**CHAPTER 10: NEW YEAR**

The house is too quiet.

That’s the first thing I notice when I step into the kitchen before dawn. The holidays stripped the place bare of its usual festive chaos. The garland I fought to drape over the mantel is coiled in a box. The string lights that made the living room feel like a winter wonderland are tucked away in plastic bins. Even the smell of cinnamon and pine has been replaced by the sharp, clean scent of lemon polish and cold air bleeding through the window frames. New Year’s Eve happened. Ate cake. Danced badly. Watched fireworks through the upstairs window. And now, the morning after, reality is sneaking back in through the cracks.

I’m folding the last of the throw blankets, stacking them neatly on the sofa like I can organize my way out of the sudden hollow feeling in my chest. My suitcase sits half-packed by the front door. Not because I’m leaving forever. Just because the holidays are over, and I’ve spent enough time under this roof. Enough time with him.

Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, familiar.

I don’t have to look up to know it’s Drake. The floorboards groan under his weight the same way they always do. He moves through spaces like he’s claiming them. Military precision wrapped in worn flannel and exhaustion.

He stops in the doorway, arms crossed over that broad chest, dark hair still damp from a shower. A mug of black coffee rests in one hand. His eyes, usually guarded and sharp, are soft in the dim morning light. They track me as I fold a chunky knit blanket, my fingers brushing the wool.

“You’re packing,” he says. Not a question. A statement. Grumpy. Grounded.

“I’m tidying,” I correct, smiling up at him. “Big difference. One implies I’m abandoning you. The other implies I’m just trying to keep this place from looking like a tornado hit it.”

His jaw tightens. Just a fraction. I know that tell. Drake’s emotions don’t bounce off him; they lodge in his muscles, his silence, the way his shoulders hinge when he’s holding back words that want to escape.

“You don’t have to leave yet,” he says.

“I know. But it’s been a month. Your mom’s house, my place, the cabin… it’s been nice. But I should go back to my own apartment. Let the new year start on my own terms.”

Drake takes a slow sip of coffee. Doesn’t look at me. “Your terms.”

“Yeah. New year, fresh start, all that.” I keep folding. My hands tremble slightly. I blame the cold. He knows better.

He sets the mug down on the counter. The clink of ceramic on wood echoes too loudly in the quiet kitchen. Then he’s moving. Not fast. Just inevitable. He steps into my space, close enough that I catch the scent of sandalwood and clean cotton that always clings to him. His hand covers mine, still resting on the folded blanket. His skin is warm. Rough. Real.

“Holly,” he says. My name sounds different in his mouth right now. Lower. Stripped of the usual gruff edge. Raw.

I look up. His eyes are dark, fixed on mine. No deflection. No military detachment. Just him. All of him.

“I’m not asking you to leave,” he says. “I’m asking you to stay.”

My breath catches. “Stay? Here? In your mom’s guest room? Drake, I can’t just—”

“It’s not about a room.” His thumb brushes over my knuckles. Once. Twice. “It’s about you. In my space. In my life. No more pretending I don’t want you when you walk into a room. No more swallowing every damn word I want to say when you laugh at my jokes. No more watching you pack that little suitcase like I’m supposed to just let you walk out that door and pretend none of this matters.”

The air leaves my lungs. The quiet kitchen suddenly feels too small, too charged. My pulse hammers in my throat.

“Drake…” I whisper.

He steps back just enough to look at me properly. His chest rises and falls. He’s fighting something. I can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers flex against my hand.

“I’m not doing this because we’re family,” he says, voice low and steady. “I’m not doing it out of obligation. I’m not doing it because your mom begged me or because the holidays made it convenient. I’m doing it because I’m done pretending I don’t want you. Because every time you smile at me, it wrecks me. Because I lie awake wondering what it would feel like to wake up next to you. Because I’m tired of ignoring you. And I don’t want to go back to ignoring you. I want you. In my life. Every day.”

