Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
AARON
"You've gone soft, Wilson."
I mutter the words to my reflection as I check my beard one last time. The man in the mirror looks different somehow. Same scars. Same hard jawline. Same blue eyes that have seen too much. But something's changed in those eyes. Something that looks uncomfortably like hope.
It's been three weeks since Leah first stomped onto my property in her impractical boots.
Three weeks since she crashed through my carefully constructed walls with her determination and her smile.
Two weeks since she spent the night in my bed, and I in hers.
Fourteen days of falling into something I never thought I'd have again.
Connection.
The timer on my phone chimes, pulling me from my thoughts. The venison steaks need to be flipped. The potatoes checked. Everything needs to be perfect for tonight.
Because tonight isn't just dinner. Tonight is Christmas Eve.
And for the first time in years, I'm not spending it alone.
My hands are steady as I attend to the meal, but my mind is anything but calm. Last Christmas, I sat in this same cabin with a bottle of whiskey and the ghosts of my fallen team for company. The year before that, I was still in the hospital, my body pieced back together but my mind shattered.
Tonight, Leah will be here, bringing light and warmth into this space that has been my fortress against the world. And I'm terrified.
Not of her. Never of her. Of what she makes me feel. Of how much I've come to need her laugh, her touch, her presence. Of how quickly she's become essential to me.
We've spent nearly every night together these past two weeks, alternating between her apartment and my cabin. I've learned the sounds she makes when I touch her just right, the way she curls against me in sleep, the rhythm of her breathing when she's dreaming.
I've learned that she talks to herself while she works on her graphic design projects. That she can't cook worth a damn but tries anyway. That she cries at sappy Christmas movies and knows all the words to every song on the radio.
And somehow, impossibly, she's learned me too. She doesn't flinch at my scars or press for details I'm not ready to share. She knows when I need space and when I need her close. She reads my silences like they're full paragraphs.
It's terrifying how well she sees me.
The sound of tires on the snow covered access road reaches me through the open kitchen window. She's early. My heart rate picks up, a physical response I can't control whenever she's near.
Setting the kitchen timer, I move to the front door, opening it before she can knock. She stands on my porch, snowflakes caught in her dark hair, cheeks flushed from the cold, arms full of gaily wrapped packages. The sight of her in her red coat, smiling up at me, hits me like a physical blow.
Mine. The word rises unbidden in my mind.
"Merry Christmas Eve!" She beams, stepping inside as I move aside. "I brought presents, and before you panic, yes, I know you said no gifts, but these are small, I promise."
I take the packages from her arms, leaning down to kiss her softly. She tastes like peppermint and smells like vanilla, and for a moment I forget everything but the warmth of her lips against mine.
"Merry Christmas," I murmur against her mouth.
She pulls back, eyes sparkling. "Something smells amazing. Please tell me that's dinner, because I've been thinking about your cooking all day."
"Venison steaks. Rosemary potatoes. Roasted Brussels sprouts."
"You had me until Brussels sprouts," she says with a mock grimace, unwinding her scarf and shrugging out of her coat. "But I'll eat them because you made them."
I hang her coat by the door, watching as she moves through my cabin with the easy familiarity of someone who belongs here. Two weeks, and already the space feels different with her in it. Warmer. Alive.
"Wine?" I offer, gesturing to the bottle breathing on the counter.
"Yes, please." She sets her packages under my small Christmas tree—another change she's brought to my life, the fresh pine now standing in the corner adorned with simple wooden ornaments I carved and white lights she insisted on.
As I pour the wine, she comes up behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist, pressing her cheek between my shoulder blades. "I missed you today."
The simple confession warms me more than it should. "You saw me this morning."
"Still missed you." Her voice is muffled against my shirt. "Town council meetings are much less fun without a grumpy mountain man to come home to."
Home. The word echoes in my chest. Is that what this is becoming? What we're becoming to each other?
I turn in her arms, lifting her chin with one finger. "How was the meeting?"
"Boring. The usual arguments about snow removal schedules and funding for the spring festival." She accepts the wine glass I offer. "But we did approve the final permits for the New Year's celebration. Which reminds me..."
Here it comes. The invitation I've been dreading. The test of whatever we're building here.
