Unholy December

The Georgia snow fell like a warning.

Ayana Marcus pressed her forehead against the cold window of the Greyhound bus, watching Millbrook emerge through the white flurry like a ghost town she'd tried to forget. Four years. Four years of freedom in Boston, of late nights and loud opinions, of being Ayana instead of Pastor Marcus's perfect daughter.

And now she was back.

"Millbrook, final stop," the driver announced.

Her stomach twisted as the town's main street came into view—unchanged, frozen in time. Patterson's Drug Store with its faded awning. Miller's Diner advertising pecan pie in peeling letters. And there, at the end of the street, the white steeple of her father's church rising against the grey December sky.

The bus hissed to a stop. Ayana gathered her leather jacket—the one her mother would definitely have opinions about—and stepped into the cold. Snow caught in her newly cut hair, the shoulder-length waves a small rebellion her family hadn't seen yet.

"Ana!"

Catherine burst through the depot doors, all honey-brown eyes and infectious energy. Her younger sister looked exactly the same: modest sweater, cross necklace, natural curls pinned back in the way their mother approved of. The hug was fierce, genuine.

"I missed you," Catherine whispered. "Like, actually missed you."

"Missed you too, Cat." Ayana pulled back, studying her sister's face. Twenty-one now, engaged, still so... careful. Still performing for an invisible audience. "You look good."

"You look different." Catherine's gaze travelled over Ayana's hair, her makeup, the hint of sophistication that hadn't been there four years ago. "Like you're not apologizing for existing anymore."

Before Ayana could respond, their mother emerged from the silver sedan—all cashmere, pearls, and practised grace. Lorraine Marcus had perfected the art of communicating disappointment through excellent posture.

"Ayana." The hug smelled like Chanel No. 5 and hairspray. "Let me look at you."

Ayana stood still for inspection, watching her mother's sharp eyes catalogue every change. The hair. The jacket. The confidence in her shoulders hadn't existed when she'd left.

"You look thin," her mother said finally. Translation: *You look different, and I'm not sure I approve.*

"I look healthy, Mom."

"Hmm." Her mother's lips thinned slightly. "Well. Your father's excited to see you. We're having dinner tonight—just family. Though Nelson will be joining us. He insisted on welcoming you home properly."

Ayana's hands tightened on her bag.

Nelson Ward.

She hadn't let herself think about him in months. Her father's best friend. The community centre director. The man who'd been a constant presence throughout her childhood—stern, distant, impossibly composed. She'd been sixteen when she first noticed the way his hands looked when he worked with the youth group kids. Seventeen when his rare smiles made her stomach flutter. Eighteen when she realized the heat she felt around him had nothing to do with admiration and everything to do with desire she didn't understand.

She'd left for college still a virgin, terrified of her own thoughts about a man twice her age.

"That's nice," Ayana said, keeping her voice neutral. "I'm sure he's... the same as ever."

Catherine shot her a knowing look but said nothing.

The drive home was a tour of unchanged scenery. Every street corner held memories. The gas station where she'd bought cigarettes exactly once before guilt consumed her. The park where she'd volunteered every summer. The community centre where Nelson worked a brick building with bright murals, kids' artwork in the windows.

Where he spent every waking hour, according to her father's emails. Working himself to exhaustion. Living like a monk.

"The centre's doing amazing things," her mother said as they passed it. "Nelson's expanded the after-school program, added job training, secured three new grants. That man is a saint, truly. He works himself half to death for this community."

Half to death. The phrase settled uncomfortably in Ayana's chest.

Their childhood home appeared—a two-story colonial drowning in Christmas decorations. Lights everywhere. Wreaths on every window. An inflatable Santa her father called "joyful outreach."

"Welcome home," her mother said, the words weighted with expectation.

---

Ayana spent the afternoon unpacking, trying not to think about dinner. About seeing him again. She'd changed. Grown up. Surely, that ridiculous attraction had been nothing but teenage hormones and proximity.

Surely.

"Ana?" Catherine appeared in the doorway, biting her lip. "So... about Nelson."

"What about him?"

"He's..." Catherine hesitated. "Different than you remember. Older, obviously. But also... I don't know. Sadder? Like he's just going through motions. Mom thinks he works too hard. Dad thinks he's still grieving Sarah."

"Sarah?"

"His fiancée. She died, like, twenty years ago? Car accident. I guess he never got over it." Catherine sat on the bed. "He doesn't date. Doesn't do anything but work. Dr. Hayes at the centre says Nelson's been 'punishing himself for surviving' or something."

Ayana's chest tightened. "That's awful."

"It is. But also..." Catherine's smile turned sly. "He's still really hot. Like, objectively. Silver Fox territory."

"Cat."

"I'm just saying you're not sixteen anymore. And he's... well. You'll see."

Before Ayana could respond, their mother's voice drifted upstairs: "Girls! He's here!"

Ayana's pulse jumped. She checked her reflection—the burgundy sweater dress hit mid-thigh, showed collarbones, and the suggestion of curves. Her mother would hate it.

She wore it anyway.

Downstairs, male voices rumbled. Her father's booming laugh. A deeper voice responding controlled, measured, familiar in a way that made her skin prickle.

She descended the stairs, Catherine trailing behind. The living room smelled like cinnamon and pine. Her father stood by the fireplace, gesturing enthusiastically. And beside him—

Oh.

Nelson Ward had aged like expensive whiskey sharp and intoxicating.

The dark hair was threaded with silver now, his face leaner, harder. He wore dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that emphasized broad shoulders and strong forearms. But it was his eyes that stopped her breath—piercing, ancient, haunted.

Those eyes found her on the stairs.

The impact was physical. Heat bloomed low in her belly, spreading through her limbs like fire. She watched his gaze travel over her slow, thorough, hungrily before he caught himself. His jaw clenched. His hand gripped his glass so hard she thought it might shatter.

"Ayana," her father said, oblivious to the tension crackling through the room. "Come say hello! Look how grown up she is, Nelson!"

She descended on shaking legs. Nelson didn't move, didn't extend his hand. Just watched her approach like she was something dangerous.

"Mr. Ward," she said, pleased her voice stayed steady. "It's been a while."

"Four years." His voice was rougher than she remembered, all gravel and restraint. "You've... changed."

"Have I?"

His eyes darkened. For one breathless moment, something raw and desperate flickered across his face—want, fury, and recognition. Then, it vanished behind careful composure.

But she'd seen it

And God helped her. She wanted to see it again.