Page 77 of The Cost of Silence

“We’ll see.”

He stares at me like I’m trouble. I stare back like I absolutely am.

Then, without being asked, he takes the cart handles from me and starts pushing it toward the register.

I shrug.

Nico pushes the cart like a man escorting nuclear cargo through a war zone, tense shoulders, narrowed eyes, jaw doing that flexing thing like the entire holiday aisle personally offended him. People move out of his way without realizing they’re doing it, instinctively clearing a path for the tall, tattooed, brooding menace pushing a cart overloaded with discounted Christmas cheer.

I hurry to keep up with his long strides. “You’re walking very aggressively for a man transporting a stuffed reindeer and a bag of glitter.”

His glare swings toward me. “You bought an entire forest's worth of decorations, Belle.”

“It’s two wreaths, some lights, and a few ornaments.”

“A reindeer the size of a small child is not ‘a few ornaments’.”

I grin. “He spoke to me.”

“He’s fake.”

“He has spirit.”

Nico mutters something in Italian that I’m fairly confident isn’t praise.

When we pass the candle aisle, I pause, sniffing a pine-scented one. “Oh! This one smells like winter.”

“No.” He doesn’t even look.

“You didn’t even smell it!”

“I don’t need to. I can already tell I’ll hate it.”

I roll my eyes, lift the candle to his nose anyway. “Smell. It.”

He freezes, nostrils flaring just once, like he’s too dignified to actually inhale. Then the faintest flicker of tolerance crosses his face. “Fine,” he says. “That one’s acceptable.” A pause. “One.”

I drop it into the cart triumphantly.

He keeps pushing, but something changes. His pace slows. He’s no longer storming, he’s… observing. Quietly. Thoughtfully. Watching me stop to look at decorations, watching me lift ornaments with care like each one has a story already attached.

Finally, he asks, voice low, almost cautious, “Why do you like Christmas so much?”

The question hits me softly, unexpectedly. I shrug, fingers running over a silver star ornament. “I guess… it used to be the one time my house felt warm, everything was slower and we were just together. My mom baking. My dad stringing lights terribly high on the ladder. Me trying to help them both.” A small breath escapes me. “It felt like magic. Like we were a perfect family.”

Nico is quiet.

I risk a glance at him.

His face isn’t cold. Not hard. Just… thoughtful. Like he’s seeing a part of me I don’t show often.

“Magic,” he repeats, softer this time, like the word sits strangely on his tongue.

The line to the registers is long, so I start to move, but Nico touches my elbow lightly. “Come here.”

Before I can ask why, he gently steers me toward the in-store café tucked beside the checkout area.

My brows lift. “You want to get hot chocolate?”