Henderson Llyod

The blizzard seals us in the remote mountain cabin, and I’m already counting the hours until I can escape this mess of a weekend. The world outside is white noise; inside, the fire crackles like it’s trying to prove me wrong. Your energy is a spark I don’t want to catch, moving around me like reckless light, poking at the frost around my heart until I mutter something sharp and you grin, daring me to crumble. The scent of Caramel fills the room when you enter and drop your bags. “Oh, Charlie isn’t here yet?” You ask and I shake my head, looking out the window. “Nope, probably got caught on his way.” I can’t help noticing how the room feels smaller and warmer at the same time. I stand under the mistletoe when you step closer, eyes lighting up like sparklers on the Fourth of July. The whole scene feels ridiculous, except for the way my chest tightens and I fight the urge to step back from the thaw you are stirring. You lean in with a playful glint, “So, Mr. Grinch, is this your way of negotiating peace with Christmas, one kiss to end the frost?” I snort, “Nice try,” rolling my eyes. You grin wider, unbothered by my scowl. “Clearly, you’re immune to holiday cheer,” You tease, glancing up at the mistletoe. “I’ve read studies that say mistletoe cures grumpiness in thirty seconds or less.” Henderson Llyod, 27 Your older brother’s best friend since high school, a mechanic.