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Here’s the thing about my futon.
I got it at a deep discount and soon discovered why: it’s the least comfortable futon known to mankind. Like, seriously, it’s an impressive feat that anyone managed to make such an uncomfortable futon.
It’s not a bad place to lounge—with lots of pillows—while you’re watching a movie, but it’s a terrible place to sleep.
I mean to replace it eventually, but I keep spending my money on other things. Recently, I’ve spent a lot on Christmas preparations. I don’t usually go all out like this for Christmas, but this year is a little different in my family, and I am determined to bring a ridiculous amount of Christmas cheer to my parents’ house on Monday.
I roll onto my stomach, but the futon is even more uncomfortable in this position. How is that possible?
Ugh. I don’t know what time it is now, but it’s going to be a long, long night.
If only I could be with Caitlin instead. But offering her the full use of the bed was the right thing to do. There’s no way I’d let her sleep on this travesty of a futon, and I couldn’t expect her to share a bed with me. Plus, that would give my body ideas.
“Wes.”
It sounds like Caitlin, but I must be imagining it. The pain of sleeping on this futon must be making me hallucinate. It can’t actually be her.
A small hand—a very cold small hand—covers my mouth.
“Sorry!” She jolts back. “I was aiming for your shoulder, but I couldn’t see in the dark.”
I exhale. “What’s up? Is something wrong?”
“I’m cold.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have any heat, not even a space heater.” I want everything to be perfect for Caitlin, but alas, I cannot control the whims of the silly old building I live in. “I’ll get you another blanket and a pair of fuzzy socks.”
“That sounds excellent, but I was actually wondering if you’d like to join me in bed?”
I couldn’t have heard that right. Maybe I’m hallucinating after all.
I flick on the lamp. Caitlin really is here, sitting on the edge of the futon.
“Are you propositioning me?” I ask.
I cannot tell you how many times I’ve dreamed of Caitlin inviting me to her bed. Or my bed, in this case.
She’s wearing one of my ugly Christmas sweaters, and her normally neat hair is a mess, but she’s still the most beautiful woman ever.
I’ve thought that since I was an eighteen-year-old kid.
Since she was the studious girl in my class who sat in the front row, and I was the goof in the back row. Since before she started conquering the world.
I always knew she’d succeed.
“No, no,” she says hastily, and I can’t help but deflate. At least she doesn’t sound disgusted by the possibility. “I just thought...well...the bed is probably more comfortable than this futon. I hate imposing on you like this, but...”
This hesitancy isn’t like her.
“I thought we could snuggle for warmth,” she finally says.
“You thought we could snuggle,” I repeat stupidly. “For warmth.”
“Yeah.” She balls her hands up in my enormous sweater. “I’m so cold I can’t sleep.”
“And you want me to share my body heat with you.”
“Yes, and I’ll share mine, too. If I have any, that is.”
I stare at her, wide-eyed.
Caitlin wants to fall asleep in my arms. It’s not like she wants anything more than to steal my body heat, but still.
This is dangerous. Really fucking dangerous. This won’t help me get over her.
“If you don’t want to,” she begins, “it’s okay. I know it’s awkward, since we’re not, you know.” She gestures between us. “But I thought...”
“It’s no problem,” I say, telling myself I’m just being a good friend.
Uh-huh.
In the bedroom, I get Caitlin a pair of fuzzy socks that I was given for Christmas one year. They’re too warm, so I never wear them, but that’s exactly what she needs.
Then we climb into bed together and I turn off the light.
God, this is surreal.
“So, uh, how are we going to do this?” she asks. “I’ll be the little spoon?”
“Yes, that works.” My voice is a bit rough.
She curls up on her side, hands under her head, and I curl myself around her, my chest pressed to her back. I don’t know how I’m going to sleep tonight, because this just feels so damn amazing and I want to treasure every minute of it.
