Tom in her parents’ house.
Tom sitting on the sofa, drinking from the mugs she’d painted years ago.
Tom, the man who’d broken her heart at Christmas, sleeping under her childhood roof because he couldn’t stand for her to leave the homehe’d built for her.
She’d almost texted her mother to say she was busy, but the idea of surrendering the tradition felt like losing another piece of herself.
Besides, Tomalwaysate at his parents’ house on Thursday nights. He wouldn’t even be here.
It should have been a relief. But some quiet, traitorous part of her still hoped he was inside—waiting for her. Choosing her.
Ridiculous. He wouldn’t be here. She knew that.
Still, she didn’t ring the bell.
He’d been trying. He’d been gentle, patient, uncharacteristically humble.
It was infuriating, how sincere he was about it. How easy it was to believe him when he smiled that quiet, careful smile.
How it felt when he held her in his arms.
The memory came too easily—the warmth of his hands at her waist when he’d kissed her on the doorstep, the desperate strength in his arms the night he’d shown up soaked with apology, vowing to her that he’d win her back. The soft pressure of his palm at her back when they’d danced in the church parking lot, headlights turning the snow to gold.
She missed him—his steadiness, the way his presence filled a space.
More than that.
She missed him in her bed. The warmth she could roll toward in the dark. The feel of his body over hers.
She shifted the dish in her hands and through the frosted glass, she could see a blur of movement.
She could still leave.
She could turn around, drive home, crawl under the quilt, and pretend she was okay.
But she didn’t.
Lauren took a breath.
And then she pressed the bell.
The door swung open—andTom was there.
Her heart lurched so violently she almost dropped the casserole.
Thursday. He wasn’t supposed to be here on Thursdays.
The rules shifted under her feet, the whole world tilting just a fraction.
“Sweetheart!” Then her mother was there, pulling her straight into a hug, casserole and all.
“Come in, come in—it’s freezing.”
Lauren stepped inside, blinking against the sudden brightness. Her mother’s voice, the low crackle from the fireplace, the faint clatter of dishes—it was all achingly familiar.
And somewhere behind her, she could still feel Tom’s attention on her like a warm spotlight. His nearness pressed along her back even though he hadn’t touched her.
Linda took the casserole from her. “Perfect timing. We’re just serving up.”
