Chapter 181

Chapter 7

Christmas Eve arrived with a quiet kind of melancholy.

Andrea woke up to the familiar weight pressing down on her body—her swollen feet throbbing, her back aching, her entire being exhausted in a way that sleep never seemed to fix. She had hoped it would pass, that she could push through like she always did, but a single call to the doctor had shattered that illusion.

"You need to stop moving around entirely, Andrea," he had said in no uncertain terms. "Bed rest. No exceptions."

And just like that, her already small world became even smaller.

She sat propped up against a mountain of pillows, staring at the ceiling, feeling utterly helpless. She had never been the type to sit still, and now she had no choice but to do just that. The thought made her restless, frustrated, lonely.

But then, a distraction.

The sound of running water stopped, followed by the creak of the bathroom door opening. And Andrea—bored, miserable, and with nothing else to do—turned her head.

Asher stepped out, steam curling around his bare skin, beads of water rolling down his arms and chest. And for the first time, she really looked at him.

He wasn’t the ghost of a man she had found months ago, barely more than skin and bones. His muscles, once sunken and frail, were filling out. His cheeks, which had been hollow, now held a hint of fullness. The sharp edges of starvation had softened, slowly molding him back into whoever he had once been.

It should have been good news.

So why did it feel like a loss?

Andrea swallowed the tightness in her throat, looking away quickly, forcing herself to focus on something—anything—else. But the realization had already taken root, and it was impossible to ignore.

She was getting attached.

And that was dangerous.

How could she not, though?

They shared this tiny house, this tiny life. Mornings blurred into evenings with him beside her, cooking meals, sweeping the floors, making tea. He teased her with horrible dad jokes that made her groan but still managed to pull a reluctant smile from her lips. He played Chinese checkers with her every night, always winning, though he sometimes let her think she had a chance.

She was used to his presence now—the sound of him moving in the kitchen, the weight of him sitting across from her, the way he looked at her like she was more than just a struggling, abandoned woman in the countryside.

She was used to him taking care of her.

And that was the problem.

Because in just a few months, Andrea had already lost so much. She had faced rejection, pain, humiliation. She had been left behind, forced to carry the weight of single motherhood alone.

She couldn’t afford to lose anything else.

And if she let herself get too attached—if she let herself believe for even a second that this man, this stranger with no past, could be something permanent—then she was setting herself up for nothing but heartbreak.

And she could not survive another heartbreak.

So, Andrea pressed her lips together, forcing down whatever it was she felt creeping up inside her chest. She turned away, gripping the edge of her blanket, as if that alone could anchor her.

How could she not get attached when he did things like this?

This—meaning a warm bucket of water, infused with salts, set right at the edge of her bed for her swollen feet.

Andrea stared at it, then at him, hesitating. She had complained about the pain, sure, but she hadn’t expected him to actually do something about it.

“I asked the doctor,” Asher said as if reading her thoughts. “He said it would help.”

There was no expectation in his voice, no insistence—just quiet reassurance.

So, she let herself accept it.

He sat beside her, his shoulder brushing against hers as her legs dangled off the bed, feet sinking into the soothing warmth. Neither of them spoke for a while. Instead, they watched the world outside the window.

Three children played in the yard across the street, their laughter ringing through the crisp winter air. Mr. Dylan’s grandchildren. They must have come to visit for Christmas.

Andrea wasn’t sure how long they sat like that—silent, close, comfortable—before Asher finally spoke.

“Have all your Christmas Eves been like this? In Montera Springs?”

The question caught her off guard.

“This is my first Christmas in Montera Springs,” she admitted.

Asher’s gaze didn’t leave the window. “You didn’t want to visit family? Or invite them here?”

Andrea studied him, wondering if he even realized what he was really asking. Was he just making conversation, or was there something deeper in the way he watched those kids play, a shadow of longing in his expression?

Was he missing his own family?

But then… how could you miss something you didn’t even remember?

“I don’t have any family,” she finally said. “Well—technically, I do. My mother. But she moved to Australia with her new husband, and, well… let’s just say she hasn’t been too invested in my life since then.”

That was the polite way of saying they didn’t talk anymore. That her mother didn’t care. That Andrea had long since stopped expecting her to.

Asher turned to look at her then, something unreadable in his expression.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

She blinked at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. And then she saw it—that look in his eyes. The one she had started to recognize. That distant, thoughtful glimmer, like he was putting pieces together in his mind but wasn’t quite sure what the picture was supposed to be.

