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“You left it.”

“I gave it to you.”

“You also said welcome.”

“I was lying.”

“I know.”

He touched the ornament with one finger and set it turning. I kept my eyes on the tiny painted windows until they stopped moving.

Then he picked up a plain envelope from the drafting table and handed it to me. A brass key slid into my palm.

“What does it open?”

“My door.”

“That is not a moving-in key.”

“It doesn’t come with a box, a toothbrush, or a change of address.” His mouth moved at one corner. “It’s a come-in key. I’m not asking you for nights you don’t want to give me. I want you to be able to walk through my door without waiting for permission.”

I pulled out my key ring and slid his key on beside the one to my apartment. “This is dangerously close to romantic.”

“I sold my apartment and signed a twelve-month lease over a hardware store. Reckless decisions are becoming a pattern.”

I had brought the glass acorn from my apartment tree. I reached into my coat pocket and took it out. The hairline crack caught the window light.

“Failed quality control?” he asked.

“Passed with conditions. It needs somewhere safe to hang.”

He tied it beside the Main Street ornament. “I don’t have a tree.”

“You have a window.”

“I’ll get a tree next year.”

I turned toward him. “You’re planning that far ahead?”

“Farther.”

I went to him. His hand settled at my waist, and his mouth met mine slowly. He tasted like coffee and syrup that had done nothing to save the pancakes he’d made. That was not romantic, but the way he held the back of my neck was.

We kissed until something metal crashed onto the hardware-store floor below us and scattered in every direction. Frank shouted an opinion about it. Griffin rested his forehead against mine. “I want the days after Christmas too,” he said. “The ordinary ones.”

“That is a lot of Tuesdays.”

“Good.”

We sat on the floor beneath the window because Griffin owned one chair. He made more coffee, and I stayed for the second cup. Above us, the two ornaments turned on their ribbons. One had a hairline crack. The other held all of Main Street. Griffin had kept the first thing I gave him.

Six days later, on New Year’s Eve, I spent the afternoon making Griffin’s plain studio ready for a party.

Fairy lights crossed the sloped ceiling. Candles clustered on every flat surface that wasn’t structural and a few that were. The Main Street ornament and cracked glass acorn still hung together in the window. His better winter coat hung by the door now, his mother’s hat tucked into one sleeve, and the emptied cardboard box lay folded under the drafting table. A borrowed table held enough food to feed the merchant association, which was appropriate, since most of it would shortly be climbing his stairs.

“You’re sure we have enough champagne?” Griffin asked.

“We have enough champagne for a wedding reception.” I adjusted a candle that didn’t need adjusting. “Pearl brought three cases. Frank’s contributing something he’s been aging in his basement that I’m afraid to taste.”