No. No. No.

I've got her by the hips; she has me by the shoulders. My fingers fist her t-shirt, try to keep them from roaming over her skin. All of me burns, woken from a deep slumber with a simple kiss.

I can taste the cocoa on her breath, the lingering whiskey, and it's harder than it should be to pull away. I stand, panting like I've been held underwater, all desperation and wild heat. It's everything I haven't been for a long time, and nothing I knew I could be again.

It pisses me off.

"What the hell is your problem?" I demand, barely keeping my tone even.

"My problem?" Nikki repeats.

"You kissed me," I grit.

She dares to look affronted. "I kissed you?"

"What are you, a fucking parrot?" I snap.

"What's your problem?" Nikki tosses right back at me. "It was just a kiss."

The dismissal stings more than it should. I hate that I'm so raw, that she lights me with the barest glance. She has to know her power at this moment.

I take in her flushed face, her stained lips. She's not wearing a fucking bra, and I'm all too aware of the rise and fall of her chest. "Pretty girls shouldn't show up at strange men's houses. For all you know, I could be an ax-murderer."

She smiles sweetly, gives a tipsy giggle. "You think I'm pretty?"

I think you're gorgeous. "That's not –"

She points up to the mistletoe again, the sexiest, most smug smirk on her face. "You kissed me back."

"Darling," I rasp, bending my elbows, leering at her from under my hair. "If I'd kissed you back, you would have known it."

I'm lying. I definitely kissed her back. I wanted her fire, her passion.

Months of self-imposed celibacy have left me reeling. I'm not used to fighting desire anymore. The sensual part of me wants to slow down and taste every part of that gorgeous skin. The caveman side roars to bend her over the counter and take her right fucking here.

My lip curls, hands glide up her shoulders, sink into her hair. Cold, wet, amazing. "Is that what you want, huh? A quick holiday fling?"

She tilts her head back defiantly, even as she whimpers under the pressure. "You got all that from a kiss under a mistletoe?"

"What am I supposed to think when you show up here, uninvited?"

I lean closer, allow my lips to graze her neck. I don't kiss, don't suck. Instead, I shudder, hiss through my teeth, press my thigh in harder between her legs, savor the feel of her soft body, the sweet smell of flowers and cocoa, the way she moans like she's just as yearning and desperate as I am.

"What do you want, Nikki?" I pant, open-mouthed. "Why are you here?"

She takes a deep breath, seems to consider something. "To know you, to sketch you. And Rusty."

I disengage entirely. "Why?"

A delicate hand reaches out. I steel myself for her touch. That soft palm brushes my cheek, down my neck, toys with the sharp edges of Dad's rose tattoo. I fight the urge to caress her. Clamp it, force it deep, deep down under snow and silt and ice. I have no room for that anymore.

"Because you're hurting."

Turning, I march back to the kitchen island. "The fuck do you know?"

I drain the tumbler of whiskey, pour another, get ahold of myself. Down, boy. She can't know how repressed I am, how long it's been since I've felt anything. That's what this has to be, the reason I'm reacting so violently to her.

Nikki follows, adorable where she palms her mug of special cocoa. That raven hair makes her eyes absolutely glow in the low lighting, and I want nothing more than to take her into my arms, keep kissing her, pretend like I didn't stop us.

"I know you live here by yourself," she declares. "I know you don't let people close."

I toss her words right back at her. "You got all that from a kiss under a mistletoe?"

"No, but you're alone on Christmas."

"Says the girl following a lowly carriage driver home." I take a long swig of the whiskey, clear my throat past the burn. "Tell me, why are you alone for the holidays?"

She considers the dregs of her mug. "You have more of this?"

"It can be arranged," I respond, "For a price."

She cocks a brow, somehow manages to make my old t-shirt and baggy sweats look like sexy lingerie. It would be nothing to pull it over her head, see if she feels as soft as she looks. I could drag her back under the mistletoe, pretend I don't care who she is, where she goes in the morning.

Except I do, dammit. I want to see more circles, more miracles born from pencil, paper, and passion. I want her near, the first genuine warmth I've felt in months. She can't be gone yet.

"What would that be?" She asks on the shyest, most perfect gasp.

I growl. "The truth."

She sucks her teeth. "I don't know. That seems like an awful hefty price for spiked hot cocoa."

"It's that, or you drink it straight." I raise my whiskey tumbler to her. "Fresh out of Coke, sorry."

"Ass," she laughs.

The insult makes me laugh, too. It's an unfamiliar sensation, a sound within these walls beside my own tired footsteps. Months of being alone, Rusty, my only conversation partner, makes this seem bizarre. Not unpleasant, just strange.

I move around the kitchen, pulling cream from the fridge, cocoa from the pantry. The gas stove heats the liquid slowly, ensuring it doesn't scald. I face her, swirl my whiskey.

She slides her mug in my direction. "Do I get truths in return?"

"I suppose that's fair."

She drums her fingers on the island, nods consent. I consider for a moment, decide to start off easy. "What's your middle name?"

"Emeraude, after my mom. Yours?"

Beautiful. "Green."

She tries not to laugh. "Forest Green?"

"Dad was a hippie." I refill my tumbler, add a few ounces to the simmering cocoa mixture. Swiping her mug from the island, I transfer the mix from the saucepan. "Drink."

"Was?" She clarifies the past-tense, blowing the liquid to cool it.

"He died a few years back," I shrug. "Lung cancer. Best anti-smoking ad anyone could ask for."

Her eyes grow soft, understanding. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thanks," I mutter. "Your art – do you sell it?"

She gives a hysteric laugh. "No! No. I'm not good enough for that."

I scowl in disbelief. "Bullshit."

She sips her cocoa, worries her lower lip. There's a flush rising on her neck, a dilation to her pupils. Drunk. No wonder she kissed me so recklessly. I'm just the asshole who enjoyed it.