The words hit me like a physical thing. Warm. Heavy. Irreversible.

My chest aches. My eyes burn. I want to say something clever. Something sunny. Something that keeps the distance safe. But Drake doesn’t give me the luxury of deflection. He never does. He just stands there, waiting. Grumpy exterior cracked open to reveal the man underneath. The one who notices when I skip meals. The one who fixes my leaky faucet without being asked. The one who held me when my dad died. The one who’s been mine, in every way that matters, long before I admitted it to myself.

“You’re serious,” I breathe.

He nods. Once. “Dead serious.”

“No rings. No vows. No grand promises about forever.” I test the words. Need to hear them.

He almost smiles. Almost. “I’m not marrying you, Holly. I’m not promising you a life I can’t guarantee. But I’m promising you this: if you stay, you stay with me. As my woman. As the person I want to wake up to, argue with, fuck, laugh with, live with. No fairy tale. Just us. If you want it.”

I stare at him. The grumpy stepbrother who scowls at his coffee and grunts at small talk. The man who carries me over thresholds without asking. The one who looks at me like I’m the only thing in the room that makes sense.

I drop the blanket. Step into him. My hands find his chest, feeling the hard line of his muscles, the steady drum of his heart. He doesn’t move at first. Lets me touch him. Lets me confirm he’s real.

“Stay,” I whisper. “Let me stay.”

Something in his face shatters. The restraint. The control. The years of military discipline and self-imposed distance. It all cracks open.

His hands come up to my waist, gripping me like I’m the only solid thing in a spinning world. He pulls me against him. Hard. Close. So close I can feel the heat radiating off him, the tension coiled in every inch of his body.

“Say it again,” he growls. Voice rough. Desperate.

“I want you,” I say. “I’ve wanted you. For months. Since the day you glared at me for stealing the last donut and then secretly put the box back for me.”

A low sound escapes him. Half laugh, half groan. His mouth crashes into mine.

It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s hunger and relief and three weeks of suppressed need finally breaking through the dam. His lips are hard and demanding, but the way his tongue sweeps into my mouth is reverent. Like he’s memorizing me. I melt into him, fingers tangling in his damp hair, pulling him closer. He groans against my mouth, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of my head, the other pressing firmly against the small of my back, pinning me to him.

I taste coffee and mint and Drake. All Drake. My grumpy stepbrother. My secret. My choice.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to unbutton my robe. His fingers work the fabric with practiced efficiency, but his hands shake. I help him. Push the sleeves down. Let the material slip off my shoulders. My bra is the next to go. His thumb brushes my nipple, already pebbled in the cold air, and he shudders.

“Fuck,” he breathes. Eyes locked on mine. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

I smile against his mouth. “Teach me.”

He doesn’t need telling twice. He lifts me. Easy. Like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and he carries me out of the kitchen, through the hallway, up the stairs. His boots echo against the wood. His breathing is uneven. Mine is frantic.

He kicks the bedroom door open and lays me down on the bed. The mattress dips under our weight. He follows me down, caging me in with his arms. His eyes roam over me. Dark. Hungry. Worshipful.

“Look at me,” he says.

I do.

“Tell me you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” I whisper. “I’ve been sure since you brought me soup when I had the flu. Since you stood in the rain waiting for me without an umbrella. Since you look at me like I’m the only thing that matters in a room full of noise.”

He nods. Once. Swallows hard. Then his mouth is on my neck. Not gentle. Not rough. Just true. He bites my shoulder, licks the sting away, trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down my collarbone. His hands are everywhere. Sliding under the hem of my sleep shirt. Pushing it up. Exposing me. His calloused palms glide over my ribs, my stomach, my hips. Every touch sends sparks straight to my core.

He kneels between my legs. Pushes my sleep shorts down. My underwear follows. He doesn’t rush. Takes his time, dragging his fingers down my thighs, mapping me like he’s learning a new language. When his thumb finds me, slick and aching, I arch off the mattress. A broken sound escapes my throat.

