Chapter Thirty-Three
Jo
By the time we finally made it back to the farm, I couldn’t feel my toes.
I also couldn’t feel my face, but that might have been from smiling too much.
The drive home was quiet in that good way—tree lights still ghosting behind my eyes, my hands wrapped around a to-go cup Milo had shoved at me. Nate drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the seat between us, close enough that our sleeves brushed every time we hit a bump.
Neither of us reached for the other.
Neither of us moved away.
The farmhouse glowed against the dark when we pulled in, windows golden, smoke slipping from the chimney. A couple of the security guys were at the edge of the drive, talking low, their breath white in the cold. They straightened a little when Nate parked.
“Evening, sir,” one of them called.
“Evening,” Nate answered, slipping easily into that calm, in-control tone I’d started associating with him. “How’s everything look?”
“All quiet,” the man said. He glanced at me and added, “Heard you picked a good tree.”
“See?” I told Nate. “You’re officially good at Christmas.”
He shot me a sideways look. “Is that on my team performance review?”
“It’s in the notes,” I said.
He shook his head, but he looked . . . content. Like some knot in him had loosened out there under the town’s lights.
We walked up to the house together. The night was bitter and clear, stars sharp enough to cut. Gravel crunched under our boots; the air smelled like woodsmoke and pine sap.
He opened the front door, letting me step inside first. Warmth wrapped around me. The fireplace was lit, a lingering aroma from a casserole Bibi had smuggled in earlier to reheat, the faint scent of Nate’s cologne woven through it all.
I toed off my boots by the mat. Nate did the same, lining his up next to mine with almost ridiculous precision. For a second, we just stood there in the foyer. Coats on, hats still in hand. The echoes of carols from the square felt like they were still clinging to my skin.
“Well, that was fun,” I said brilliantly.
“Yeah,” he said.
Silence stretched between us—awkward, charged, packed full of everything we’d been pretending not to feel all week.
I could have said goodnight right then. I could have walked down the hall to “my” room, closed the door, and spent the rest of the night trying to think about battery stability curves instead of the way his hand had felt on my waist under that damn tree.
I didn’t move.
Neither did he.
“You tired?” he asked finally.
“Not really,” I lied.
“You look tired.”
“You suck at compliments,” I countered.
His mouth twitched. “Am I allowed to dole better ones out?” His gaze dropped to my mouth, then slid back up. Slow. Deliberate. “Because I can.”
The air between us changed. “Nate.”
“Jo,” he said quietly.
My heart did a weird, painful thing in my chest.
“It’s impossible to be with you and not want you,” he said. “But I know you need time.”
I wanted to say that was a lie. That he’d lie awake just as much as I would, replaying the feel of my hand in his, my back against his chest, the way the town had looked at us and seen something we hadn’t quite dared to name.
“I do . . .” I started, then faltered.
He stepped a little closer. Not touching. Just inside my space, the smell of cold air and him wrapping around me.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I don’t want to be stupid,” I said. “About this. About you.”
“Okay,” he said slowly. “What does that mean to you?”
“Falling into bed with someone when my life is a grenade,” I said. “Letting myself enjoy any of this when everything could still blow up.”
He took that in without flinching. It was infuriating and grounding at the same time.
“And what does not-stupid look like?” he asked.
“Never touching you again,” I said. “Pretending tonight didn’t feel like . . .” I gestured vaguely in the direction of town. “Like something.”
“Did it?” he asked.
“Don’t make me say it,” I muttered.
He smiled then, just a little. The kind of smile that made my stomach drop. “I won’t,” he said. “I’ll say it. It felt like something to me.”
I swayed.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
“One more option,” he said softly. “Between stupid and pretend-none-of-this-exists.”
I swallowed. “What?”
“Choosing it anyway,” he said. “Knowing it’s messy. Knowing your life is a grenade. Knowing mine isn’t exactly simple either. And just . . . choosing this. For tonight.”
I stared at him, throat tight.
“That sounds . . . risky,” I whispered.
He nodded. “Probably.”
We stood there for one more heartbeat. Two.
Then I moved.
I fisted my hand in the front of his sweater and pulled him down.
The first kiss wasn’t pretty. It was collision more than contact, my nose bumping his. He made a rough sound that went straight through me, hands coming up to bracket my face like he wasn’t sure whether to hold me gently or pin me to the nearest wall.
He settled for somewhere in between.