"The town does this big bonfire in the square," she continues, eyes carefully watching my reaction. "Music, dancing, fireworks at midnight. Very small town charming."
"And you want me to go," I say, already feeling my chest tighten at the thought of crowds, noise, expectations.
She surprises me by shaking her head. "I want you to do what feels right for you. I'll be there because I'm helping organize it. But I understand if it's not your thing."
The lack of pressure both relieves and unsettles me. "You wouldn't be disappointed if I didn't come?"
She takes a sip of wine, considering her answer. "I'd miss you. But I wouldn't be disappointed in you. There's a difference."
Something in my chest loosens, a tension I hadn't realized I was carrying. This woman, with her boundless enthusiasm for community and connection, isn't trying to change me. She's simply offering me the choice to join her world without demanding it.
"I'll think about it," I say, which is more than I would have offered anyone else.
Her smile tells me she understands exactly what that means.
The timer chimes, and I turn my attention back to dinner, grateful for the distraction. We move around each other in the kitchen with practiced ease, Leah setting the table while I plate the food. It's domestic in a way that should terrify me but somehow doesn't.
Over dinner, she tells me about her day—the characters at the town council meeting, the last minute Christmas shoppers at the general store, her video call with her parents in Seattle. I find myself smiling more than I have in years, drawn into the world she paints with her words.
"What about you?" she asks, refilling our wine glasses. "Finish the cradle?"
I nod, feeling a surge of pride. "Delivered it this morning. The couple cried."
"Of course they did! Your work is beautiful." Her eyes shine with genuine admiration. "Will you show me some of your other pieces sometime?"
The request catches me off guard. Few people have seen my workshop, the heart of my self imposed exile where I transform raw wood into functional art. It's private, personal in a way that's hard to explain.
But this is Leah asking. Leah who has already seen more of me than anyone since I returned from Afghanistan.
"Yes," I hear myself say. "Whenever you want."
Her smile is like sunrise. "Thank you. I'd love that."
After dinner, we move to the sofa in front of the fireplace, Leah curling against my side as flames cast dancing shadows across the room. The Christmas tree lights twinkle in the corner, and outside, snow falls silently, insulating us from the world.
"This is nice," she says softly, her head resting on my shoulder. "Just this. Being here with you."
I tighten my arm around her, pressing a kiss to her hair. "Yeah. It is."
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, the crackling fire the only sound. I find myself thinking about how different this Christmas is from the last. How different I am.
"What are you thinking about?" she asks, tilting her head to look up at me. "You've got that faraway look."
I consider deflecting, changing the subject. But she deserves more than that. She deserves truth.
"Last Christmas," I admit, my voice low. "How different things were."
She waits, not pushing, giving me space to continue or stop as I choose.
"I was alone," I say finally. "By choice. Couldn't handle being around people, their questions, their pity. Spent the day with a bottle of whiskey, trying to forget what day it was."
Her hand finds mine, fingers interlacing. "And the Christmas before that?"
"Hospital." The word comes out rough. "Still recovering from the IED that took my team."
Her intake of breath is soft but audible. I've told her bits and pieces about Afghanistan, about the ambush that killed my unit and left me the sole survivor. But I've never talked about the aftermath, the months of surgeries and rehabilitation, the nightmares that still wake me some nights.
"Aaron," she says gently. "Thank you for telling me."
Not 'I'm sorry.' Not 'That must have been terrible.' Just gratitude for my trust, for the piece of myself I've offered.
Something breaks open in my chest, a dam I've held intact for too long.
"I shouldn't have survived," I say, the words rushing out now. "It should have been them. Any of them. All of them. They had families, people waiting for them to come home. I had no one. It wasn't fair."
She shifts, sitting up to face me, her hands framing my face. "There's no fair in war. No justice in who lives and who dies. But I'm grateful you survived, Aaron. Selfishly, profoundly grateful."
The simple declaration undoes me. Tears I haven't allowed myself to shed burn behind my eyes. She sees it, leans forward to press her forehead against mine.
"You honor them by living," she whispers. "By finding joy again. By letting yourself be loved."
