Christmas With My Ex (Stuck For the Holidays)

7. Rives

SEVEN

Rives

I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus / Underneath the mistletoe last night.

8:01 pm

Nicholas’ hands are on me before the echo fades, a familiarity that sets my skin alight with a fire I thought I'd extinguished years ago. It's a conflagration now, feeding on the years of absence, the months of passion that simmered just under the surface, now boiling over.

Nicholas's mouth finds mine with an urgency that steals my breath, and I'm back in the whirlwind, the eye of the storm where it's just us, the world spinning madly on outside this room. My back hits the wall, the coldness of it a stark contrast to the inferno of his body against mine.

"Missed you, Rives," he growls, his voice a low rasp that sends shivers down my spine.

"Show me," I challenge, my hands already tearing at his jacket, our breaths mingling in rapid, heated pants.

Clothes become a barrier, a nuisance to be rid of. We're a tangle of limbs and desperation, each piece of fabric that hits the floor a small victory. His shirt, my sweater, our hands are everywhere, rediscovering terrain we once knew by heart but now find new and exciting.

I fumble with his belt, the leather rough against my fingers, and he chuckles darkly, a sound that's both foreign and intimately familiar. "Eager?"

"Always," I admit, my voice husky as I succeed in pushing his pants down, my palm grazing the hardness beneath his boxers.

He groans, his head falling back as I explore him, the sound pulling at something deep within me. My jeans are next, discarded with haste, his fingers hooking into the waistband of my underwear, dragging them down my legs.

We stumble towards the bed, a dance of lips and hands and need. The bedding is a mess beneath us as we fall, a testament to the wildness of our reunion. His body covers mine, the weight of him both a comfort and an excitement.

Our eyes meet, a silent acknowledgment of the hunger that drives us. It's not gentle, not this time. It's a reclamation, a fierce repossession of something we both thought lost.

I arch into him as he enters me, a single, perfect moment where time seems to suspend, and it's just him and me, skin on skin, breath for breath, heartbeat for heartbeat.

"You feel like home," he whispers, his voice breaking on the last word as he starts to move, each thrust driving the breath from my lungs, each roll of his hips igniting a fresh wave of pleasure.

I wrap my legs around him, pulling him deeper, wanting to feel the burn of him tomorrow, a brand to remind me that this wasn't just a fever dream. "Harder," I demand, my fingers digging into his back, and he complies, his control slipping as he gives us both what we need.

Our cries fill the room, a symphony of gasps and moans, punctuated by the slap of skin on skin, the headboard thumping rhythmically against the wall. It's primitive, this dance, and I meet him thrust for thrust, our bodies moving in a rhythm as old as time.

The world outside fades to nothing, the looming storm just a whisper against the tempest we've created in this room. There's nothing but us, the heat of our bodies, the slickness of our skin, and the unspoken promise that tonight, we belong to each other.

Sunday, December 24

7:01 am

The first thing I feel is warmth—his warmth, his presence.

My eyes blink open slowly, the morning light creeping through the cracks of the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. I don’t move at first, not wanting to face the reality of what happened last night. But the weight of it presses down on me, suffocating in its clarity.

Nicholas is still here. His steady breathing fills the silence, his arm draped loosely around my waist. It’s comforting, and utterly terrifying at the same time.

What the hell was I thinking?

I stare up at the ceiling, my heart hammering in my chest as the events of last night come flooding back. The text. The knock on the door. The dessert. And then...

The way I pulled him in, I must think I'm some sex kitten from a television show. What the fuck was that?

I knew where this would go if I let him come up here.

The second I saw him standing there with his crème br?lée, a brilliant carrot to get his foot in the door, I knew.

I could have said no… I could have stopped it… I could have not answered his text in the first place.

I didn’t do any of those things. Instead, I threw gasoline on the fire.

So, this isn't on him by a long shot.

Then, I remember my leg. It doesn't feel too sore, not like I expected, but I'm aware it will betray me if I try to stand, certainly if I try to run, both literally and figuratively.

I close my eyes, trying to block it all out. The regret is already there, crushing me, making me experience every single bit of the mess that is my life right now.

It is almost like I wanted to think we could just hang out like old friends, that I could keep things casual, detached.

