Page 55 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

Kenny kissed him then. Soft and sweet and everything Aaron needed but never knew how to ask for. “Then it’s ours.”

Together, they crouched in the frostbitten mud, Kenny guiding the saw in steady strokes, while Aaron braced the trunk, fingers numb inside his gloves. It took longer than expected. Aaron swore as he slipped, caught himself with a muttered curse, and laughed despite it all, the cold biting his cheeks.

When the tree finally gave, it toppled with a limp thud into Aaron’s arms.

Aaron straightened, breathing hard. Then watched, quietly impressed, as Kenny took the tree from him and hefted it over one shoulder as if it weighed nothing. As if he’d been carrying heavy things—grief, history, him—his whole life and didn’t complain.

Aaron blinked, and for a second, the world went a little fuzzy.

“You okay?” Kenny spun towards him, brow furrowed.

Aaron nodded, then shrugged. “Yeah. Cold.”

Kenny brushed his knuckles along the edge of Aaron’s jaw, warming the space with his eyes. “Come on, then. Let’s thaw you out.”

Chaos lost his mind the moment they got back to the car, tail banging the crate as they secured the tree to the roof. And when they pulled into their cottage’s drive, he howled.

Inside, Aaron fed him while Kenny got the fire going, kneeling on the rug, sleeves rolled, coaxing the flames to life with the same reverence he gave everything that needed warming. He set the tree in a pot in itsusual corner, then retrieved the dusty box of decorations from the loft. Most of it was second-hand sentiment: baubles from Kenny’s old place, a few mismatched pieces they’d picked up at markets last year. It didn’t matter. It felt like them.

Aaron cracked open two bottles of beer. Put the jukebox on low. Stuffed a mince pie into Kenny’s mouth as he came out of the kitchen, earning himself a muffled curse and a slap on the arse.

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to ruin you,” Kenny mumbled around a mouthful of pastry.

Aaron grinned. “You say that, but you’re already planning it.”

Kenny leaned in, nuzzled the curve of his neck. “Always.”

The lights were low. Gold and glowing. Firelight danced over the grate, while the blinking fairy lights drooped unevenly along the mantel. The whole house smelled of cinnamon and pine, sugar and ash.

And behind all of it was Kenny. Watching him.

Aaron hooked a bauble onto a too-thin branch, then glanced over his shoulder. “How’d it go with the police?”

“It went.” Kenny crouched at the base of the tree, threading a wire hook. “I’ve got the file.”

“So you’ll be balls-deep in that instead of me tonight.”

Kenny rose smoothly and lobbed a bauble at him. “I’ll be bauble-deep whenIdecide.”

Aaron caught it one-handed, fumbled, then managed to hang it. “That was pathetic.”

Kenny arched a brow. “So was your catch.”

“Maybe it’s your throwing.”

“You’ve never complained about how I pitch before.” Kenny’s mouth curved into a wicked grin.

Aaron’s snort came out hotter than he meant, and he turned back to rearrange some tinsel. “Can I see it? The file.”

“If you want to.” Kenny adjusted a crooked ornament. He already knew Aaron would change his mind three times before making it to page one.

Aaron reached for the final bauble, a glittery lobster in a Santa hat they’d found last year, drunk in some charity shop on Christmas Eve.

He hung it.

Stepped back.

Kenny moved behind him, sliding one hand into Aaron’s back pocket. “You’re still cold.”