Epilogue The Compass #2
“I am a domestic goddess,” she declares, setting it on the stove. “A chaotic one, but still.”
I look at the rolls. “You are,” I agree. “And I’m a man who knows which side his cinnamon is buttered on, so I support this deeply.”
She laughs, bumping her shoulder lightly into my chest.
God, I love that sound.
I love that I get to hear it in person and not just imagine where, in a letter, she would have laughed.
She straightens, turns, and leans her back against the counter, looking up at me.
There’s a smear of flour on her forearm and a smudge of icing on her wrist. Her hair is still tangled from the ride; cheeks pink from the cold.
“Merry almost Christmas,” she says.
“Almost?” I glance at the clock on the microwave. It’s Christmas Eve, late afternoon, the kind of grey light that feels like the world is between breaths. “Feels like Christmas to me.”
She tilts her head. “You say that every time there’s sugar involved.”
“Not my fault, Christmas and sugar are strongly linked,” I say. “I don’t make the rules.”
Her smile softens. “You ready?” she asks.
“For what?”
“For round two,” she says. “Second Christmas. One year later. The ‘we actually did this’ edition.”
I let out a slow breath. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready.”
She gives me a look that says she knows I’m not just talking about the holiday.
She has always been annoyingly good at reading between my lines.
Mara
The Tree Looks Better This Year. Not Because It’s Bigger Or Fuller Or Has More Ornaments, Though It Does, Technically.
We added to the collection over the year: a little metal bike, a ceramic mug, a tiny star with “M&J” written badly on it because Jax insisted he could do cursive and then proved he very much could not.
It looks better because I remember decorating it with him.
Last year, I put the star up alone, my hands shaking a little as I stretched on my tiptoes. This year, he lifted me onto his shoulders, laughing as I squealed and grabbed the top of the tree for balance.
“I’ve got you,” he’d said. “Promise.”
“I really, really hope so,” I’d replied, clinging to his hair.
We’d argued about which side looked “balanced,” rearranged baubles five times, then given up and decided imperfection was charming.
Now, as we carry the rolls into the living room, the lights blink lazily across the branches, casting soft shadows on the walls.
The fireplace crackles happily. Stockings hang from the mantle, two knitted ones I found at a charity shop, each with a letter embroidered on them.
M.
J.
We didn’t agree to labels out loud, but we still ended up with ones above the fireplace.
We sit on the couch, the same couch he slept half-sitting on the first night, now more broken in, more ours. He drops down with a soft grunt, setting the plate of rolls on the coffee table. I curl up next to him, tucking my feet under his thigh.
“You remember last year?” I ask.
He snorts. “Pretty sure I’m not forgetting that Christmas anytime soon.”
“You remember you refused the bed?”
“I remember you tried to make me take it,” he says.
“I remember waking up and finding you half-sitting, half-turning into stone like some tragic gargoyle,” I counter. “Neck at a ninety-degree angle, blanket barely working…”
“Gargoyles protect things,” he says smugly. “So that tracks.”
I elbow him lightly. “You protect things better when you’re actually horizontal.”
He grins and leans back, resting his arm along the back of the couch. I use that as an invitation and tuck myself into his side, head resting against his chest. His hand automatically curls around my shoulder, fingers idly stroking my arm.
His heartbeat, slow and steady under my ear, is my favorite kind of background noise.
“I didn’t think we’d end up here,” I admit quietly.
“In a cabin in the woods?” he asks. “Riding a bike named Marla with my chaos baker girlfriend?”
I smile. “You love Marla.”
He sighs. “I tolerate Marla’s jealous streak. She does not like sharing my attention.”
“You’re deflecting,” I say. “You didn’t think we’d end up with… this.” I gesture at the tree, the rolls, the whole scene.
He’s quiet for a long moment.
“Honestly?” he says. “No. I thought best case, I’d get out, get a job, and keep my head down. Maybe meet you for coffee every now and then if you still wanted to see me. I didn’t exactly put ‘ride off into a relatively stable life’ on my bingo card.”
I huff a tiny laugh. “Relatively stable,” I echo.
“Hey, we’re still us,” he points out. “I had a panic attack at Target last month because the Christmas aisle was too crowded, and you cried at an advert where a cat found his way home. We’re not exactly poster children for serenity.”
“Excuse you, that cat had a journey,” I say, poking his chest. “And your panic attack lasted two minutes, and you talked yourself down, and I was very proud of you.”
His arm tightens around me. “You sat on the floor with me between the seasonal chocolates and the discount candles and made up a story about a cinnamon roll uprising,” he says. “I was proud of you, too.”