Loved. The word hangs between us, unacknowledged yet undeniable. Too soon to say aloud, but there nonetheless, growing stronger with each day we spend together.
"I don't know if I remember how," I confess, voice barely audible.
"That's okay." She brushes her lips against mine. "I'll remind you."
I pull her into my arms then, burying my face in her neck, breathing in her scent as if it can anchor me in this moment. Her arms wrap around me, strong despite their slenderness, holding me together as something inside me finally begins to heal.
When I lift my head, she's looking at me with such tenderness it almost hurts.
"Present time?" she suggests, giving me the space to compose myself.
I nod, grateful for her understanding. "Present time."
She bounces off the sofa with childlike enthusiasm, retrieving the packages from under the tree. "You first," she insists, placing a small box in my hands.
The gift is wrapped in simple red paper with a gold ribbon. I open it carefully, feeling strangely reverent. Inside is a leather bound sketchbook, the cover embossed with an intricate mountain scene.
"Open it," she urges.
I flip through the blank pages, stopping when I reach the first page. There, in her flowing handwriting:
"For the man who sees beauty in the grain of the wood. May you find joy in creating simply for the sake of creation. With love, Leah."
With love. The words make my throat tight.
"I noticed you're almost at the end of your current sketchbook," she explains, suddenly nervous. "I thought maybe you'd like a new one for your designs."
"It's perfect," I say, running my fingers over the cover. "Thank you."
Her smile is radiant. "There's one more."
The second package is smaller, flat. Inside is a framed photograph—the carousel from the Winter Wonderland, captured at sunset with mountains in the background. The craftsmanship of the wooden horses is highlighted in golden light, each detail lovingly preserved.
"I thought maybe," she says hesitantly, "you might like a reminder of the day things started to change. For both of us."
The thoughtfulness of the gift, the way she's seen into my heart without my having to explain, leaves me speechless. I set the gifts carefully aside and reach for her, pulling her into my lap.
"Thank you," I murmur against her lips. "They're perfect. You're perfect."
She melts into me, her body soft and yielding against mine. When we break apart, both breathing harder, I reach behind the sofa for the package I'd hidden earlier.
"Your turn."
Her eyes widen as she takes the long, narrow box wrapped in simple kraft paper. "I thought you said no gifts."
"I lied." I watch as she carefully unwraps it, her fingers tracing the wooden box revealed beneath the paper.
When she lifts the lid, her breath catches.
Nestled in velvet is a necklace—a delicate silver chain supporting a pendant I carved myself from a piece of cherry wood, polished to a warm glow.
The pendant is shaped like a small carousel horse, detailed with the same precision as the one I'd given the little girl at the Winter Wonderland.
"Aaron," she whispers, lifting it from the box. "Did you make this?"
I nod, suddenly uncertain. "The chain is silver. The horse I carved from cherry wood. It's not expensive, but I thought—"
"It's the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me," she interrupts, eyes bright with unshed tears. "Will you put it on me?"
She turns, lifting her hair as I fasten the clasp at the nape of her neck. The pendant rests just above the swell of her breasts, the warm wood glowing against her skin. When she turns back to me, her smile is luminous.
"I love it," she says. Then, more softly, "I love you."
The words hang in the air between us, her expression shifting from joy to uncertainty as I remain silent, processing what she's just said. What she's offering.
Love. Such a simple word for such a complex emotion. One I'd convinced myself I'd never feel again, never deserve again.
"You don't have to say it back," she says quickly, reading my silence as rejection. "It's okay. It's soon, I know, but I just wanted you to know how I feel, and—"
I stop her rambling with a kiss, pouring everything I can't yet say into it. When I pull back, I rest my forehead against hers.
"I'm getting there," I promise, voice rough with emotion. "Give me time."
Relief and understanding flood her features. "All the time you need."
I pull her close, holding her against my chest as the fire crackles and snow falls outside. Something fundamental has shifted tonight. A door long closed has been cracked open, letting in light and possibility.
And for the first time in years, I'm not afraid of what lies ahead. Because whatever comes next, Leah will be there, her hand in mine, guiding me back to the land of the living.
This Christmas Eve, in the quiet of my cabin that no longer feels like a fortress but a home, I've been given the greatest gift of all.
A second chance.