My anger doesn’t vanish, but it splinters under the weight of his words, the raw honesty in his eyes, the sheer, trembling vulnerability he’s showing me.
My tears trace hot paths down my cheeks. I look at him – at the faint scar near his eyebrow from a hockey stick to the head, at the desperate hope warring with fear in his stormy eyes, at the way his hands hang slightly open at his sides, waiting.
“Why?” My voice is thick with tears, barely a whisper. “Why should I believe you this time? What’s different?” It’s a plea. A need to understand.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Because I’m choosing the risk of loving you, every single day. I’m choosing to fight for it. For us. Because it’s the only thing that matters.”
He takes a shaky breath. “I’m not promising it won’t be hard. Or that I won’t screw up again. But I’m promising you my whole heart, Holly. My loyalty. For as long as you’ll have me. That’s what’s different. I’m all in.”
He reaches out then, slowly, tentatively. His hand hovers in the space between us, palm up. An invitation.
I stare at his hand. At the faint calluses from his hockey stick, the strong lines of his fingers. I think of those hands carefully rolling cookie dough with Tabby, gently wiping flour from hercheek. I think of the way they felt on my body, warm and possessive. The way they felt laced through mine.
The sliver of hope I’d tried to crush flares, bright and insistent, burning through my anger and fear. It’s terrifying. Risking my heart again, after he shattered it so completely. But the alternative… the cold, numb emptiness of a life without him, without Tabby… that feels like a death sentence.
I look up from his hand to his eyes. They look calmer and clearer now. Full of a love so deep, so raw, it steals my breath. I see the change there. The man who built walls realizing they were a prison, and choosing to tear them down.
Slowly, I place my trembling hand in his.
His fingers close around mine instantly, warm and strong, anchoring me. A shuddering breath escapes him. He pulls me gently towards him, his other hand coming up to cradle my cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear. His touch is achingly familiar, yet entirely new. A promise. A beginning.
“Holly?” he whispers, his voice rough with emotion, his forehead resting against mine.
“Take me home, Denton,” I whisper back.
He doesn’t speak. He just nods, a quick, decisive movement, his eyes blazing with a fierce light.
I shoot off a quick text to Charlie, letting her know what I’m doing. I have no idea what she’ll think when she reads it, but I can’t think about that right now.
Taking my hand again firmly in his, Denton turns, leading me down the quiet hallway towards the elevators.
The ride down to the parking garage is charged with electricity. Our reflections shimmer in the polished steel doors – him tall and intense in his tux, me in my green velvet, tear-streaked and holding his hand like a lifeline.
He doesn’t let go of my hand. His thumb traces slow circles on the back of my knuckles, a silent reassurance, a constant point of contact.
“Tabby…” I start. “Where is she?”
“With my mom,” he says. He glances at me quickly. “They went to her house after… after I walked off stage. Mom texted.” He hesitates. “Tabby heard the speech and seemed confused but she’s okay.”
My heart clenches. “What did she say?”
A small smile touches his lips. “According to Mom she said, ‘Daddy fixed Holly’s bakery.’”
We find his car in the garage and Denton drives through the snowy Chicago streets. The frantic energy of the gala, the shock of his declaration, begins to recede, replaced by a quieter, more profound sense of… peace.
When we get to the apartment, it’s exactly as I remember it. Sleek lines, minimalist furniture, cool tones.
The ‘Holly Tree’ still stands in the corner, its twinkling lights casting a warm, festive glow over the otherwise austere space. Tabby’s gingerbread castle sits proudly on the dining room table, slightly lopsided. And the scent… beneath the clean lemon polish, there’s a faint, lingering trace of vanilla and cinnamon.
Denton shrugs out of his tuxedo jacket, tossing it carelessly over the back of the sofa – a gesture so unlike his usual tidiness it speaks volumes. He loosens his tie, pulling it off completely and dropping it on top of the jacket. He turns to face me, still standing just inside the doorway, feeling suddenly awkward in the extravagant dress.
I have a brief moment of panic. So much has happened tonight. Should I really trust him?
“Holly…” he begins, but I shake my head.
“Don’t,” I say softly. Not angrily this time, but needing… more clarity.
I walk to the tree, to the tangible proof of the life we’d started to build together. I touch a branch, feeling the spiky needles beneath my fingers. “It’s a lot to take in,” I murmur. “All of it. The speech… the trust… the bakery… the things you said…”
