Winter Town

Winter in Texas is a fickle thing. Though the season is mild compared to what I'd read about up north, the ice on the roads was slick enough to make every step feel like a gamble. James pulled up to the front of Aunt Helen's house in his dad's massive truck, and the sight made my stomach flip for more reasons than one. His grin, boyish and confident, was enough to melt any lingering frost in the air.

I shifted uneasily in my tight sweater dress, a deep maroon that clung to every curve Tracy and Aunt Helen had carefully sculpted. My suede boots barely reached my knees, and despite their chunkiness, I felt exposed. Vulnerable. Even though the hormones had softened my features, the dress still felt too feminine, too... Heather. I tried to focus on the weight of the outfit, the warmth it provided against the winter chill, but all I could think about was how the hem threatened to ride up with every movement.

James climbed out of the truck and strode over, his boots crunching on the icy gravel. "Hey, Heather," he called, his voice warm and casual. My heart thumped wildly, and I hated that I responded to his presence this way.

"Hi," I replied, voice soft and breathy—Heather's voice.

James eyed the truck and then my dress, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Looks like getting you up there might be a challenge," he joked. Before I could protest, he scooped me up effortlessly, cradling me like a bride. My arms flew around his neck out of instinct, and I felt myself flush. His touch was strong, his warmth seeping through my dress and wrapping around me like a blanket. Our cheeks got really close, our lips were almost touching.

"James! I can manage," I sputtered, but he only chuckled, placing me on the seat of the truck with such care it made my head spin. He reached across me to buckle the seatbelt, and the proximity left me breathless. The click of the buckle seemed to echo in the silence that followed.

"Safe and sound," he said, giving me a grin that sent butterflies swirling in my stomach.

I didn't know whether to thank him or push him away. My mind was a whirlwind of confusion, but I forced a small, grateful smile. "Thank you," I whispered, feeling like a child strapped in by a doting father. Except this was different—James wasn't fatherly. He was something else entirely.

As we drove to the Winter Town, a small seasonal festival set up on the outskirts of town, I kept my hands clasped tightly in my lap. The festival was known for its holiday lights, cozy food stands, and an ice-skating rink that attracted couples and families alike. I couldn't shake the feeling that this outing was more than just a casual trip. James seemed... attentive. Protective. And I couldn't deny that, as much as it unnerved me, it also made me feel special.

When we arrived, the scene was like something out of a holiday card. Twinkling lights decorated every tree, and laughter echoed from the skating rink. James led me through the crowd, his hand resting lightly on my back, guiding me. His touch made me hyperaware of everything: the way my dress hugged my body, the cold nipping at my exposed legs, the curious glances we drew from passersby.

He bought us hot chocolate, and I sipped mine, grateful for the warmth. "Do you want to try skating?" he asked, his eyes shining with a playful challenge.

I hesitated, looking at the rink. Girls in thick, fluffy coats and earmuffs glided gracefully, laughing as their boyfriends steadied them. The idea of being out there, exposed, terrified me. But James's hopeful expression made me reconsider. Maybe I could be brave. Maybe I could pretend, just for a little while, that I was one of those carefree girls.

"Sure," I said, forcing a smile.

The ice was slick, and my legs wobbled in the skates. James stayed close, his strong hands catching me whenever I stumbled. "I've got you," he said, his voice soothing, and for a moment, I believed him. Each time I faltered, he was there, his laughter warm and genuine. I found myself laughing too, a sound that felt foreign yet freeing.

Somewhere between the falls and the laughter, I realized something unsettling. James wasn't just being protective. He was... enamored. The way he looked at me, the way his touch lingered—it was more than just a friend helping another. And the worst part was that a part of me, a growing part, liked it. Liked the way he made me feel cherished, delicate, and even beautiful.

When we finally left the rink, breathless and rosy-cheeked, James led me to a quiet corner where a snow-dusted bench overlooked the sparkling festival lights. He sat beside me, close enough that our shoulders touched. Silence stretched between us, comfortable yet charged.

"You were amazing out there," he said, his voice low. His eyes searched mine, and I could feel the intensity of his gaze.

"Thanks," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. My heart pounded, and I knew he could probably feel the tension radiating from me.

James leaned in, his face inches from mine. My breath caught, and I felt frozen, not from the cold but from the anticipation. Was he going to kiss me? Did I want him to?

I closed my eyes, and for a brief, terrifyingmoment, I forgot who I was supposed to be. Heather, John—none of it mattered.All that mattered was this boy, his warmth, and the strange, wonderful feelingof being wanted.