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Miles’s eyes harden. “And I won’t build our future around an answer you haven’t given me.”

“What answer?”

“Come on, Audrey. You still haven’t turned on your phone. You haven’t faced Brett or decided what happens when Christmas ends.” He shakes his head. “I’m not judging you for that. You went through some shit. I get that. But I can’t pretend you’re ready to build a future around me while half your life is still sitting unanswered beneath a pillow.”

That one hurts.

But deep down, I know it hurts because it's true.

And we both know it.

"You're right," I say, and watch surprise flicker across his face. "I'm a coward about that phone and I know it. I'm avoiding things. But I'm making choices now, Miles. The job, the tour, you. I chose all of it. And you don't get to punish my progress because you're too scared to believe I might actually choose you too."

Outside, I hear sleigh bells approach through the snow. Either Santa has arrived early, or it's the driver returning to collect us from the romantic escape we have successfully destroyed before breakfast.

“Sounds like our ride,” Miles says quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. "We should probably get going. You've got the tour and I've got—"

“Perfect,” I say, barely listening as I cross to the little Christmas tree.

Carefully, I remove every ornament from its branches, dropping them carefully into my bag. The truck. The skate. The collapsed gingerbread house. Even the ridiculous bridal shoe.

I leave the blank one until last.

Miles watches me turn it between my fingers.

Then I put that inside too.

Whatever happens after Christmas, the empty space is still mine to fill.

The resort swallows us the second the lobby doors open.

Warm air rushes over my face with the strong scent of mulled wine and whatever butter-based weapon Zoey is selling at the market this morning. Garlands glow around the marble pillars, families crowd Stevie at the reception desk in matching Christmas sweaters, and an instrumental version of All I Want for Christmas Is You is playing overhead with a cheerfulness that feels personally insulting right now.

A bellhop in flashing reindeer antlers hurries toward us and grabs our overnight bag.

“Welcome back! Did you enjoy the romantic alpine package?”

Miles and I look at each other.

“Define enjoy,” I say.

The bellhop’s smile falters. “Would either of you like a commemorative photograph?”

“No,” we answer together.

“Excellent.” His antlers flash anxiously as he retreats. “Have a magical morning.”

Before I can decide whether anything about this morning qualifies as magical, Darcy appears carrying two tablets, a radio and the expression of a woman whose opening week has finally become too much to handle.

“Audrey, thank God. The first farm shuttle has twenty-three guests instead of sixteen, Celeste has changed the welcome signage without telling anyone, and one family believes the premium tree package includes permission to chop down whichever tree they want.”

“It absolutely does not.”

“I know that. You know that. Unfortunately, they have brought their own axe.”

"Fuck."

That sharp little rush I get when chaos presents itself kick starts my heart.