God, I’ve read that text more times than I’ll admit out loud. The message. The moment. That damn photo. It’s seared into my brain. I saved it to my phone without hesitation, then panicked and hid it in a folder, like that might stop me from staring at it every night. His face fills the frame—messy hair, crooked smile, those deep dimples—and Teddy’s behind him, covered in icing, holding a half-eaten cookie and a babycino like they’re his most prized possessions.
They look happy. At home. Like nothing’s missing.
Except me.
And apparently, he thought so too. Don’t even get me started on the framed photo. Because the second I got home that night, I bawled. I cried myself to sleep like a hormonal teen watchingThe Notebookfor the first time. Not because I was sad or heartbroken. Not entirely. It was something deeper than that. Gratitude, maybe. Love, probably. The worst part? That damn gift was thoughtful. Personal. Sentimental in a way that made my insides ache.
That’smything. I do the thoughtful gestures. I give the heart-string-tugging surprises. How dare he weaponise my own words and throw them back at me with a bow and perfectly timed sincerity?
I’d told him he wasn’t playing fair. I didn’t realise how right I was. And after that?
Tulips.
More bloody tulips. Bright yellow and obnoxiously joyful. An entire bouquet delivered to my doorstep. To myhousethis time. Mum saw them first.
“Ooh, someone’s got an admirer!” she’d said, eyes sparkling.
“They’re from Amelia,” I lied without blinking. Both my parents turned to look at me like I’d grown two heads. Even Dad arched a brow and gave me a look that made me want to hurl the vase out the window. They knew. Everyone knew. And I hated how easy I was to read when it came to him. The girls have been checking in, too—Isla, Imogen, even Zoe. Subtle nudges. Quiet texts. Little prods wrapped in emojis and heart eyes. But I’ve kept them all at arm’s length. Becausethisis for me. Not them. Not anyone else’s opinions or ideas about how I should feel. About what I should forgive. It should bemydecision. And honestly? He’s doing everything he said he would. Every promise. Every goddamn word.
Another text buzzed through yesterday.
Sebastian:Teddy drew this today ???
It was a scribbled mess in bright colours—stick figures holding hands, a weirdly realistic Diesel in the corner, and what I think was meant to be a rainbow, or possibly spaghetti. He’s been doing that a lot lately. Sending updates. Texts. Photos.So many photos.Teddy with ice cream. Teddy in the bath. Teddy asleep on his chest. Teddy building a rocket ship from cardboard and glitter. But also… Sebastian. Smiling. Living. Justexistingin the small moments, like he wants me to see he’s not hiding anymore.
And God help me, Idolove him. That’s the terrifying part. I know I love him. With this awful, aching clarity that makes my lungs feel too tight in my chest.
Because what if he doesn’t love me?
Not truly. Not deeply. What if I’m just some beautiful chaos that he mistook for forever?
I know it’s irrational. No man doingthis—chasing, showing up, sendingflowers—is operating on lust alone. But try explaining that to the small, bruised part of me that always expects the good things to vanish. Christmas is tomorrow. A whole new year is coming. And I don’t know if it’ll include him. But I hope it does.
The house smells like cinnamon, roasting garlic, and potential chaos. Our annual Mitchell Christmas Eve dinner is in fullswing. Amelia’s trying to keep the kids from eating dessert first, Xavier’s setting off indoor party poppers like a menace, and I’m in the world’s ugliest elf-green shirt with “Santa’s Favourite Wild One” ironed across the front in red glitter, courtesy of Isla. I’m talking about everyone wearing their own matching hideous shirts. We couldn’t have escaped this if we tried. Every year, there’s a new theme, and this year happened to be glitter-themed, inspired by Wicked.
The doorbell rings just as I’m pouring cranberry sauce into a bowl. “Olivia! Get the door, sweetheart,” Mum calls from the kitchen.
“What? Why me?” I holler back.
“Just go, Liv. Please.”
I narrow my eyes. “Who is it?”
“Oh… uh…” She fumbles. “Must be the delivery guy dropping off the trifle dish I ordered.”
Right. Very convincing. Still, I wipe my hands on my ridiculous shirt and make my way to the door. The moment I open it, the breath catches in my throat.
Sebastian stands at the door. Tall and unfairly good-looking, with that stupid, stupid face that’s already unravelling every ounce of resolve I’ve spent weeks stitching together. I don’t even get a word out before something small and fast collides with my legs.
“Teddy!” I gasp, catching him before he knocks me off balance.
“Hi!” He beams, wrapping his arms around me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is. I glance up, and Sebastian’s watching me, eyes soft, voice low.
“Hi, Trouble.”
God.Whydoes that still make me melt?
“What are you doing here?” I ask, blinking back the wobble in my chest. “It’s Christmas Eve!”
