Sam's Christmas memories were nowhere near as rosy. But that was a hazard of foster living, more than anything else. For once, she couldn't even blame herself for that one. And she fucking blamed herself for everything.

"Well," she drawled, nudging his knee with the tips of her toes. "I hear that Christmas is the twenty-fifth this year. Maybe we could make some ornaments of our own."

She wondered if that was a step too far, just as soon as the words were out of her mouth. It was schmoopy. Date-ish.

They hadn't really decided they were dating.

...had they?