Mara
Christmas Eve
The Words Look Strange On The Calendar, Like They’ve Been Written For Someone Else’s Life. There’s a circle around today in red pen, a circle I drew weeks ago after his letter, after the date, after I let myself hope in ink. I didn’t write anything next to it. No“J”or“maybe”or“please.”Just the circle.
Now he’s here. In my living room. And I keep catching myself staring like I’m afraid that if I blink too long, he’ll disappear back into the part of my life where he existed only on paper. He doesn’t speak much at first.
Just sits on the couch with his hands resting on his knees like he doesn’t know what to do with himself in a room that isn’t beige and locked. His shoulders are tight, back not quitetouching the cushions, like he doesn’t trust comfort yet. Like the couch might vanish if he leans too hard into it.
The tree lights throw soft gold across his face, catching on the scar that runs down his cheek, lighting the darkness in his eyes. The leather jacket’s draped over the arm of the sofa, heavy and worn. He’s just in a dark T-shirt now, tattoos peeking from under the sleeves, shadows inked into skin.
He looks… out of place and exactly right at the same time. I hover by the armchair for a second, every nerve in my body buzzing. I don’t ask him to explain anything. I don’t ask about the judge, the hearing, or the officer who finally told him he could go. I don’t ask about the cell door closing behind him from the outside instead of in. I don’t need him to. He came. That’s enough.
“Tea?” I ask, because the alternative is blurting something likeI’m so glad you’re real and not just my imagination in leather,which… no.
He nods, just once. “Yeah. Thanks.”
I escape to the kitchen like it’s a safe zone. It smells like cinnamon and sugar and pine, like every Christmas I ever wished for all at once. The kettle’s already half full, so I flick it on and lean on the counter while it hums to life. My hands are shaking a little. Not the same way they did that night. Not fear. Just… intensity. Like all the versions of him I pieced together from his letters have crowded into this one moment, with the man actually sitting on my couch.
He’s not just words now. He’s boots by my door and a jacket on my furniture, and a quiet presence filling up the space that’s been too empty for too long. The kettle clicks off. I busy myself with mugs and teabags and the sugar jar, grateful for the small ritual. On autopilot, I reach for his mug first, the bigger one with the chipped rim that somehow feels right, then mine.
When I bring them back in, he’s leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, studying the tree like it’s a painting in a gallery.
“You went all in,” he says, nodding at it.
I glance at the branches, at the lights, at the tin star ornament glinting near the top. “Yeah. Maybe a bit much.”
He shakes his head. “No. It’s… good.” He clears his throat, like the word feels strange. “Feels like Christmas.”
I hold his mug out. He takes it carefully, big hands surprisingly gentle around the ceramic. His fingers brush mine. A tiny spark jumps under my skin.
“Careful,” I say. “It’s hot.”
He huffs a quiet breath that might be a laugh. “I can handle hot.”
I’m suddenly very glad I’m on the other side of the coffee table.
He brings the mug up like it’s something fragile, blows on the steam, and takes a cautious sip. His eyelids flutter shut for a second, and when they open again, something in them has softened.
“Tastes like freedom,” he says quietly.
My throat tightens. We sit on opposite sides of the couch, close but not touching, like we’re afraid we might break something between us if we lean too close. The space is small but loud; it holds every unsaid thing, every shared moment that only existed in letters.
“So…” I start, then stop, because what do you say?Nice to meet you for real after months of emotional intimacy and one traumatic rescue?
He rescues me from my own awkwardness by asking, “That one….” He nods toward the tree. “Is that the star from your letter? The market one.”
I follow his gaze to the tin star hanging in the middle, its edges catching the light.
“Yeah,” I say. “I almost didn’t put it up.”
“Why?”
“Because it felt like… before.” I twist my mug between my hands. “Before that night. Before you. Before knowing how fast everything can change.” I shrug. “It hurt a little.”
He studies it. “But you did put it up.”
“Yeah.” My lips tilt. “Because it also felt like my mom. She loved stars. Said they were proof we’re never really in the dark, even when it feels like it.”
