Chapter 21 Sam
Sam
I made Christmas... for you
The couch creaks as I shift, still blindfolded, waiting. The tie presses against my temples, soft but unrelenting, blotting out the world. At first, it’s quiet—so quiet I start to wonder if she’s forgotten about me, left me sitting here like an idiot while she snickers from the shadows.
The silence stretches, the kind that makes seconds feel like minutes, and I’m halfway to pulling the blindfold off when something makes me pause.
Faint at first, then clearer: Frankie’s voice, carried through the still night air and cracked open windows. Mutters. Grumbles. Cute little bursts of—damn it, why won’t this— followed by a string of words I’m fairly certain would land her on Santa’s naughty list.
I smile before I can stop myself. The sound alone paints the picture: her pacing, tugging at something stubborn, her nose scrunched in determination, hair falling loose around her face. Even without seeing her, I can see her.
The smile lingers long after the curses fade.
Then, her presence washes over me again, as sure as sunlight. Warm fingers brushing my shoulders, the soft huff of her breath as she guides me to stand. “So before I take you somewhere—”
“Somewhere to do unspeakable things to my body?”
“Sam!”
“Sorry, continue.”
She sighs, but the sound is light. “Before I take you somewhere, I need you to know that this isn’t about obligation. Or pity. Or me feeling sorry for you being the neighborhood Grinch.”
I tilt my head toward her voice, a smile tugging at my mouth. “You sure? Because I’ve been working very hard on that reputation.”
“I know,, and it’s honorable to be so grumpy but the past few days, I’ve seen more.
I think your heart is beautiful, Sam.” Her honesty cuts through my defenses swiftly, and a lump forms in my throat.
She drops a chaste kiss to the side of my mouth, making me feel something deep behind my ribs.
“I’m doing this because I want to. Because you matter.
And if I’ve learned anything these last few days, it’s that sometimes you don’t wait for perfect timing. You just… make it perfect.”
The words press against me harder than the blindfold. My throat goes tight, and for once, I don’t joke it off.
“All right,” I say quietly. “Lead the way, Frankie.”
She steadies me as she slides my coat on, guiding my arms through the sleeves with a tenderness that makes my throat tight. Her fingers graze mine as she fastens the buttons, one by one, like she’s sealing me in. I manage the last one, blind but sure, if only to feel useful.
“You ready?” she asks, her voice buzzing with nerves and hope, threaded with something that feels suspiciously like anticipation.
“I am,” I reply, meaning it.
Her hand finds mine, her fingers slipping between mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and she leads me carefully outside. The cold air hits immediately against my cheeks. The ground crunches under our boots, the air filled with the distant hush of melting snow sliding from rooftops.
We haven’t gone far when she stops, close enough that I can feel the puff of her breath ghost against my chin. I’m aware of every inch of her—how her hand tightens just slightly in mine, how she lingers in that pause like she’s building the tension on purpose.
Then the tie lifts from my eyes, light flooding in, and I blink hard against it, my pupils struggling to catch up.
Everything is color and bright lights at first, the kind that makes you blink to focus. But when the blur clears, my chest constricts.
Her house comes into focus, the usual beacon that used to get under my skin only days ago.
God, why does that feel like a lifetime has passed?
Still, there it beams, only now it’s different.
Lit up in all its wild, unapologetic glory, every inch dripping with twinkling lights and garlands.
The porch is framed in holly and ribbon, the eaves dripping with icicles of light, and there on the lawn is that damn reindeer, mid-leap, smug as ever.
I turn to her, still dazed. “Your house?”
“Yeah.” She smiles, cheeks pink from the cold and the glow. “My house.”
Before I can gather a single coherent thought, she grabs my hand and tugs me forward. “Come on.”
The door swings open, and the warmth rushes out first, wrapping around me, thawing what the cold had claimed while carrying the scent of cinnamon and pine and something sweeter I recognize instantly… her.
The living room has been transformed into nothing short of a grotto. Lights strung across every corner, casting a soft golden haze. A snowy tree glittering in the corner, branches heavy with pink and white ornaments that catch and throw the light back.
The table is already set, like a feast is waiting, glasses glinting, cutlery catching the light.
Then, the pink and green stockings come into view on the coffee table. One with her name stitched sitting next to one with… my name. I stop because it hits me too hard to move forward.
“You…” My voice fails, but the ghost of what I wanted to say lingers anyway.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I made Christmas,” she says simply. “For you.”
And it’s ridiculous, but I feel it then—every year I’ve spent alone, every halfhearted holiday with half-hearted decorations, every dim room and empty chair—rewriting itself in the magic of this one.
Frankie is something so unexpected… not just for Christmas but for a long time coming.