I’m very sappy when it comes to Caitlin Ng. Always have been. In fact, I’m an absolute pile of marshmallow goo when it comes to her, and she feels as good in my arms as I’d dreamed she would. She fits against me just perfectly.
But in addition to having mushy thoughts about her right now, I’m also having sexual thoughts. I can’t help it, especially not when she shimmies and rubs her backside against me as she gets comfortable, obviously having no idea what she’s doing to me. I ache to feel her bare skin against mine.
However, I have twelve long years of practice in hiding my attraction to her. This is nothing I can’t handle, right?
“Better?” I ask.
I’m met with a cute little snore.
Yes, even her snores are lovely.
* * *
When I wake up the next morning, I’m surprised to discover that last night was not a dream. Caitlin and I are still in bed together, and are, in fact, still snuggling.
I spent an utterly chaste night with her—well, chaste everywhere except my mind—and I can’t help hoping her power isn’t back on yet. I can’t help hoping she’ll stay with me.
I have lots of things to do this weekend. In addition to decorating my tree, I plan to spend lots of time in the kitchen. The two of us can do it all together and, once again, be the perfect picture of domestic bliss.
I check the clock. It’s eight o’clock, and I suspect Caitlin is usually at the office by now. But not today. Today she’s...
“Oh. Oh.”
...making some sexy noises in my bed. Is she having a sex dream? Does it involve me? (Probably not.) How often does this happen?
She turns onto her other side so we’re face-to-face and wriggles her hips against me.
I already had morning wood. Is morning stone a thing?
Time to get out of bed, and maybe I should stop hoping her power is still out. Spending a day with Caitlin is really fucking dangerous for me.
Oh my God, now she’s hooking her left leg over my hip?
I let out an unsteady breath, and then I carefully put her leg back on the bed and get up, even though I desperately want to stay.
In the kitchen, I decide to make pancakes for breakfast, and I’ve just poured the first batch into the pan when Caitlin emerges from my bedroom, wearing my ugly Rudolph sweater, my sweatpants, and my fuzzy socks. Super cute.
“I can’t believe I slept in until after eight,” she says with a yawn.
“When do you usually wake up?”
“Five or five thirty.”
About what I’d expected. I, on the other hand, usually wake up about now. One of the perks of working from home. At first I was terrible at it, seeing as I’m not the most disciplined person, but I soon got the hang of it. I had to.
“You’re making pancakes!” Caitlin claps her hands with childlike excitement, and I smile. “I haven’t had pancakes in ages.”
As I hand her a mug of coffee, I can’t help but think about those breathy noises she made in bed. I’m too distracted to say anything, but luckily, she doesn’t notice.
She takes a seat at the table. “My power’s still out.”
I’m glad she’s letting me cook for her, rather than insisting on flipping the pancakes herself, and I can’t help a discreet fist pump at the comment about her power.
“Plus, due to the snowstorm, everyone is advised not to leave home,” she says, “unless absolutely necessary. It’s really bad out there. I wonder if the mayor will call in the army for snow removal, and Toronto will be the laughingstock of Canada again. Anyway, we’re basically snowbound together.”
I tell my body not to get too excited. “Do you have work to do?”
“Nope, the only thing I’m doing until after Christmas is checking to see if I have any emergency emails. Other than that, I’m free!” She gets up to do a little twirl, then sits back down. “I really need a break but have no idea what to do with myself. What are your plans for today?”
“Making orange pomander balls, shortbread cookies, and hopefully a gingerbread house from scratch.”
“Wow, that’s ambitious!”
I can’t help but feel a little twinge. “Yeah, it’s totally out of character for the guy who didn’t even try to pass signals and systems the first time around and was more concerned with the foosball tournament on campus.”
“Hey!” Caitlin says. “It’s almost Christmas. Why all the negative talk? Besides, you just weren’t in the right program, but you felt obligated to tough it out because of your parents. You’re hardly lazy and stupid. You know that, right?”
I step away from the stove to grab the maple syrup out of the fridge. “Yeah, I know.”
