“I know,” I say. “But I like that we started with letters. That we said things on paper; we didn’t know how to say out loud. I don’t ever want to forget that.”
His eyes are shiny. He picks up the top letter, the very first one I sent, careful not to tear the edges. My tiny, cramped handwriting looks almost foreign to me now.
“You still scared?” he asks, echoing words from that first Christmas morning, when I’d asked him whether I terrified him.
“Of you?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Of this. Of us. Of… what now.”
I smile, heart soft and a little wobbly.
“Every day,” I say. “But less than before. And it’s the good kind of scared. The ‘this matters’ kind.” He nods slowly.
“Same,” he says.
He closes the box gently and sets it on the mantle, next to the star ornament and the photo we took in front of the cabin last week, me on his shoulders, grinning like a maniac, him trying to look serious and failing.
“Okay,” he says. “My turn for a non-proposal that is also not a proposal but still… a thing.”
I blink. “That… was a lot of qualifiers.”
“Legal habits die hard,” he says, clearing his throat. “Stay there.”
He disappears down the short hallway to the bedroom. My stomach does a little flip. He’s gone for maybe thirty seconds, but it feels longer. When he comes back, he’s holding something behind his back.
“Jax?” I say, half amused, half terrified.
He stops in front of me and takes a breath.
“You gave me a compass,” he says. “So, I’d always find my way back.”
“You did,” I say.
“I did,” he agrees. “But I realized something this year.”
He brings his hand around. In his palm is a key. It’s attached to a small, worn leather keychain. The metal glints dull silver in the tree light.
“This is…?” I ask.
“Your key,” he says. “To the cabin. To the garage. To the shed with the tools, I’m still not entirely sure you should be trusted with.”
“I am excellent with a hammer,” I protest.
“You are excellent at enthusiasm,” he corrects gently. “Anyway. I know you technically already had one, because the landlord required both names on the lease and all that, but I had this made for you. Because I wanted it to come from me, too.”
My throat tightens. “Jax…”
“I spent a long time,” he says quietly, “feeling like I didn’t have a place that was mine. Or… feeling like I wasn’t allowed to stay anywhere. That I was always one mistake away from being told to pack my shit and leave.”
He swallows, eyes on the key. “This last year, I’ve been waiting,” he says. “Waiting for you to realize I’m too much. Or not enough. Or both. Waiting for some invisible clock to run out.”
I shake my head, already protesting, but he holds up his free hand.
“I know that’s not fair to you,” he says. “I know you’ve done nothing but show up, over and over. But old stories are loud.”
He steps a little closer, holding the key out.
“This is me choosing a new one,” he says. “You’re not a guest, Mara. You’re not someone I’m afraid of losing if I breathe too loud. You are… home. And I want you to know this is your place, your life, as much as it’s mine. If you want it.”
