Lauren sipped. The chocolate was rich and sweet. The taste filled her mouth, thick and nostalgic.
She loved to make this hot chocolate for Tom in December. He would come home from work, loosen his tie, and find her singing along to carols while stirring a pot on the stove. She loved that. Loved creating warmth, creating traditions.
Now she knew it had been silly. Silly to open herself so wide for someone who thought the very best parts of her were embarrassing.
“Tom…” She shook her head, trying to find her footing. “You can’t just fix this with gestures.”
“I know,” he said. “But I also know that we are meant to be together. I’m going to court you, Lauren. Like the first time. Whatever it takes to make you take me back.”
For a moment, she couldn’t speak.
The words were absurd. Outdated.
Court her? Who said things like that anymore?
Snowflakes caught in his hair, melted on his lashes. They had first come here six years ago. Now he looked both older and achingly familiar.
She hated how handsome he still was.
Hated how his voice, low and rough, could still curl around her name like it belonged to him.
Lauren turned her gaze back to the café, to the reflection of the two of them standing there where their younger selves had once sat.
She remembered how that first date had ended—him walking her to her car. How he’d brushed a kiss against her cheek, tentative and full of promise.
God, she’d believed in that promise.
Now she knew where that promise led. A husband who wanted only part of her. Lauren, without the crafting. Lauren, without her love of handmade excess.
She took another sip of the hot chocolate, letting the warmth sink beneath her ribs.
The lights reflected off the glass, red and gold and green, until the whole world shimmered with color.
She let the feeling wash over her—the illusion of magic, of what they used to be. She let herself enjoy it. Because tonight, she wanted to pretend.
For a brief, fragile moment, it almost felt like Christmas again.
Tom pulledinto the driveway and cut the engine. For a moment, neither of them moved. Lauren stared at the house—their house.
The porch light glowed faintly against the snow, painting the steps gold. The wreath still hung in the entryway like a ghost of Christmas. She’d missed it in her purge.
"Let me walk you up," Tom said, already opening his door.
Lauren’s heart was beating too fast, like it couldn’t decide whether to flee or stay. She stepped out into the cold, boots crunching against the icy path.
The night air bit her cheeks, sharp enough to sting. Tom fell into step beside her, close enough that she could feel his warmth through the layers of clothing. His hand hovered near her elbow—not quite touching, but close enough that her body noticed anyway.
They stopped at the door. Lauren fumbled for her keys, hyper-aware of Tom standing too close, smelling too good.
"Lauren." His voice was deep. Serious.
She looked up at him. The porch light caught his features, all strong lines and earnest eyes.
"I meant what I said." His breath clouded between them. "Every word."
Lauren's keys bit into her palm. She should go inside.
She thought of his parents wielding their cutting remarks while Tom said nothing.