I grin. “It was a solid story.”
“Terrifying,” he says. “I think about it every time you bake now. I’m mildly concerned they’re plotting against me.”
“They’re definitely plotting against your arteries,” I say.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head.
We sit like that for a while, the kind of silence that feels full instead of empty.
My gaze drifts to the small wooden box under the tree.
It’s tucked in the back, half-hidden behind a wrapped present.
He doesn’t know I saw him slip it there earlier.
I pretend I didn’t. I like surprises, but I also like watching them form.
“Hey,” I say abruptly, pushing up slightly so I can look at him. “Do you ever miss it?”
“Christmas rolls without icing?” he asks. “No.”
“Jax.”
“I know.” He exhales. “Miss what?”
“Your old life,” I say. “Not the bad bits. Just… the other parts. The roaming. The not knowing what the next week looked like. The loneliness you called freedom.”
He stares into the fire for a long moment, jaw working.
“Sometimes I miss the idea of it,” he says slowly. “The fantasy of being untouchable. Of never needing anything from anyone, never letting anyone need anything from me.”
“And now?”
He looks down at me, eyes soft. “Now I know that was just another kind of cage,” he says. “No walls, sure. But still trapped. Still running from myself.”
He shrugs. “I like this better. Even when it’s hard.”
“Even when I cry at cat adverts?” I ask.
“Especially then,” he says. “Gives me an excuse to hold you and pretend I’m doing something useful.”
I rest my chin on his chest, studying his face. The lines around his eyes are a little deeper now, but so is the ease in them. The scar on his cheek is still there, pale, and stubborn, but he doesn’t flinch when I trace it anymore.
“We did good,” I say softly.
“We’re doing good,” he corrects. “Work in progress, remember?”
“Perpetual draft,” I agree. “My favorite kind.”
He smiles and taps my nose with his finger. “Speaking of drafts,” he says, nodding toward the small stack of papers on the side table. “Did you finish the new story?”
I groan. “Don’t remind me.”
He reaches over, grabs the stack, and brandishes it. “You wrote twenty pages about a girl who sends letters to a stranger in space,” he says. “And you think I’m not going to notice it’s about us?”
“It’s not about us,” I protest weakly.
“She literally calls him J,” he says.
“It stands for Juno,” I lie.
“Sure, it does,” he says, smirking. “You going to let the group see it next week?”
I swallow. “Maybe,” I say. “If I don’t set it on fire first.”
“Don’t,” he says. “I like that ending. The bit where he actually shows up and isn’t just a disembodied voice? That one.”
I stare at him. “Spoilers,” I say. “Some people haven’t finished it yet.”
He leans in and kisses the tip of my nose. “I’m your test audience,” he murmurs. “Perks of dating the author.”
I roll my eyes, but my heart stutters in my chest. Dating. One year in, and the word still feels new and big and bright. We’re more than that, of course. But sometimes the simple words matter.
“Okay,” he says eventually, shifting so I can sit up properly. “Gifts?”
“Gifts,” I agree, clapping once.
We agreed to keep it small this year. “We’re on a budget,” I’d said. “And also, emotional growth is my main present to you.”
“Best kind,” he’d replied. “But I am still buying you something, so don’t argue.”
He reaches under the tree and pulls out a lumpy, badly wrapped package. The paper is wrinkled, and there’s way too much tape. My heart blossoms.
“Is that—?” I start.
“Wrapping presents is not my spiritual gift,” he warns. “Judge the contents, not the packaging.”
He hands it to me, and I tear into it with entirely too much enthusiasm. Inside is a thick, soft hoodie, dark green, with the words Plant Whisperer printed in white across the front, and a little line drawing of a leafy pot.
I burst out laughing. “Oh my God.”
“So, the neighbors know what they’re dealing with,” he says. “Also, there’s a second part.”
He reaches again and pulls out a small pot with a tiny, determined-looking sprout in it.
“This is Fernie,” he says.
“Fernie?”
“It’s a fern,” he says. “I thought we could test the hoodie’s accuracy.”
My chest aches in the best possible way. I set the pot carefully on the coffee table and pull the hoodie over my head immediately, laughing when it swallows me.
“It’s perfect,” I say, voice muffled. “And so warm. I love him. And Fernie.”
“You haven’t even sung to him yet,” he says. “Give it time.”
I point at him. “You are absolutely naming the next plant. I’m not letting you have all the glory.”
He grins, then his expression shifts, a flicker of something more serious passing through.
“Okay,” he says. “My turn.”