Nick stared out the window, watching the snow fall to the ground.  Soon, they would be stuck in his home, not that he would mind it, but in a way, he wished the snow would clear.  He wanted her to have a way to escape him, wanted her to know that she could leave at any time.  He should have thought of it earlier, should have remembered that she didn’t like to feel trapped, but he let it slip his mind.  He let himself believe that everything would be normal between them. 

Slipping on his jacket, he walked through the kitchen and into his garage.  His spare vehicle sat there, unused for a while now.  Bypassing it, he grabbed his snow shovel.  With his shovel in his hand, he pressed the button to raise his garage door.  Cold hit his face, making him flip the hood up on his jacket.  Walking to his driveway, he began shoveling snow, doing whatever he could to make it clear again.

“Are you humming Jingle Bells?”

He turned behind him and saw Faith smiling at him in the garage.  His clothes hung very loose on her, but they suited her well.  “They look better on you than they do me.”

She glanced down at the clothes she wore while laughing.  “I doubt that very much.”  Her eyes flickered towards the shovel, and her eyebrows drew down in confusion.  “What are you doing?”

“Shoveling,” he mumbled, moving the shovel up in down in emphasis.

Taking a step forward, she wrapped her arms around her as if she was sheltering herself from the cold.  “Why?”

Tossing the shovel to the ground, he took a step towards her.  “I don’t want you to feel trapped.  I have a spare car in the garage, I’m clearing the driveway, and if you need money for a hotel, I’ll give you some.”

“You want me gone?”

“No,” he said a little too quickly.  “I don’t want you to leave, but Faith; we’ve just met each other today.  I want us to know one another for a long time.  If I’m moving too fast, if I’m scaring you away, or if I’m making you feel trapped, I want you to have a way to leave.”

“I don’t feel trapped,” she whispered in a tone he could barely here.  “I don’t understand it, nor do I want too, but I like it here.  I feel like I belong.”

She shivered again, reminding him that it was freezing outside, and she was standing out here in his clothes.  As he walked towards her, he forgot the shovel and the path he was clearing.  His palm connected with the switch, the door slid shut, and they were alone.  “How about some hot cocoa?”

“You’re changing the subject,” she said with narrowed eyes, but dropped it.  Reaching out, she grabbed his hand and tugged him towards the kitchen.  Pushing him towards one of the bar stools that were against his island, she smiled at him.  “Where are the mugs?”

“Second cupboard on the right,” he said automatically before beginning to rise.

She shook her head at him with a chuckle.  “For once, sit down and do nothing.  I’m going to use what you have to make a special type of cocoa.”

Leaning forward in his seat, he placed his elbows on the island and watched her move around his kitchen.  “What kind of cocoa is that?”

“A special type of cocoa,” she mumbled as she glanced over her shoulder at him.  “My mom used to make it every Christmas for me.”

“Used too?”

Faith nodded while turning her attention back to the chocolate that had been sitting on his counter from earlier.  “She died when I was eight.  Christmas eve, she got on the roads because she saw how upset I was that my father wasn’t there.  She was going to find him, tell him to come home, but she never made it, or if she did, she never made it home.  My dad had never been close to me, but without her there acting as a buffer, it became very apparent to me that I wasn’t what he wanted.  My grandparents would visit as often as they could, but the majority of my life, until I was old enough to take care of myself, I was with a nanny.”

“Faith,” he mumbled, standing to his feet. 

She turned and smiled at him, a genuine smile.  “I’m beginning to let it be my past though.  For that, I wanted to say thank you.”

He tried to take a step towards her, but she pushed him back towards his stool.  Letting out a sigh, he sat down.  “Is there any more Christmas tragedies you have stored in that mind of yours?”

“Maybe,” she replied with a chuckle.  Setting the mug in front of him, she motioned towards it.  “Drink up, it’s your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Yep,” she said.  “Remember out rules.  My turn then your turn to share; it’s your turn.”

He chuckled, realizing that he was stuck.  He had to tell her something, and with the way she was sharing her secrets, his next one would have to be good.