~Warning // Pt. 8~ (Hamilsquad X Reader)
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Pt 1 Â Pt 2 Â Pt 3 Â Pt 4 Â Pt 5 Â Pt 6Â Pt 7Â Pt 8
Your hands shook as you walked.
Neither of you trusted your ability behind a wheel right now, but the streets were beautiful, and neither of you minded walking. Snow crunched under your boots, and Alexâs nose was bright-red as he walked, face half-buried under a scarf.
Thomas had pulled you through the streets, grumbling and griping about the temperature; bruising your wrist and yanking you through the snow without any care for your well-being. He was strong and demanding, like you were simply property under his touch.
But now, with Alex, the walk was slow. It was starting to get dark now, and an orangey glow set out over the almost-empty sidewalk. The streetlamps, wrapped in snaking green pine and red ribbon, lit up the streets, and the stores around you poured yellow, warm light onto the concrete, making the snow glow and sparkle through the dark.
Your hand knocked against Alexâs gently as you walked, and your breath caught in your throat.
âWhat are you doing?â
âCan uhm⌠Itâs cold. Can I hold your hand?â
âYes.â You answered back without thinking.
ââŚDo you really want me to?â
You thought for a moment. âI trust you, AlexâŚâ
His hand was warm; entwining his tan, lithe fingers with yours. The snow crunched on the sidewalk under your feet, and your stomach turned and flutter with the idea that you knew this route much too well.
The small, bricked townhouse that had filled your dreams for the past month was dark, just like it had been when you left. The curtains were all drawn, save the ones covering the living room window, the yellow flowers in the beds below the windowsills were dead and covered in snow, and the menorah in the window was desolate, with the only farthest candle slightly melted. The Christmas tree in the window was unlit, with only the generic baubles to cover its branches.
You missed the special ones; the ones that each of you had brought from your own families and told stories about when putting them on. Hercules had things like âBrotherâs first Christmasâ and â#1 Uncleâ, Lafâs were all delicate and glass, Alexâs were all wooden and old, and Johnâs were pretty and new â obviously bought after moving out of his dadâs house. Each one followed with stories, however, and that was all that mattered.
You didnât even notice that youâd stopped to stare at it before Alex cleared his throat, making you jump.
âYou okay?â He asked quietly, letting go of your hand gently. âDo you need a minute?â
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