Claire was silent long enough that he wondered whether he had ruined the air, whether honesty was just another kind of powdered milk—ambitious and disappointing. Then she said, voice barely above the rails, "I'm afraid of waking up at forty in a perfect house with a perfect husband and realizing I used my one wild life to decorate someone else's idea of enough. I'm afraid Grant is kind enough that leaving him will feel like cruelty, and I'll stay to avoid being the villain in a story that isn't even about villains." She swallowed. The dark pink liner of her mouth looked suddenly fragile. "I'm afraid you're—" She stopped.
"I'm what?"
"Temporary," she whispered. "Or worse—possible. Temporary I could file under Christmas magic and close the drawer. Possible means I have to rearrange the furniture of my whole blasted life."
The train whispered over a bridge. Below, a frozen creek held the moon like a coin it refused to spend. Samuel reached across the table, slow enough that she could retreat, and covered her bare hand with his. His palm was warm, calloused, a map of work and small injuries and the stubbornness of making. Claire's breath caught—audible in the small room. She turned her hand and laced their fingers together, white-gold bracelet cool against his wrist, work-rough and careful, the small gold handbag watching from the seat like a discreet chaperone who had seen worse in her time.
"Possible isn't worse," he said. "Possible is the only honest wood I've found in months. The rest has been veneer. Pretty. Hollow underneath if you tap."