Chapter 36 Lottie
Charlie and I drift back into the living room once the last car pulls away and the house settles into that comfortable, post-holiday stillness.
The laughter is gone now. The front door is locked. The porch light casts a soft glow through the windows, reflecting off the ornaments still clinging to the tree.
What’s left behind is a battlefield of Christmas — crumpled wrapping paper shoved into corners, abandoned plates balanced on armrests, half-empty cups sweating onto coasters.
And cousins. Cousins everywhere.
Charlie claps his hands once, sharp but not too loud. “Alright, gremlins. Up.”
I move toward Jace first. He’s sprawled face-down on the rug, one arm flung over his head like he lost a fight with gravity. I crouch down and nudge his shoulder.
“Hey,” I murmur. “Go upstairs to a room, you can use any one except the four at the end of the hall.”
He blinks at me slowly, processing. “Why not those?”
“Because those are taken,” I say patiently.
He nods like I've imparted ancient wisdom, pushes himself upright with exaggerated effort, and stumbles toward the stairs without another word.
I step over a pile of discarded bows and kneel beside Kelly next. She’s curled into the corner of the couch, mascara faintly smudged under her eyes.
“Kel,” I whisper, brushing her arm. “Same deal. Upstairs. Any room except the last four.”
She squints up at me. “You’re bossy.”
“I am,” I reply.
She huffs, but obeys, sliding off the couch and shuffling toward the staircase, hand trailing along the wall for balance.
Charlie handles the other two with less gentleness — flicking a pillow at one and threatening to take the other’s phone. Then he shakes Lilliana awake and tells her to go to bed. Within a few minutes, the herd thins out, the stairs creaking as tired feet disappear one by one.
Luca is the last one downstairs.
He’s draped over the loveseat, limbs loose, mouth slightly open in deep sleep. His honey-blond hair falls into his eyes, and one sock is half off his foot.
My heart softens instantly.
I step closer and slide my arms carefully beneath him, lifting him gently. He stirs but doesn’t wake, instinctively curling his tiny body closer to my chest.
“Got him?” Charlie asks in a low voice.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
I press a soft kiss into Luca’s hair, breathing in the faint scent of shampoo and sugar cookies, and head toward the stairs. I take them slowly, careful not to jostle him too much. The house creaks around us, settling for the night.
At the top of the stairs, the hallway is dimly lit; the only light is a small nightlight plugged into the wall. I walk past the first few doors — the ones the cousins should be in — and stop at Luca’s room.
It’s next to Charlie’s. Across from mine and Lilliana’s. I nudge the door open with my foot and step inside. The room is neat — blankets folded back, stuffed animals lined up along the headboard like a silent audience. I lay Luca gently on the bed, easing my arms out from beneath him. He sighs softly but doesn’t wake.
I pull the covers over him, tucking them around his shoulders, smoothing his hair back from his forehead.
“Goodnight, Squirt,” I murmur.
I linger a second longer than necessary before switching off the lamp and closing the door quietly behind me.
When I get back downstairs, the house is nearly silent. Charlie is leaning against the banister, waiting for me.
“You’re a sucker,” he mutters.
“For who?”
“For all of them.”
I shrug, but there’s no bite to it.
We start gathering plates from around the living room — scraping leftover crumbs into the trash, stacking plastic cups inside one another. The scent of food has faded into something faint and stale.
I carry an armful into the kitchen and dump the scraps into the trash before tying the bag tight. The knot pulls snug with a sharp snap.
Charlie walks past the kitchen, clearly hoping to disappear before I assign more tasks.
“Charlie!” I call out in a hushed yell.
He freezes mid-step and turns slowly, giving me a long-suffering look. “What?”
“Can you take the trash out?”
His shoulders slump immediately. He exhales like I’ve asked him to climb a mountain barefoot.
“Fine,” he grumbles. “Let me put something on my feet.”
I lean over to load the dishwasher as I watch him shuffle off toward the entryway to grab his shoes.
For a moment, as the house hums in the silence and the tree lights blink steadily in the corner, I let myself breathe.
The day is over. Everyone who was leaving is gone. We're all safe from the winter storm.
And yet, even in the stillness — even with the warmth of family wrapped around me — there’s a small, stubborn part of my heart that feels like it’s waiting for something.
Or someone.
The part of me that stayed muted all day in the presence of my huge family doesn’t stay that way in their absence.
All afternoon, it sat tucked away — buried under laughter, under hugs, under the chaos of cousins and the warmth of too many bodies in one room. I kept it contained, managing to smother it beneath family bonding and noise.
But now?
Now the house is still.
The dishwasher hums low in the kitchen. The heater kicks on with a soft whoosh. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaks as someone turns in their sleep.
And in that quiet, the part of me I ignored all day rises, loud and insistent. Bellowing for attention.
Thoughts of Professor Hale flood my mind as if the silence itself is a trigger — like the quiet house is a floodgate that’s just been thrown open.
It’s overwhelming.
The way his voice sounds when he says my name — low, careful, like it means something. The way he carries himself — controlled, restrained, like every word is measured before it leaves his mouth.
I sink onto the bottom stair, elbows resting on my knees, and press my palms to my face.
This is dangerous. He’s dangerous.
Not because he’s reckless — he’s anything but. That’s part of the problem. He’s steady. Thoughtful. Patient.
And I can’t stop thinking about him.
I picture him on Christmas morning. Did he wake up early, too? Did he sit quietly with a mug of coffee somewhere, staring at lights the way I did? Did he laugh with whoever he spent his holiday with? Did he open his presents slowly, carefully?
Did he think about me?
The thought sends a sharp twist through my chest.
I replay every interaction we’ve had in the past few weeks. The lingering glances. The pauses in conversation that felt heavier than they should have. The way the air changes when we’re standing too close to each other, becoming electric.
There’s something there. Something undeniable.
And it terrifies me.
He’s my professor.
The words echo in my mind like a warning bell.
There are rules for a reason. Lines that shouldn’t be crossed. Boundaries that exist to protect both of us.
I know that. I do.
But knowing it doesn’t lessen the way my heart stutters when he’s near. It doesn’t stop the warmth that spreads through me when he looks at me like I’m more than just another student in his class.
I lean back against the staircase, staring up at the ceiling.
Why does it have to be him?
Why does it have to feel like this?
Upstairs, someone laughs faintly in their sleep. The tree lights blink steadily across the darkened living room, casting shifting colors over the walls.
The house is peaceful.
Yet I feel anything but. Because in the silence, there’s no distraction left.
Only me. And the certain truth that no matter how hard I try to bury it, my feelings for Professor Hale aren't going away.