The sheets rustle beside me, and my breath hitches. I turn my head slightly, just enough to see him. His handsome face, his long, dark eyelashes, are almost too perfect for words. It shouldn't be fair for one man to be so good looking.

Nicholas is still fast asleep, and his arm now rests lazily at his side. His light brown hair is tousled, and there’s this relaxed, peaceful look on his face that twists something inside me. I can't square the dichotomy between how much I am drawn to him physically and emotionally and how much my heart is warning me to run.

The smell of him, soap and something deeper, something distinctly him, fills my senses, and I curse myself for how much I’m still drawn to him, even after everything.

What are you doing, Rives?

I turn my head away from him, staring back up at the ceiling. I’ve been here before. I know how this ends. We’re two people who can’t make it work, no matter how good it feels in the moment. We tried once, and it ended in pieces.

Motherfucker, it's Christmas Eve, and I've got a man I simultaneously hate and can't resist sleeping in my bed. How am I going to get myself out of this?

I rub my hands over my face, groaning softly to myself. I can feel the weight of his arm close to me, but I don’t move it. The last thing I need is for him to wake up, for us to actually have to talk about this, because I have no idea what to say.

He’s still Nicholas—handsome, great in bed, complicated, a man with a life too full for me to fit into. He's still a single dad, an ER doc. There’s no room for anything more, not really.

And then, there's my secret I still have.

Even if I have calmed some and his son has gotten older and he doesn't need to be there for the child’s every move, this is big, black, life-altering secret… If he ever finds out, it will surely make him hate me.

I pull the sheet tighter around me, wanting to shrink into it, to disappear. If only we were in his room, then I could sneak out and avoid him for the next few days.

But I'm not. We are here, in my room, and there is no running this time.

Nicholas stirs beside me, his arm brushing against my side, and my breath catches in my throat. But I can already feel myself slipping.

I glance over at him again, the rise and fall of his chest, the peaceful look on his face. The last thing I want is to wake him up, to face whatever awkward conversation comes next, so I lie here, staring at the ceiling, feeling the pull of everything I’ve been trying so hard to resist.

Maybe it’s already too late.

7:20 am

I can’t stay here for another second. The longer I lie in bed, the tighter the knot in my chest grows. The weight of everything from last night—the memories, the tension, the heat, the secret—it’s too much.

If Nicholas wakes up and we’re forced to talk, forced to confront it all, it’ll only make it worse.

My eyes flick to the crutch leaning against the wall, just beyond the bedside table. The reminder of why I’m here in the first place—hurt, alone, and now tangled up in something I shouldn’t be.

I slowly shift to the edge of the bed, careful not to wake him. His breathing is still steady, his body relaxed in sleep. I place the sheet carefully to the side as I slip my feet over the edge, feeling the cool air hit my skin.

Come on, Rives. Move. Quiet but productive.

I push myself up, biting my lip as I quietly reach for the crutch. The room is still dim, the early morning light casting soft shadows around us. I hold my breath as I stand, careful not to let the bed creak under my weight. For a moment, I glance back at him, still asleep and seemingly oblivious.

For a split second, I consider lying back down. Letting things play out, throwing caution to the wind, as I said last night. What a dumb thing to say.

I reach for my clothes, scattered carelessly across the chair and floor from last night. My leggings, my sweater. I pull them on quietly, trying not to make a sound as I dress. My movements are slow, deliberate, but my heart pounds in my chest, half-afraid that he’ll wake up any second and see me standing here like an idiot, trying to sneak out of my own room.

As soon as I’m dressed, I reach for my other crutch and glance at the door. I just need to get out of here. Go downstairs, grab some coffee, and hope that by the time I come back, he’ll be gone. He’ll get the hint, slip out quietly, and we won’t have to do this awkward morning-after talk of shame.

That’s the best outcome, right? An easy exit for both of us. No need to rehash what happened. No need to pretend it meant anything more than it did. No need to reveal any secrets.

I push the door open quietly, wincing at the soft creak. My pulse quickens as I slip into the hallway, crutches in hand, and close the door behind me with a soft click.

It’s Christmas Eve. It's supposed to be a time of joy and celebration, but I've never felt so grim and unsure of myself.

