Sin of the Season: A Miguel and Caleb Christmas by Izzy Ravas

Author:Izzy Ravas [Ravas, Izzy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2025-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

The light wakes me first, pale and filtered through the snow-dusted windows. For a minute, I just lie there, listening to the slow, steady sound of his breathing beside me. Caleb’s still asleep, face half-buried in the pillow, hair a mess, the blanket pulled up to his chin.

He looks younger like this. Softer. The worry lines between his brows are gone, his mouth relaxed. There’s a faint smudge of bruises along his throat where my mouth had been last night. I trace it lightly with my fingertip, just enough to make my chest twist with something that feels too big to name.

I could stay here all morning.

But the cabin’s cold, and if I don’t get the fire going, he’ll wake up shivering. So I slide out of bed carefully, tucking the blanket tighter around him, and pad downstairs. The living room’s dim except for the faint gray light pushing through the big window. Inside the hearth there’s nothing but ash. I crouch, stack the logs, and strike a match. The fire catches quickly, crackling to life, filling the space with that familiar dry-wood scent.

It feels…good. Domestic, almost.

I could see us coming up here every year, maybe not at Christmas time, but during winter for sure.

Just to be together for a little while.

Looking over at the tree that’s already been set up, something about it makes me think of home, of mornings in our kitchen with my mom humming and the smell of cinnamon rolls coming out of the oven. She used to make them every Christmas Eve for Caleb and me when we were kids. Said it was her way of sweetening the day before Santa came.

Guess I picked up the tradition without meaning to.

Last night when he said he was going to miss her cinnamon rolls, I almost told him that he wouldn’t, but I figured the surprise of waking up to them would be better. Heading into the small kitchen, I pull the tray of dough from the fridge, the rolls already cut and proofed from before the trip. I line them up in the baking dish, brush them with butter, and sprinkle extra cinnamon and brown sugar just because Caleb’s got the world’s worst sweet tooth.

The oven hums to life.

While they bake, I make coffee. Two mugs, one with way too much cream and sugar, because that’s how he likes it. Then I grab a book off the shelf by the window. Some old paperback of a romance novel a previous renter must have left behind. I flip the cover and inside reads,

Layne Larimore, December 2024

and beneath it,

If your significant other reads you the bit about food play, don’t think… just do it. You can thank me later.

–Wes

Okay…

I don’t even check the title before I sit down near the fire, legs stretched out, letting the warmth soak in.

It’s quiet. Peaceful.

This is the first time in weeks that my head isn’t spinning with worry or guilt or the constant ache of wanting more time with Caleb. Just…this. Snow still falling, fire crackling, cinnamon in the air.

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