Preston is standing there. He’s holding a pack of clove cigarettes. He looks from Maxwell to me, then at Maxwell’s swollen lips.
He doesn't sneer. He doesn't make a snarky comment.
He just looks at Maxwell with something that looks suspiciously like respect.
"Mother is crying," Preston reports calmly. "She says you’ve ruined Christmas."
Maxwell straightens his tie. He puts his arm around my waist—openly, proudly.
"Tell her I’ll send a card," Maxwell says.
"Can I come with you?" Preston asks. It’s a joke, but his voice is small.
I step forward. "Not tonight, kid. But if you ever want to learn how to smoke a real cigarette, come find me in the city."
Preston smirks. He lights his clove cigarette and leans against the doorframe.
"Go," Preston says. "Before she gets into the vodka and reloads."
We walk past him. We walk through the house. We grab our coats from the stunned butler.
We walk out into the snow.
We get into the Jeep.
I start the engine. The heater roars to life. AC/DC starts playing softly on the radio.
Maxwell leans his head back against the seat. He closes his eyes. He looks exhausted, but he also looks... free.
"Cheeseburgers?" he asks, keeping his eyes closed.
I put the Jeep in gear.
"Cheeseburgers," I confirm. "And then I’m taking you home. Tomyhome. Because my couch is messy, but at least nobody there cares which fork you use."
Maxwell reaches over. He finds my hand on the gear shift. He interlaces our fingers.
"Drive," he says.
I drive.
Maxwell
The Jeep's tires crunch over fresh snow as Jax navigates the winding streets back toward the city. Streetlights cast orange glows on the drifts piling up along the curbs. My hand rests on the gear shift, fingers still tangled with his. The heater blasts warm air, fogging the edges of the windshield. AC/DC fades out on the radio, replaced by some staticky holiday jingle that Jax snaps off with a flick of his wrist.
"Drive-thru or sit-down?" Jax asks. His voice cuts through the quiet, rough around the edges from the cold.
I glance at him. Snowflakes melt in his curls, turning them darker. "Drive-thru. I want grease. Now."
Jax grins. The Jeep lurches forward as he accelerates. "Attaboy. There's a spot on Elm that does double patties with extra cheese. Fries that could kill a lesser man."
We pull into the glowing lot fifteen minutes later. The speaker crackles with a bored voice. Jax orders enough food to feed a surgical team—burgers stacked high, onion rings crisp from the fryer, shakes thick as concrete. I pay with a card from my wallet, ignoring the judgmental beep of the machine. Thebag lands in my lap, hot and heavy, grease already spotting the paper.
Jax parks in the empty lot across the street, engine idling. He rips open the bag and hands me a burger. "Dig in, Princess. No forks required."
I unwrap it. The bun steams in the cold air. I take a bite—juicy beef, sharp cheddar, tang of pickles. Sauce drips down my chin. I don't wipe it away. Instead, I chew and swallow, savoring the chaos of it. Jax watches me, his own burger halfway to his mouth.
"You eat like you're defusing a bomb," he says.
