Chapter 13 Cinnamon and Stillness
Thirteen ~ Cinnamon and Stillness
Mara
Christmas Eve
The Words Look Strange On The Calendar, Like They’ve Been Written For Someone Else’s Life.
There’s a circle around today in red pen, a circle I drew weeks ago after his letter, after the date, after I let myself hope in ink.
I didn’t write anything next to it. No “J” or “maybe” or “please.” Just the circle.
Now he’s here. In my living room. And I keep catching myself staring like I’m afraid that if I blink too long, he’ll disappear back into the part of my life where he existed only on paper. He doesn’t speak much at first.
Just sits on the couch with his hands resting on his knees like he doesn’t know what to do with himself in a room that isn’t beige and locked. His shoulders are tight, back not quite touching the cushions, like he doesn’t trust comfort yet. Like the couch might vanish if he leans too hard into it.
The tree lights throw soft gold across his face, catching on the scar that runs down his cheek, lighting the darkness in his eyes. The leather jacket’s draped over the arm of the sofa, heavy and worn. He’s just in a dark T-shirt now, tattoos peeking from under the sleeves, shadows inked into skin.
He looks… out of place and exactly right at the same time.
I hover by the armchair for a second, every nerve in my body buzzing.
I don’t ask him to explain anything. I don’t ask about the judge, the hearing, or the officer who finally told him he could go.
I don’t ask about the cell door closing behind him from the outside instead of in.
I don’t need him to. He came. That’s enough.
“Tea?” I ask, because the alternative is blurting something like I’m so glad you’re real and not just my imagination in leather, which… no.
He nods, just once. “Yeah. Thanks.”
I escape to the kitchen like it’s a safe zone.
It smells like cinnamon and sugar and pine, like every Christmas I ever wished for all at once.
The kettle’s already half full, so I flick it on and lean on the counter while it hums to life.
My hands are shaking a little. Not the same way they did that night.
Not fear. Just… intensity. Like all the versions of him I pieced together from his letters have crowded into this one moment, with the man actually sitting on my couch.
He’s not just words now. He’s boots by my door and a jacket on my furniture, and a quiet presence filling up the space that’s been too empty for too long.
The kettle clicks off. I busy myself with mugs and teabags and the sugar jar, grateful for the small ritual.
On autopilot, I reach for his mug first, the bigger one with the chipped rim that somehow feels right, then mine.
When I bring them back in, he’s leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, studying the tree like it’s a painting in a gallery.
“You went all in,” he says, nodding at it.
I glance at the branches, at the lights, at the tin star ornament glinting near the top. “Yeah. Maybe a bit much.”
He shakes his head. “No. It’s… good.” He clears his throat, like the word feels strange. “Feels like Christmas.”
I hold his mug out. He takes it carefully, big hands surprisingly gentle around the ceramic. His fingers brush mine. A tiny spark jumps under my skin.
“Careful,” I say. “It’s hot.”
He huffs a quiet breath that might be a laugh. “I can handle hot.”
I’m suddenly very glad I’m on the other side of the coffee table.
He brings the mug up like it’s something fragile, blows on the steam, and takes a cautious sip. His eyelids flutter shut for a second, and when they open again, something in them has softened.
“Tastes like freedom,” he says quietly.
My throat tightens. We sit on opposite sides of the couch, close but not touching, like we’re afraid we might break something between us if we lean too close. The space is small but loud; it holds every unsaid thing, every shared moment that only existed in letters.
“So…” I start, then stop, because what do you say? Nice to meet you for real after months of emotional intimacy and one traumatic rescue?
He rescues me from my own awkwardness by asking, “That one….” He nods toward the tree. “Is that the star from your letter? The market one.”
I follow his gaze to the tin star hanging in the middle, its edges catching the light.
“Yeah,” I say. “I almost didn’t put it up.”
“Why?”
“Because it felt like… before.” I twist my mug between my hands. “Before that night. Before you. Before knowing how fast everything can change.” I shrug. “It hurt a little.”
He studies it. “But you did put it up.”
“Yeah.” My lips tilt. “Because it also felt like my mom. She loved stars. Said they were proof we’re never really in the dark, even when it feels like it.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “She sounds smart,” he says.
“She was,” I reply, a little too quickly. “Mostly.”
We trade small details at first, like tossing marbles back and forth, testing the weight of being together in person.
