Another thing he’d managed to find down there at the store was a necklace. Handmade by some local artisan, or so the tag on it said. He just wanted to... He wanted to do something special for her. Wanted to give her something nice. He had never realized that he’d spent most of his life alone. Not until this. Not until her. This was sure as hell the most domestic he’d ever been in his life. But he wasn’t restless. Not in the way he might’ve imagined. He was restless knowing that it would have to end. But he would wait. He’d wait until after Christmas at least. That wasn’t so much to ask. One Christmas before he went underground.

He hung a wreath on the door and tinsel around the room. He decorated the tree with all the decorations he’d managed to find in the store, and sure, a couple of them were fishermen with sparkly rods and reels, but he figured that gave it some local flavor. Then he cooked up some steak and potatoes for dinner, and when Tala walked in from work that evening, her mouth dropped open. “What did you do?”

“I brought you Christmas.”

She blinked, hard, and he could see tears in her eyes. “You’re a terrible outlaw,” she said. “Do you know that?”

“As long as I’m good for you.”

She dropped her bag and threw herself into his arms, kissing him hard. “I need you,” she said.

“I’ve got dinner ready to go.”

“I don’t care about dinner.”

This was Christmas. This. Presents didn’t matter. The day didn’t matter. This was merry and bright in all the ways he had never understood it, because truth be told, he’d never had a real Christmas either.

He spent it out at bars with other guys from the rodeo, but Christmas had never featured at his house growing up.

And something like this. This cozy little room, and a Christmas tree just for them...

And her unwrapping herself beneath it... It was everything.

It didn’t matter that he’d seen her undress countless times in the last couple of weeks. It was like magic every time. To watch her unveil her plump, perfect breasts, to see the pert, tight nipples begging for his attention. The indent of her waist, the gentle flare of her hips. She was everything beautiful made just for him. The sort of softness his hands had always itched to touch, even though he’d never known. The exact shape of all of his fantasies, even if he never had them before he’d seen her.

This house contained them all. And she contained everything.

Brightness and hope and joy.

She moved to him, pressing her hand to his chest, then moving it down and pushing her fingertips beneath the hem of his shirt. She pushed it up over his head, revealing the angry red scar where his stitches were no longer. He was on the mend, and there was no excuse for him to still be here. That was a fact. The day they’d cut the stitches out, they hadn’t talked about that.