Only this time, his gaze wasn’t just distant—it was focused. On her. Or, more specifically, on her baby bump.

Andrea tensed slightly, already knowing what was coming next.

“And the baby’s father?” Asher asked, voice careful. “Is he no longer in your life?”

There was something tight in his tone, something oddly personal, like her answer mattered to him in a way it shouldn’t.

Andrea hesitated. Then nodded.

“No. He and I broke up. And I’ve decided to raise this baby alone.”

She expected pity. Expected the usual oh, that must be hard or I’m sorry you have to go through this alone.

But Asher said nothing.

Instead, something shifted in his expression—something lighter, almost… relieved?

And then, before she could even process it, he was moving. Taking the bucket away, drying her feet with a towel, the tension from earlier completely erased as he whistled under his breath, suddenly happy as a clam.

Afternoon faded into evening, and Andrea drifted into a dreamless sleep. When she finally stirred, blinking groggily at the dimly lit room, she realized two things.

One: The sun had set while she had been asleep.

Two: Asher was waiting for her with a mug of hot chocolate—topped with marshmallows, whipped cream, and even a candy cane hooked over the rim.

And then there was him.

Smiling at her like he had just found the most wonderful secret, his warmth cutting through the winter cold.

Andrea sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Hot chocolate?” she asked, surprised. Because she knew she hadn’t bought any.

Asher must have seen the confusion on her face because he quickly reassured her. “Don’t worry, I bought it.”

Andrea stared at him, raising a brow. “You bought it?”

“I got a job.” He grinned, looking oddly proud of himself. “Cleaned the snow off some lawns.”

Her lips parted slightly in surprise. “You what?”

Asher just shrugged, handing her the warm mug. “Thought we should have something special for this special night.”

Andrea took the cup carefully, warmth seeping into her hands, but the heat that truly spread through her had nothing to do with the drink.

She swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. “Thank you,” she said softly.

And then she took a sip.

The taste was heaven—rich, sweet, and indulgent, sending a rush of warmth all the way to her toes. She sighed, sinking deeper into the pillows. “God, I don’t even know how long it’s been since I’ve had hot chocolate.”

Asher chuckled, a nostalgic gleam in his eyes. “I know… My mother used to make it on cold nights, I—”

Then he stopped.

Just like the first night.

Andrea watched as the smile fell from his face, replaced by stunned silence. He stared at her, as if the words had tumbled out before he had a chance to stop them.

Her heart clenched.

“You remember your mother?” she asked quietly.

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. He just sat there, staring at the steam curling from his cup, his fingers tightening around the ceramic.

Finally, he exhaled, shaking his head in frustration.

“No… Not really.” His voice was low, rough. “I can’t remember her name, or her face. Just that I had one. And she used to smell really nice… and she would smile at me.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Andrea felt her chest ache for him. She wanted to say something comforting, something that would make it better. But what could she say to a man who was trying to piece himself back together with nothing but fleeting sensations and half-formed memories?

Asher gave a bitter laugh, shaking his head again. “God, what a mess I am. I can remember how she smelled, remember that she looked pretty when she smiled… but I can’t even remember her.”

Andrea reached out then—instinctively. A small gesture. Just a light touch to his forearm, meant to ground him.

He looked up at her, and something in his gaze softened.

Like she said—Christmas Eve was bittersweet.

They lost some, and they gained some.

After dinner, Chinese Checkers became their escape once again. Only this time, they played in bed, sitting close together, their knees occasionally brushing.

Andrea was growing so sick of losing every single time that she was seriously considering flipping the board over if she lost again.

As if sensing her frustration, Asher suddenly spoke.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to name the baby?”

Andrea, too focused on the board, answered honestly. “I was going to name him Asher.” Then she glanced at him, smirking. “But you stole that name.”

It was supposed to be a joke.

But Asher didn’t laugh.

His gaze snapped to hers, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, it drifted lower—to her swollen belly.

Andrea’s smirk faded.

For a long, stretching moment, he just stared, his face oddly solemn.

Then, in a voice quiet but firm, he said something that couldn’t be taken back.

“You can still name him Asher.”

Andrea’s breath hitched.

His gaze lifted back to hers, something raw in his eyes. And then he added, softer this time—

“Asher Junior.”

Andrea’s hands trembled as she moved her piece across the board, her fingers suddenly unsteady.

She couldn’t look at him. Wouldn’t look at him.

Because now… now they were drifting into dangerous waters.