"Seriously!" She giggles. "Mostly, I do commissions, work on restoring antiques." She walks around the island, gets into my space.

I back away from her touch, fear the longing. "Don't."

She withdraws her hand. "Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't –"

"You're fine," I drain my whiskey, thankful that a buzz is finally starting to hit. Maybe I'll be a little less of a dick. "It's just... I'm not used to it."

Now she looks like I put her kitten in a blender. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Stepping forward, she reaches for me anew. Again, I brace, don't move. She runs her thumb over the dark hair on my forearm. I don't pull away. Worse, I enjoy her touch, the slight chill of her hands, the way she watches me. I hate that my eyes get sleepy, that I want her gentle fingers everywhere.

She continues with the questions. "You have a girlfriend?"

My hand furls with bitter memory. How can she not know? "Ex."

"Me too," she volunteers. "He was kind of a tool."

"Why aren't you spending the night with your family?" I force myself to ask, entire body sizzling under her palm.

"Because my sister, Rachel, has college classes, still. And my brother, Connor, has brats." Nikki wavers on her feet.

I move a little bit closer. "You don't like it."

Nikki shakes her head. "No, I love them. Of course. But they live in our parents' old house. Going there is like walking on glass for me."

"I thought Rachel was in college."

"Well, yes, but Connor's our overprotective big brother. He'd never let her live on campus."

I can't really fault the guy. I'd be watchful, too. "He sounds intense."

"You have no idea; I escape it because I live in Maine." She makes this sassy head-bob motion, lip curled, voice slurring slightly.

"Maine?" I repeat, letting the word roll around on my tongue. She'll leave once the holiday's over. "That's a long way from Antioch."

"Yeah, I moved after Mom died." She waves a hand in the air. That's when I see it.

The tiny semi-colon tattoo in the fold of her inner wrist, hardly bigger than a pencil eraser. I know it means something. I've seen the symbol before, but the significance escapes me.

I feel the familiar ache of grief, wish I didn't. I don't want to sympathize with her, don't want her made any more endearing than she's already becoming. "I'm sorry to hear that."

She slams her empty cup on the island, wobbles. My hand goes out of its own accord, arm twining around her waist, keeping her upright. "God, you're a lightweight," I mutter, more to myself than her.

"Life happens," she mumbles, resting her head on my chest. "And then it keeps going like nothing's wrong." Her eyes flutter and then close, breathing slow and peaceful.

My heart quails. "Is something wrong?"

"It's all wrong. Everyone in this stupid town knows; they look at us like we're broken." The softness dissipates, her voice clotting with emotion.

"Knows what?" I almost don't want her to speak, fear the answer will cut me through.

"That our mom killed herself two nights before Christmas." Nikki laughs sharply, betraying the anger she still harbors despite the sorrow. A small fist pounds against my sternum. "Her note said she didn't want to ruin our holiday, so she chose the day before. As if we'd bother to make that distinction."

Jesus Christ.

I hold her, then. Really hold her. My arms band around her quivering body, as though I can banish those horrible memories, like I can strip her of the cold.

"We didn't even realize anything was wrong for almost a day." Her voice is quiet, regretful. I hold her against the emotion, the terrible agony, let her tears slide against my bare skin. Rivulets of warmth against the ice I harbor.

I hate that I like this, shielding her against sorrow. I have no business getting attached, no right to hold her this way. There's no reason for me to cling to this fragile fairytale, where I'm the hero instead of the villain.

Then why is she in my arms? Why do I tuck her head under my chin, smooth my fingers along her spine through the flimsy cotton of her shirt, trace promises into her skin? You're worth sticking around for; I think of this girl I barely know.

"Idiot," I growl to myself. I'm a damn fool.

Nikki shudders – from the cold, from emotion, I'm not sure. Those crystalline eyes tip up under wet-shined lashes. "What?"

"Nothing," I mutter. "Let's get you to bed."

"I'm good here." She pouts, childlike, and buries her face further into my chest. "You smell nice."

I allow myself to thread fingers into her hair. "I smell like a stable."

Nikki inhales deeply. It does stupid things to my soul, shatters the globe a little bit further. I imagine her snoozing, snuggled in my bed, making these adorable noises. I'd keep her safe from the demons, guard against the dark thoughts.

"No," she protests groggily. "You...I don't know."

"You're drunk." I laugh.

"Shuddup." She mumbles. "Yer drunk."

I wish.

If I were drunk, this would be okay. I could blame the way I'm touching her, the crackle of fire in my heart, on the booze. If I were drunk, this wouldn't seem so wonderfully wrong. I would let myself feel, let go of the reins a bit. If I were drunk, I wouldn't behave.

Not that I'm behaving now. Especially not when I bend down, curl her into my arms like a child, carry her to the guest bedroom. I tuck her under the blankets, make sure she's cocooned in heat and comfort. I linger longer than I should by her side, needing to go and wanting to stay.

"Forest?" Nikki slurs, gripping my wrist where I turn to leave.

"Hm?"

"It's not true, what Rachel says." A huge yawn, a precious moan, a fluttering of lashes as she nuzzles into the pillow. "You're a nice person."

I chuckle darkly. "I've got you fooled."

Her answer is a soft snore. I trail my fingers down her arm, where it curls the comforter to her chest, brush them along the semi-colon tattoo. Gently, like she might break if I move too quickly, I bring it to my lips, kiss the inked skin.

And I remember where I've seen it and what it means. Mental health awareness, it's all over town. Her mother.

Just like that, she's under my skin, a hum in my blood. This brave girl who saw a lonely soul, offered a light in the darkness. However brief, however fleeting, I welcome the spark. I've been alone for too long.

"Sleep tight,Nicasia."