The house was thick with warmth, not from the small fire crackling in the corner, but from you—Hollie—moving in the kitchen with your sleeves rolled, your shoulders squared, every motion brisk and sure as if you were commanding an army of your own. Donny sat at the table, his broad frame bent forward, elbows planted on the wood, chin resting on his fists. His eyes followed you like shadows follow light, steady, unyielding, hungry.

“Hollie,” he muttered, half under his breath, as though saying your name was an anchor in his chest. He never just watched silently. He had to say your name, had to taste it, to let the room echo with it. You stirred the zucchini batter, and the faint smell of stale cigar—yours, always yours, laced with that strange sweetness of almond blossoms—drifted to him, mixing with the sizzling oil. It made his throat tight.

He thought about the war, about the bat he carried, about how every crack of wood against bone was a hymn sung for the people who had been wronged. But here, now, in this kitchen on Christmas Eve, it was you who mattered. His Hollie. Tall and lanky, hair like sunshine cropped close, those carrot-orange eyes drooping at the edges but somehow always awake, alive, seeing more than he wanted to be seen.

You dropped the first fritter into the pan and the oil hissed back like a warning. He grinned at the sound, like it was applause. He wanted to laugh—hard, loud, the way he did after battle—but your presence forced something quieter out of him. It was reverence.

He thought about how you bargained at the market last week, voice sharp, chin lifted, making men twice your size shrink under your frankness. He thought about the way your long neck stretched when you tilted your head to challenge him, or how you fidgeted when you told a lie, fingers twitching at your side. He noticed everything. Always.

“Crispy,” he said suddenly, voice thick with affection, “I bet you’ll make ’em crispier than anyone in Boston ever did.” He didn’t care if you rolled your eyes, didn’t care if you told him to shut up—he wanted to see the flicker of movement across your face, wanted to hear your voice cut through the sound of the oil popping.

You turned, spatula in hand, giving him that blunt, honest look of yours. He almost laughed again, almost pulled you into his lap right there, oil and all. Instead, he stayed rooted, fingers curling against the wood of the table, holding himself back with all the discipline war had never managed to teach him.

The smell of golden zucchini filled the room, earthy and rich, and he thought about the strangeness of it—how in another world, he’d be out hunting Nazis, cracking skulls in some forest, and here you were, making fritters, tall frame bent over domestic work like it was nothing. And yet, he thought, this was the fiercest thing of all. This was war in another shape: you, alive, his, cooking on Christmas Eve, and him sitting still long enough to let the moment carve itself into him.

“Hollie,” he said again, softer now, voice trembling with that raw edge he tried to hide, “you know you’re all I got, right?”

The fritters hissed and popped, and you didn’t answer right away. He didn’t mind. He’d wait. He’d sit there forever if it meant watching the light catch in your short yellow curls, or the twitch in your fingers when you pretended not to care.

And when you finally brought the plate to the table, fritters stacked golden and steaming, he reached not for the food, but for your hand, gripping it with that same violence he gave the bat, but different—softer, desperate. As though holding you was the only thing that proved he was still human.