She had taken Christmas down. Not because the season was over—but because of him.
He’d carried his parents’ judgment and laid it over her Christmas warmth like a frost, snuffing her out. He had crushed Christmas right out of her.
He’d taken the holiday she loved with her whole heart and taken some of that shine away. It had been unforgivable.
The needle slipped, biting his thumb. A bead of blood welled, bright and accusing.
He needed to concentrate.
He reached for the fabric square again. It would be a simple rectangle for a doorway with Lauren shining outward as a burst of light and power.
She’d been magnificent. The quilt pushed into his arms. The door slammed in his face. Magnificent despite the pain he’d caused her.
He stabbed the needle through the fabric.
He pictured the boxes of Christmas decorations she’d put out with the trash. Garlands and glitter-dusted ornaments. Tablecloths and tea towels.
She’d thrown it all away.
All her Christmas.
All the joy.
All the little pieces of magic she used to stitch into their winters. The craft he’d mocked. The ornaments he’d rolled his eyes at. The handmade bits he’d never bothered to understand.
Now it all sat in a corner of Lauren’s parents’ living room.
Safe. Waiting. Held for her because she couldn’t bear to hold it herself.
Tom stitched another shaky line down the side of the little drawn door.
What good was any of it—rescuing all that stuff—if he couldn’t give her back the magic of Christmas?
The way she used to hum carols. The way she used to hang tinsel. He’d stolen that from her.
Tom set the needle down for a second. His breathing felt thick.
The square was going to show her courage.
The moment she saved herself. The moment she claimed the respect he should have always had for her.
Stitch by stitch, he outlined the doorway.
Then the shape of her—a silhouette in negative space, not defeated, but luminous.
He’d embroider light around her, not shadows. A halo of gold thread to show the fire in her.
To show the moment she chose herself.
He pulled the needle through, tugging the thread tight.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was honest.
He kept sewing.
If he could stitch even one fraction of her bravery into this square, it would be luminous.
He bent back over the fabric, hands and heart steady.
