward this amazing relationship, we’re constructing one a moment at a time.

“I’d love that.”

We slip away from the group’s tree debate, Gray gently taking my hand in his. Together, we walk through the quieter parts of the farm, weaving between rows as we look for a tree. The afternoon sun shines through the branches, casting shadows as we move, and the air smells like pine.

“What about this one?” Gray stops beside a perfectly proportioned Fraser fir that would fit perfectly in my living room.

“It’s beautiful, but how will we get it home?” My concern is that there isn’t enough room for one tree, much less two.

“Leave that to me. Do you trust me?”

The question carries weight beyond Christmas trees, and we both know it. The moment stretches between us, filled with unspoken words. I can see the conflict and hope in Gray’s eyes, the way his mouth opens and closes as if unsure of what to say next. “I…” he starts, then stops, taking a deep breath.

“Yes.” I meet his gaze. “I trust you.”

He grins, then waves down one of the farm workers. Gray talks with the worker, explaining that we need a tree delivered to my apartment, plus a crew to handle decorating it with lights and ornaments. I watch, slightly overwhelmed, as the worker jots down Gray’s instructions on a clipboard and assures us it will all be taken care of.

“Gray, that’s too much…”

“It’s not too much. It’s exactly enough.” He pulls me closer. “I want to give you the Christmas you deserve. The one we never got to have before.”

His mention of our past sits between us, bittersweet but no longer painful. Last Christmas, distance and exhaustion took a toll on us. I remember missing him and hoping for things I was too afraid to ask for. This year, though, the air feels lighter. I finally believe things could be different.

“I want that too,” I admit.

“Good.” He leans down and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “Because I have about a million other ideas for making this the best Christmas ever.”

By the time we rejoin the others, they’ve finally selected a tree, plus enough garland to decorate it and then some.

“We got a little carried away with garland,” Andrew explains sheepishly.

“A little?” I look at their haul with amusement.

“Because you can never have too much garland,” Cody adds seriously.

“Obviously,” I agree, because arguing with their logic would be pointless, and they’re all so cute and pleased with themselves that it’s endearing.

The drive home is quieter since everyone is exhausted from the day’s adventures. I’m curled against Gray’s side in the back seat with his arm around me. Both of us are drowsy from the fresh air and contentment.

“Thank you for today,” I murmur against his shoulder.

“Thank you for saving us from ourselves. We would have come home with nothing but confused expressions and buyer’s remorse.” He laughs.

“You would have figured it out.” Or not, now that I think back to all the chaos from previous tours.

“Maybe, but it wouldn’t have been nearly as fun.”

As we wind through the mountain roads toward my apartment, I think about how this day felt like a preview of what our future could look like. I’m digging the easy camaraderie, shared experiences, and the simple pleasure of spending time together without drama or complications.

For the first time in years, I’m not afraid to look forward to Christmas morning. Hope is terrifying, but I let it win today. I want to believe this happiness and hard-won connection will last. I don’t know what comes next, but with Gray beside me, I can imagine our future. That feels like the best gift of all.