Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 37164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 186(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 186(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
This man though, standing before me, is different.
He’s broader now and solid in a way that has a everything to do with the gym and years of using his body for real work. His shoulders stretch the seams of his coat like it’s been broken in by him, not tailored to impress. There’s a ruggedness to his face, stubble along his jaw, faint lines at the corners of his blue eyes that speak to laughter earned the hard way, to a life actually lived.
His confidence isn’t performative or loud. It doesn’t need polish. It sits on him naturally, the way good posture does, grounded and undeniable. He’s nothing like the men in New York City who broadcast themselves before you’ve even learned their last names.
His brown hair is just long enough that my fingers itch to test the texture, just short enough that I know he keeps it trimmed out of habit, not vanity. He’s a no-fuss kind of man with clean lines, practical choices, ensuring that nothing is wasted. Confidence looks less like armor on him and more like a second skin.
I remember him as the handsome, kind jock, the one who held doors open and made sure everyone got home safe. He’d already had a body people noticed back then, all muscle and easy strength, and the thought of what time has done to it now lands low and torturous in my chest.
Erik doesn’t announce anything. He doesn’t try. He just exists and that somehow, makes him impossible to look away from.
I heavily consider turning around and slipping back into the crowd, putting on my best acting performance like I didn’t just stare at him.
Too late.
He turns to face me and our eyes meet.
I would never forget those eyes.
For a heartbeat, the noise around us fades - the music dulls, the laughter softens, the scrape of skates on ice disappears. My pulse roars in my ears.
Then he smiles.
Not surprised or guarded like I anticipated. It’s just warm. It feels like this moment makes sense to him, maybe he hasn’t spent the years narrowly missing me because I made sure of it.
“Savannah.”
My name sounds different in his voice. Lower. Familiar in a way that makes my nerves spike instead of settle.
“Erik,” I reply, proud of myself for managing the word at all. Any word.
His gaze drops briefly, cataloging me, taking in my coat, my boots, the way I’m standing like I might bolt.
“You always forget how cold it gets here, don’t you?” he says mildly, teasing. “They get snow in New York, right? I’ve seen the movies.”
I let out a breath that might almost be a laugh. “I did not forget.”
“You did,” he quips easily. “You always did.”
I tug my coat tighter, suddenly hyperaware of how close he is and how steady he feels. Of how unsteady I feel.
“It’s not this bad there,” I mutter, trying to prevent my teeth from chattering.
“Sure,” he jokes. “And I’m sure you miss this.”
“I…,” I stop myself. “You look… different.”
Something flashes in his eyes at that. “And so do you.”
The words land heavier than I expect.
For a second, neither of us moves, completely frozen in this moment in time. Then he steps closer to me, just enough that the space between us feels intentional. “Welcome home.”
3
Erik
The square smells like sap, cold metal and sugar this time of year. An interesting combination, to most, but to me it’s home.
I’m standing on a ladder, fingers numb as I work a strand of lights into place along the edge of the gazebo roof. The metal rungs bite through my gloves, but I don’t rush. Pineview doesn’t reward haste. It rewards showing up, year after year, and doing the same things even when no one’s watching.
Below me, the town hums. Kids chase each other across the icy pavement, breathless and loud. Parents corral them with half-hearted warnings, laughter threading through the cold. Someone’s set up a couple speakers near the coffee shop, and a familiar Christmas song drifts through the air, worn thin from decades of repetition and still somehow capable of landing right in the heart.
This square has always been Savannah’s favorite.
She used to say Christmas here felt like the town breathing all at once. She’s right. She usually was but I would have hated for her to have known that.
“Don’t forget the left side,” Mrs. Kincaid calls up from below. “It always looks crooked if you forget the left side.”
“I know,” I say, though she can’t hear the smile in my voice.
I do know. I know where the cords snag and which bulbs flicker if you don’t twist them just right. I know which strand goes up first because Savannah once tripped over it carrying hot chocolate and laughed so hard she cried.
That’s Pineview. There’s comfort in the predictability. Comfort in the quiet understanding that some things don’t need reinventing, they just need tending to.