The tree is still on. The lights cast a soft halo over everything. The air smells like pine and the faintest hint of cinnamon that’s seeped into the fabric of the couch. And there he is. Still on the couch. But not lying down.
He’s slumped in the corner, back against the armrest, head tipped slightly to the side, chin tucked toward his chest. The blanket is wrapped around his shoulders, bunched in his fists as if he’s not sure he has the right to let go. One foot is braced on the floor, like even in sleep, he’s ready to move.
The compass box sits on the table beside him, lid still closed, the little card with my handwriting tucked neatly under the twine. It looks like a quiet promise. His face, in the glow of the lights, looks younger and older all at once. Lines carved by worry smooth out a little. His mouth is relaxed. His scar catches the light, a pale streak against tan skin.
He looks… peaceful. And somehow fragile. Like if I breathed too loud, he’d wake, and the moment would be gone. I step closer on silent feet, heart twisting at the sight of him. This man. This stranger who bled in the snow for me. This not-stranger who wrote me letters that made my chest ache.
He’s in my living room. On my couch. Asleep under my blanket. A compass I chose for him within arm’s reach. I want to touch him. Not in the way the world always assumes. Not first, anyway. I want to brush the hair back from his forehead. I want to tuck the blanket closer around him. I want to smooth away that faint line between his brows that looks like it’s there even in dreams.
I settle for gently adjusting the blanket so it’s not slipping off his shoulder. As I pull it up, my fingers graze the curve of his neck where it dips into his collarbone. His skin is warm. He stirs, eyelids fluttering. I freeze.
He blinks once, twice, eyes focusing slowly on me. For a heartbeat, I see pure confusion there, like he’s trying to figure out which version of reality he’s in. Then recognition settles.
“Mara,” he says, voice rough with sleep.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to wake you. You just… You look uncomfortable. I thought you might want the blanket up higher.”
He glances down at the blanket, then back at me. A small, crooked smile curves his mouth.
“Old habits,” he murmurs. “Sleeping sitting up. Easier to wake up fast if you need to.”
My chest aches. “You don’t need to here.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment. Something in his eyes softens, gentles, like he wants to believe me and is scared to.
“I know,” he says eventually. Quiet. “I’m trying.”
I nod, feeling that answer all the way through me.
“Go back to sleep,” I say. “It’s late. Or early. Whatever 3 a.m. is.”
He huffs a soft breath. “What about you?”
“I will,” I promise. “Just wanted to check on you.”
His eyes flick to the compass box, then back to my face. “You know,” he says, “you don’t have to keep checking to see if I’m going to disappear.”
“I know,” I say.
But I also know I will anyway. He shifts, the couch creaking softly. For a moment, it looks like he might reach for my hand. He doesn’t.
“Thank you,” he says again, barely above a whisper.
“For what?” I ask.
“For the blanket. For the couch. For not making me feel like a project. For…” He trails off, eyelids drooping. “For the kind of Christmas, I didn’t think I’d ever have again.”
My throat tightens. “It’s just a tree and bad cinnamon rolls,” I say.
He gives me that sleepy half-smile. “It’s more than that.”
I watch him settle back, eyes closing, breath evening out. The compass box sits between us like a tiny, solid thing, proof of choices made, paths crossed, a future neither of us is ready to name yet. I stand there for another moment, memorizing the image.
Then I turn and tiptoe back to my room, leaving the door open just a little bit wider than before. I crawl under the covers, my heart beating slower now. It’s Christmas Eve. There’s a man on my couch who once stepped between me and the worst version of the world. And for the first time in a long time, as sleep pulls me under again, I don’t feel alone. I feel like maybe, just maybe, this story is only just beginning.
Fourteen~First Light
Jaxon