As I make my way toward the elevator, the hotel is still quiet, the early hour wrapping everything in a soft, muted stillness. I glance over my shoulder once, half-expecting to hear the door open, to see Nicholas following me, but it’s quiet. No one’s around.

I press the button for the elevator, my mind racing with a million thoughts. I need to clear my head, to get some distance before he wakes up and everything comes crashing back in. Coffee. I need coffee.

The elevator doors slide open, and I step inside, my fingers trembling slightly as I press the button for the lobby.

Just breathe, Rives. Just breathe.

Silver Pick Coffee

Hotel Lobby

7:37 am

The smell of fresh coffee fills the lobby, mixing with the pine from the Christmas trees scattered around the resort. I shift my weight on my crutches, awkwardly making my way to the coffee bar. The barista, a woman with a friendly smile, looks up as I approach.

"Good morning!" she says, her eyes flicking down to my crutches. "Looks like you had a rough time out there. I'm guessing you need a strong dose of caffeine."

"Yeah, you could say that," I mutter, trying to keep my voice light. "I'll have a latte with a double-shot, please."

I lean against the counter and look around the quiet lobby while she makes my order. There are a few people walking around, but mostly it is still quiet.

"Here you go," she says, pulling me out of my reverie.

She hands me the coffee and leans over the counter, lowering her voice like she’s letting me in on a secret. "Not sure if you're planning to get out of here today, but most of the roads are closed for now. I typically don't work the café, but since I live in walking distance from here, I had to come in for the guy who was supposed to. Not a lot of driving happening in Telluride today."

"Lucky me, I guess. I don't plan to drive anywhere and I'm not supposed to fly out until Wednesday. How much snow did we get?"

"I'm not sure exactly, but I know we got several feet of snow overnight, and they’re still working on clearing things out. Some of the sidewalks are open if you’re up for a walk."

I glance out the large double door behind her, seeing the thick blanket of snow covering everything. Sidewalks are being shoveled, but it looks like a losing battle. "Doesn’t look like I’ll be walking far today," I say, holding up my crutches.

"Yeah, good point. I wouldn’t recommend it," she says with a smile. "Not until they clear and get some salt out there so you don't slip. But don’t worry—we’ve got some holiday crafts going on today, if you’re looking for something to do. Keeps things festive around here."

I've never felt so un-festive my entire life. Maybe some forced holiday projects are just what I need to pull myself out of this pity part.

"Crafts?" I raise an eyebrow, already half-tempted to dismiss the idea.

"Yeah! Ornament painting, gingerbread houses, wreath making. It’s fun, especially when the mountain’s closed."

The mention of the mountain makes my heart skip. "The mountain’s closed?"

"Yup, closed to skiing today," she says, tapping the counter with her nails. "Avalanche concerns. They’re checking the conditions after all that snow, but no one’s going up there today."

A small wave of relief washes over me. I half expected her to rave about perfect conditions, sure that I was missing the best day of skiing all season. But instead, the mountain’s closed, and for some reason, it feels like a small victory.

"That’s... good to know," I say, nodding slowly.

I thank her and head over to a large armchair by the window, balancing my coffee and crutches as I settle in. The chair is soft and welcoming, and I sink into it, letting out a long breath.

The snow outside is beautiful, soft and clean, piled high against the buildings. The storm might be over, but it’s left its mark, several feet of snow burying the resort.

It’s Christmas Eve, and everything looks so postcard. Twinkling lights on the trees, snow-draped rooftops, and the soft gray sky hinting at more snow to come.

I wrap my hands around my coffee cup, taking in the scene. The barista was right—it’s not safe out there yet, especially for me. The crutches would be useless on those icy sidewalks, and I’m in no mood to try to tear something in my other knee.

At least the mountain’s closed. That’s one less thing to feel sorry about.

I take a sip of my coffee, staring out at the quiet, snowy landscape. Maybe I can make it through today after all.

Most people are hunkered down with their families, sitting by the fire, wearing their pajamas all day while making sugar cookies and hanging sentimental ornaments, or at least that’s what all lonely people imagine.

The sky is a pale gray, but the light bouncing off the snow gives everything a strange glow. I take another slow sip of my coffee, staring out at the white expanse, trying to push away the knowledge that Nicholas is asleep upstairs in my bed.