At some point, I realize hours have passed. The tree is still glowing. The mugs are empty. We’ve drifted closer on the couch without noticing, some invisible thread pulling us, but there’s still a small strip of cushion between us, like a border neither of us wants to cross without permission.
His shoulders aren’t as rigid now. He’s slouched back, one arm resting along the back of the sofa. His leg is close enough that I can feel the heat of him through my leggings. I pretend that’s not making me slightly dizzy. I glance at the clock. It’s past midnight. Technically, Christmas now.
“You must be tired,” I say softly. “It’s been a… big day.”
“That obvious, huh?” he says, mouth twitching.
“You just got out of prison, Jax,” I point out. “I’d be more worried if you weren’t exhausted.”
He hums in acknowledgment but doesn’t move to stand. It feels like we’re both clinging to the moment, dragging our feet toward goodnights neither of us really wants yet. I get up before I can talk myself out of it and grab the extra blanket folded over the back of the armchair. It’s soft and well-worn, pale grey. I hold it out to him.
“You can have the bed if you want,” I say. “I’ll take the couch.”
He frowns, like I’ve insulted him. “No.”
“Jax...”
“I’m not here to take anything,” he says quietly. Firm. “Not your bed. Not your space. Not…” He trails off, jaw ticking.
My chest twists. “I know,” I say gently. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s not taking if I offer. It’s… sharing.”
His eyes soften at that, but he still shakes his head. “I’ll be fine out here.”
“You don’t have to be fine,” I murmur. “You’re allowed to be comfortable.”
He looks around the room, at the tree, at the little stack of letters on the side table, at the compass box next to them. He swallows.
“This is already more comfort than I know what to do with,” he says. “Let me work up to the bed.”
There’s a thread of something like humor in his tone, but it’s wrapped around something rawer. I nod. Pushing him now would be about me, not him.
“Okay,” I say. “Couch it is.”
I drape the blanket over the back of the sofa for him. He catches my wrist gently as I pull away.
“Hey,” he says.
I look down at his hand on my skin, then up at his face.
“Thank you,” he says simply. “For… all of this. The letters. The tree. The tea. The…” He gestures vaguely around the room. “The not looking at me like I might break your furniture.”
“I don’t think you’d break my furniture,” I say softly. “My heart, maybe, but not the furniture.”
His eyes flare, something hot and dangerous flickering there. He lets go of my wrist slowly, like he’s afraid he’ll hold on too tight if he doesn’t.
“I’ll try not to do either,” he says.
I force a smile. “Good plan.”
I tell him where the bathroom is, where the spare towel is, and where I keep an extra toothbrush. Saying it out loud feels intimate in a weirdly big way. Like I’m handing over pieces of my life, here is where I sleep, here is where I cry, here is where I brush my teeth and pretend, I have it together. He listens like it matters.
I head to my bedroom, heart pounding, and close the door most of the way, but not completely. A sliver of warm light falls across the hall. It makes me feel less like we’re strangers separated by wood and more like two people in the same place, figuring this out.
In bed, I lie on my side, eyes wide in the dark, listening. I hear the bathroom tap running. The soft thud of his duffel hitting the floor. The creak of the couch as he lies down. Silence. Then the rustle of the blanket as he shifts.
My mind is a mess of pictures. Him on my couch. His hair mussed, scar softened in the glow of the tree. The way his eyes went gentle when he smiled. The way his voice dropped when he called my letters “the only clear thing.” I don’t know how long I lie there before sleep finally tugs me under. It feels like minutes. It’s not.
When I Wake, The Room Is Darker. The tree light glows from the living room and paints faint patterns on my wall. My clock says 3:17 a.m. Something tugs at me. A feeling, not a sound. I slip out of bed, the floor cold under my feet, and pad quietly down the hall. The door is still ajar, enough that I can see the dim outline of the living room.
