His fingers settled in the soft dip where her spine curved. She felt impossibly, wonderfully real beneath his palms.
The quilt lay pooled around them—herquilt,theirstory—all the bright and painful stitching that had brought them to this point. The Christmas tree twinkled off to the side, throwing flecks of warm light across her hair. His ridiculous, lopsided necklace hung at her throat, catching the glow with every breath she took.
He let himself feel—the warmth of her body, the weight of hope settling into his bones, the dizzying relief. He was undone. Completely, beautifully undone.
“I’ll make it good for you,” he whispered. “I’ll make it better. I’ll—God, Lo, I’ll do everything right this time.”
She brushed her nose against his gently, a quiet hush of a gesture.
“You’re already doing it,” she murmured.
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers, his hands tightening at her waist, anchoring himself to the moment.
“I love you,” he said.
Tom woke to warmth.
Not the blanket. Not the February sun pushing a thin strip of light across the ceiling.
Lauren.
She was curled against him, breathing slow and even, her thigh thrown over his, one hand pressed against his bare chest like she was anchoring him there—like she was making sure he wouldn’t disappear.
Not again.
Not ever.
He lay perfectly still, terrified that even a breath too loud would break the spell. Last night replayed behind his eyes in slow, stunned loops—the glowing room, the quilt across their knees, her soft “Merry Christmas, Valentine,” and the way she’d kissed him.
She’d taken him back.
His throat burned with it. Relief, love, disbelief—all crowding the same small space in his chest until he could barely breathe. He hadn’t realized hope could hurt this good. Last night hadn’t been a dream. She’d said she loved him. She wanted him home.
Lauren shifted, the necklace he’d made sliding gently against her throat—crooked beads, uneven chain, heart charm sitting off-center and perfect.
It felt like experiencing a sunrise inside his own chest.
She stirred then, eyelashes fluttering against her cheek before her eyes opened. Soft. Warm. Real.
“Hi,” she murmured.
Tom swallowed. “Morning.”
A quiet moment stretched between them. Then Lauren grinned.
“I should… probably explain something,” she said.
Tom pushed himself up on one elbow. “Okay.”
She bit her lip. “The Divorced AF piece. It wasn’t… mine. I mean, I made it, but it wasn’t how I felt about us. It was a commission. One of my clients hired me to make it.”
Relief hit him so hard he almost laughed. “You’re telling me you weren’t making a public declaration that you were divorcing me?”
She rolled her eyes, but her mouth curved. “Nope.”
He dropped his forehead to her shoulder, exhaling a shaky laugh. “Good. Great. Fantastic.”
Her hand slid into his hair, warm and gentle.
