Page 105 of Blood and Bells

“The town’s had a long week.”

“They’ve decided this is the payoff.”

We stop beneath the mistletoe—slightly lopsided, mildly questionable, and now the most important botanical object in Willow Creek.

Nick turns to face me, and just like that, the noise dims. Not gone, just…respectfully distant.

“This feels appropriate,” he says, quieter now.

I tilt my head. “Why’s that?”

“Because after everything we’ve been through,” he says, “I think we’ve earned a moment that isn’t trying to kill us.” He brushes a loose strand from my face. “Ambitious, I know.”

“Wildly optimistic.”

“But worth attempting.”

His hand finds mine, and whatever’s been skittering around under my ribs all night finally decides to behave.

“I think we should,” I say.

“Good,” he murmurs. “The mayor is watching, and I’d hate to be fined.”

I laugh, and it breaks whatever last bit of nerves I had left.

And then he leans in.

The kiss is slow. Soft. Not sweeping. Just right. Warm, inevitable, and a little bit amazed at itself, like it can’t quite believe it made it through rogue elves, weaponized confectionery, and a frankly unreasonable amount of emotional growth.

I lean in, and he pulls me closer. For a moment, the rest of the world obligingly minds its own business. Somewhere, a cork pops like a starting pistol, someone immediately cheers too early, and Mrs. Dapplewhite shouts “Not yet!” with the authority of a woman who has waited her entire life for timing to matter.

When the kiss deepens, it’s not about proving anything. It’s just…staying. Choosing it. Choosing him.

Choosing us.

There’s a cheer when we finally pull apart—inescapable, enthusiastic, slightly off-beat—but it lands somewhere far away, like background music to a very specific victory.

“Merry Christmas, Frost,” he says.

“Merry Christmas, Draven.”

The square surges back into motion around us—music, voices, someone starting a dance that no one has agreed on but everyone is joining anyway. The triangle, having found its purpose, tings like a star. Lights blink, mugs reappear, and the whole place hums like it’s remembered what it was for.

But right now, it’s still just us.

No speeches. No saving anything.

Just…this.

We did more than survive the week. We didn’t just patch things back together and call it festive. We made something out of it—messy, stubborn, held together with effort and choice and the occasional questionable decision.

Which, as it turns out, is exactly how Willow Creek likes things.

Not flawless. Not polished. Not the kind of Winter Wonderland my mom would design, where every ribbon matches and every act unfurls on cue.

This one runs on last-minute decisions and borrowed ladders and a general agreement to sort it out as we go. Structurally questionable in places, but emotionally sound.

And it works.