We talk about our favorite books. I already know some from his letters, The Stand, Of Mice and Men, that beat-up copy of The Outsiders he reread until the cover fell off, but hearing him say the titles aloud feels different.
“What about you?” he asks. “You always mention poetry. Never said which ones.”
I make a face. “If I answer that honestly, you’re going to think I’m insufferable.”
“I already read your letters,” he points out. “The damage is done.”
I laugh, cheeks burning. “Okay, fine. I like Mary Oliver. And Ocean Vuong. And sometimes, when it’s really bad, I read the same Neruda poem ten times in a row like it’s going to fix anything.”
“Does it?” he asks.
“Sometimes.” I shrug. “Sometimes it just keeps me company while it’s broken.”
He nods slowly, like he understands that better than most. We talk about music we miss.
“Real guitars,” he says. “Not that polished auto-tuned stuff they blast in the yard sometimes. I miss songs with mistakes. You know? Fingers sliding on strings. Amp hum. That sort of thing.”
“What did you listen to before?” I ask.
He leans back a little, eyes drifting to the tree as he thinks. “Old rock. Some outlaw country. Whatever Cody put on, really. My brother had terrible taste.” His mouth lifts in a sad smile. “He’d play the same song on repeat until we all wanted to throw the stereo out the window.”
“You told me about him,” I say softly. “In your letter about the first time you saw snow.”
His jaw tightens a fraction, then loosens. “Yeah. He loved snow. Thought it was magic. I thought it was a pain in the ass.” He huffs. “Still do.”
I smile into my mug. “I kind of like it.”
“Of course you do,” he mutters. “You’re the kind of person who names plants and buys strangers compasses.”
I swat lightly at his knee with the back of my hand. “I do not name all my plants. Only some.”
He smirks, and the sight of it does something odd to my chest. “You still sing to them?” he asks. “You said you did. In one of your letters. When you couldn’t sleep.”
“Only the really sick ones,” I admit. “The others have to tough it out.”
He chuckles, the sound low and rough, like it’s rusty from disuse. “Lucky plants.”
We discover neither of us really likes peppermint.
“It tastes like brushing your teeth and then eating dessert immediately after,” I say with a shudder.
He grimaces. “They put it in everything in there this time of year. Candy canes in the cafeteria, peppermint cocoa. Like if they make it festive enough, you’ll forget you’re locked up.”
“Did it work?” I ask softly.
He looks at me, really looks, and shakes his head once. “No.”
We don’t talk about the night he saved me. Not at first. We don’t talk about prison or courts or the versions of ourselves the world reduced to headlines and file numbers. Not because those things don’t matter, but because they’ve taken up enough space already.
Right now, I want to exist somewhere else with him. In the small things. In the way his eyes crinkle when I say something sarcastic. In the way he leans in a little when I talk about my writing group, like he’s collecting names and details to keep later.
He tells me about his brother again, but with more detail now, about Cody’s obsession with terrible action movies, about how he’d sit too close to the TV and recite the lines before the characters did.
I tell him about my mom, how she used to burn the first batch of cookies every year like a ritual, how she’d pretend it was on purpose, so we’d have “taste testers.”
He asks if I still sing to my plants. I say only the really sick ones. We both smile. It feels… easy. Easier than it should, given everything.
At some point, I realize hours have passed. The tree is still glowing. The mugs are empty. We’ve drifted closer on the couch without noticing, some invisible thread pulling us, but there’s still a small strip of cushion between us, like a border neither of us wants to cross without permission.
His shoulders aren’t as rigid now. He’s slouched back, one arm resting along the back of the sofa. His leg is close enough that I can feel the heat of him through my leggings. I pretend that’s not making me slightly dizzy. I glance at the clock. It’s past midnight. Technically, Christmas now.
“You must be tired,” I say softly. “It’s been a… big day.”
“That obvious, huh?” he says, mouth twitching.
“You just got out of prison, Jax,” I point out. “I’d be more worried if you weren’t exhausted.”
He hums in acknowledgment but doesn’t move to stand.
It feels like we’re both clinging to the moment, dragging our feet toward goodnights neither of us really wants yet.
I get up before I can talk myself out of it and grab the extra blanket folded over the back of the armchair.
It’s soft and well-worn, pale grey. I hold it out to him.
“You can have the bed if you want,” I say. “I’ll take the couch.”
He frowns, like I’ve insulted him. “No.”
“Jax...”