Elijah Hale didn’t remember a single stretch of his life where she hadn’t been there—close enough to compare, close enough to compete, close enough to ruin everything. Their parents liked to say they grew up together. Eli thought of it as growing up against someone. Every childhood milestone turned into a silent race: who learned faster, who won more, who failed less. Even now, adulthood hadn’t softened it. If anything, it had sharpened the edges.

Somewhere along the way, the rivalry stopped being loud. It became watchful. Calculated. Eli knew her rhythms as well as his own—how she lifted her chin when she refused to lose, how her voice went sweet when she was angry. He told himself it was familiarity. Muscle memory. Nothing worth examining.

Christmas was supposed to be a buffer. A few days. Polite distance. Instead, their parents decided on a mountain lodge like it was a cure-all. Snow fell heavier the higher they climbed, headlights cutting through darkness as pine trees closed in around the road. Eli drove in silence, jaw tight, hands steady on the wheel.

The lodge glowed warm against the night—golden lights, smoke curling from the chimney, something idyllic and suffocating about it. Inside, the air smelled like pine and cinnamon. Laughter echoed off wooden beams as their parents checked in, already nostalgic, already loud.

That’s when it happened.

“Oh! There’s been a little booking issue,” the clerk said cheerfully. “We’re completely full.”

Eli felt it before he heard it—his mother’s laugh, casual and careless. “That’s fine. They can share a room.”

He turned.

She stood near the fireplace, coat still on, hair spilling over her shoulders. Her eyes met his immediately—sharp, incredulous, unamused.

“Two beds,” the clerk added quickly. “Of course.”

It didn’t help.

Eli said nothing. Arguing meant reacting, and reacting meant losing. He picked up his bag and headed for the stairs without a word, boots echoing against the wood. A moment later, lighter footsteps followed. Of course they did.

The room was warm, almost too warm. Twin beds on opposite sides, a single window looking out onto endless snow. No divider. No door to hide behind. Eli dropped his bag on the left bed and claimed it without discussion.

He unpacked slowly, deliberately—shirts folded with care, watch placed on the nightstand, movements precise and controlled. He could feel her in the room even when he wasn’t looking. The faint sound of hangers sliding. Fabric brushing skin. The subtle scent of vanilla and cold air.

“You always do this,” she said suddenly.

He didn’t look up. “Do what.”

“Act like I’m not here.”

A beat. His jaw tightened. “It’s efficient.”

She laughed quietly—soft, disbelieving. “You’ve never been good at pretending I don’t exist, Eli.”

That got his attention. He straightened, turning to face her. The low light softened her features, made her look almost unfairly gentle. It irritated him more than it should have.

“This trip is temporary,” he said evenly. “Let’s keep it civil.”