“Fuck, Holly,” he murmurs. Voice wrecked. “You’re so wet for me.”

I whimper. Nod. “Please.”

He doesn’t make me beg twice. Two fingers slip inside me. Slow. Deep. I gasp. He fills me perfectly. His angle is exact. His rhythm is steady. But it’s the way he looks at me while he strokes me that undoes me. Those military-hard eyes are soft. Focused. Devoted. Like I’m the only thing in the world he’s ever wanted to worship.

He adds a third finger. I cry out. He shushes me with his mouth, kissing me deeply while his hand works me. He curls his fingers just right. Hits that spot inside me that makes my vision blur. I grip his shoulders. Dig my nails into his skin. He grunts, adjusts his angle, drives deeper. My climax builds fast. Too fast. He feels it. Pulls back.

“Don’t come yet,” he orders. Voice low. Commanding. But I know it’s not for control. It’s for me. For us.

I nod, panting. He strokes me slower. Teases me. Brings me to the edge and pulls me back. Again. And again. Until I’m trembling. Until I’m begging.

“Drake, please. I need—”

“Take it,” he cuts in. Stops his hand. Pushes his belt free. Buckle clicks. Zipper lowers. He shoves his pants and boxers down. His cock springs free. Thick. Heavy. Veined. Already leaking at the tip.

I stare at him. Mouth dry. Heart pounding.

He lines himself up. Presses the head against my entrance. Doesn’t push in. Just waits.

“Look at me,” he says.

I do.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs. “Not by blood. Not by law. By choice. By desire. Say it.”

“You’re mine,” I breathe. “I’m yours.”

He pushes in.

I gasp. Scream. Arch. He’s so big. So perfect. He fills me completely. Stretches me. Claims me. He stills. Lets me adjust. Lets the shock turn to heat. Turns to need.

Then he moves.

Slow at first. Deep strokes. Each one dragging a whimper from my lips. His hands grip my hips. Anchoring me. Pulling me down onto him. The friction is exquisite. The angle hits every nerve ending. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. He groans, forehead dropping to my shoulder. His thrusts grow faster. Harder. Deeper. The bed creaks. My nails carve lines down his back. He doesn’t flinch. Just grunts, drives into me, takes what I’m offering.

“Drake,” I cry. “Drake, I’m close—”

“Let go,” he growls. One hand slides up. Thumb presses against my clit. Circles. Rubs. Perfect rhythm. “Come for me, Holly. I want to feel you break.”

I don’t hold back. I let go. The climax crashes over me like a wave. I scream his name. Shatter. My body convulses around him. He follows me over the edge with a rough groan, driving deep, holding himself inside me as he empties. Hot. Thick. Unstoppable.

We stay like that. Breathing. Shaking. Connected.

His forehead rests against mine. His arms lock around me. He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move. Just holds me. Like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. Like he’s memorizing the feel of me in his arms.

I trace the line of his jaw. “You mean it?” I whisper. “All of it.”

He kisses me. Slow. Sweet. Reassuring. “Every word.”

I smile. Press my lips to his. “Then I’m staying.”

He exhales. A real laugh this time. Quiet. Grumpy but fond. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go.”

We don’t get out of bed for a long time. The morning light creeps through the curtains. The house stays quiet. But it doesn’t feel empty anymore. It feels full. Ours.

When I finally swing my legs over the edge of the bed, Drake’s hand catches my wrist. Gentle. Possessive.

“Where you going?” he asks.

“Kitchen,” I say. “I’m making breakfast. And you’re not allowed to scowl at the toaster.”

He pulls me back down. Kisses my temple. “I’ll help. If you let me.”

I look at him. Really look. The grumpy stepbrother who’s been my shadow, my sanctuary, my secret desire. Now he’s my choice. My reality. My new year.

I nod. “Deal.”

He smiles. Small. Real. Grumpy but mine.

And just like that, the holidays are over. But we’re just beginning.