I snort. “You are ridiculous.”
“And yet,” he says, eyebrow lifting, “you’re still here.”
I sit up a little, the blanket sliding down, and study him. The room is glowing now, full morning light bouncing off ornaments and tinsel and the ridiculous amount of Christmas trees Susan insisted on. Everything feels… real.
Not curated. Not performative.
Just us.
“You really want to post us like this?” I ask. “No spin? No captions explaining anything?”
He shrugs. “I don’t want to explain. I just want to show up.”
That lands.
I think about all the versions of myself that hid. The girl who ran. The girl who disappeared. The girl who thought she owed everyone certainty.
I don’t anymore.
“Sure,” I say, laughing softly. “Why not?”
He looks surprised. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m not hiding from who I am anymore. Or my choices. Even the confusing ones.”
His expression shifts—something deeper than excitement. Respect. Gratitude.
I grab his phone before he can overthink it, angle it above us. We both look sleepy. Happy. Real.
No makeup. No armor. No captions yet.
Just Christmas morning.
He hits post.
Somewhere out there, the internet probably combusts.
I don’t care.
I curl back into his arms, tuck my face into his chest, and let myself feel this without trying to define it.
For once, I don’t need to know where this is going.
I just know I’m exactly where I want to be.
“So,” he says softly, forehead resting against mine. “Nothing heavy today?”
“Agreed,” I whisper.
The word feels like a promise instead of a rule.
But my chest tightens anyway, because light doesn’t mean empty. It doesn’t mean I haven’t missed him. It doesn’t mean my body hasn’t memorized his.
“I missed you,” I admit, voice barely there. “For months.”
His hands hesitate at my waist, like he’s asking permission without words. Like he’s still trying to be good. Still trying not to hurt me.
I cover his wrist, guiding him closer.