It was definitely the wrong program for me, but I still feel a little guilty that I did such a piss-poor job in school and wasn’t able to stand up to my parents until after it was all over.
But Caitlin doesn’t think I’m lazy, and her opinion matters to me.
I set a plate of pancakes in front of her, and she gives me an enormous grin, which I can’t help but return.
* * *
Caitlin and I are kicking ass at preparing for the holidays. It’s noon and there’s an entire bowl of orange and clove pomanders on the table, a batch of shortbread cookies cooling on a rack, and we’re in the middle of assembling the gingerbread house.
Caitlin hasn’t questioned my desire to go all-out for Christmas, and she didn’t ask for an explanation when I dumped a bag of ten oranges on the table and started pricking them with toothpicks. I made the designs with the toothpicks, and she pushed in the cloves after I was done. We made a good team.
Now, however, I think our streak of success is coming to an end.
My plans for the gingerbread house are very elaborate. It’s supposed to be a two-story house with a second-floor balcony, a chimney, a door, and eight windows with shutters. We’ve also baked several trees, plus a sleigh and two reindeer to go on the roof.
I’ve never made a gingerbread house before, but I was sure it would be no trouble, despite all the baking disasters I saw while binge-watching Nailed It! last week.
Unfortunately, even though we carefully followed my plans and baked all the pieces we needed, the house is now tilting precariously to the right, and I have yet to install the chimney.
I assemble the four sides of the chimney, pipe some royal icing onto one right side of the sloping roof, and place it on top.
I back away, hands in the air.
The chimney slides off the roof and onto a gingerbread tree, which crashes to the table.
“I told you there was a problem with the structural integrity of the house,” Caitlin says. “We should have made a triangular-prism gingerbread house. Fewer pieces. No balcony, no chimney.”
“Who lives in a triangular prism house?” I say. “Nobody.”
“Uh, what about these people?” She shoves her phone in my face. She’s done an image search, and her phone now displays a series of houses that are, indeed, perfect triangular prisms.
“If you look hard enough, you can find anything,” I grumble, “but a triangular prism house looks like a tent to me. I want to make a proper house.”
“The fact that the house is made of gingerbread is already a serious knock against it being a proper house.”
“Wouldn’t living in a house of gingerbread be fun? You could eat the walls.”
“Which would destabilize the house and the roof would come crashing down. You’d have some serious structural integrity problems.”
“Look at you, talking like an engineer.”
“We do both have engineering degrees.”
“In computer engineering, not structural engineering.”
I enjoy bickering with Caitlin. I’ve missed it in the past few months. It’s all in good fun, and I can’t help but imagine ending one of these arguments with a kiss. Can’t help but imagine toppling onto the lumpy futon and tearing off her clothes.
I shake my head, trying to clear it of that thought.
“Okay, okay.” I rake my hands through my hair. “We won’t have a chimney. Or maybe we’ll have a two-dimensional chimney rather than a proper four-sided one, and I can put the sleigh and reindeer on the front lawn rather than on the roof.”
“Very sensible.” Caitlin reaches out to...
Oh my God, she really is going to touch me.
“You have royal icing and sprinkles in your hair,” she says. “Tip: don’t run your hands through your hair when you’re making a gingerbread house.”
I exhale slowly as she removes the icing and whatever else I’ve got in there.
When she finishes, she doesn’t immediately step back. We stand there for a moment, much closer than friends normally stand. I want to pull her against me and share my body heat with her—the heat still hasn’t come back on, and she’s been wearing her toque inside all day. I want to lick icing off her finger, feed her the remaining three sides of the gingerbread chimney, and make her moan like she did in her sleep. Having those noises in my mind is torture.
Instead, I take a step back and say what a man always says when he’s lusting after a woman he can’t have.
“How about we start on the gumdrop forest?”
I’m pretty sure it’s just my imagination, but I swear I see a flicker of disappointment cross her face.