My back hit the hallway wall a second later. His mouth slanted over mine properly now, hot and demanding, years of self-control and weeks of tension snapping like a brittle wire.
I slid my hands under his sweater, palms mapping the solid heat of his back. He hissed in a breath when my fingers dug in.
“Jo,” he said against my mouth. “Tell me if—”
“Shut up,” I said, pulling him closer.
He laughed, low and broken, and did what I asked.
After that, there weren’t many words.
There were sounds—the soft thud of my coat hitting the floor, the rustle of his as he shrugged out of it one-handed without breaking the kiss.
The clumsy, impatient curse when my sweater got tangled on my elbow.
The soft, shocked noise I made when his mouth found that spot just under my jaw and heat shot straight down my spine.
At some point we made it down the hall, half-stumbling, half-grabbing at each other like if we let go, gravity would fling us in opposite directions. I wasn’t even entirely sure whose room we ended up in until my legs hit the edge of a bed.
His bed.
Of course it was.
He paused then, just long enough to search my face in the dim light.
“You’re sure?” he asked, voice hoarse.
I could have said no. I could have claimed I wasn’t thinking straight, that the tree and the town and his arms around me under all those lights had broken something vital in my caution.
Instead I heard myself say, “Yes.”
His shoulders dropped like someone had cut a wire.
The second time we slept together, it wasn’t like the first.
The first had been wildfire—fast and hot and fueled by adrenaline and anger and relief and everything we weren’t saying.
This was . . . slower. No less intense, but different.
He touched me like he had time. Like he wanted to memorize every reaction, every sharp inhale, every shiver. Like this wasn’t only about getting lost, but about finding something.
I tried not to think about that. About what it meant to be seen this way, to be wanted in a body that had spent years defined by what it could do rather than what it could feel.
It was useless.
Every time he whispered my name, every time his hands slid over my skin with that careful, reverent pressure, something in my chest unclenched a little more.
When we finally crashed over the edge together, it wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t cinematic.
It was real. Messy and breathless and so good I forgot, for one blessed moment, that the rest of the world existed.
After, we lay tangled in the sheets, my cheek pillowed on his shoulder, his arm banded firmly around me like he had no intention of letting go.
His heartbeat thudded under my ear. Steady. Solid.
Outside, I could hear the faint sigh of wind against the side of the house, the creak of old wood settling after a long day. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once and then gave up, as if even it had decided the night deserved to be quiet.
I should have been cataloguing my mistakes. Mentally listing all the ways this complicated everything—emotionally, logistically, professionally, whatever other “ly” words I could throw at it.
Instead, I thought about the tree.
The moment the lights had surged up the branches. The collective breath of the town as it had gone from shadow to glow. The way Libby had squeezed my hand and told me to make a Christmas wish.
“They say the first wish you make when the lights come on always comes true,” she’d said, half-teasing, half-serious.
I’d rolled my eyes.
I’d told myself I didn’t believe in that kind of thing. Wishes were for people who hadn’t seen how ugly the world could be. Nobody up there cared enough to tilt the odds for one little person in one little town.
I still didn’t believe, not really.
But when Nate had thrown that lever with Martin’s grandson, when the square had erupted in color and sound and warmth, something traitorous in me had whispered anyway.
If this works—if anything listening is feeling generous tonight—
I wish for this.
For exactly this.
Not a specific scene. Not a snapshot.
A feeling.
Warmth and belonging. Hands that didn’t just restrain but held. A community that looked at me and saw “ours” instead of “problem to be solved.”
Him.
And because apparently my greed had no shame, another wish had tangled itself around the first.
If there’s even a sliver of mercy left in the universe . . .
Let me bring my father home for Christmas.
Two wishes.
Greedy, like I’d thought earlier.
My father used to tell me to never ask the universe for more than I was willing to lose if it said no. That asking made you vulnerable. That depending on anything outside your own ability to fix a problem was a good way to end up broken.
Maybe he was right.
Maybe he was wrong.
Either way, lying there with Nate’s arm heavy around me and his breath warm against my hair, the edges of those wishes hurt in a way that was almost sweet.
“Jo?” he murmured, drowsy.
“Yeah?”
“You okay?”
I thought about lying. About saying I was fine, that this was nice, that I’d definitely be able to go back to pretending in the morning.
Instead, I let out a soft huff of air that was almost a laugh.
“I made a Christmas wish,” I said.
His chest rose under my cheek. “Yeah?”
“Two, actually,” I admitted. “Which I’m pretty sure is against the rules.”
“What did you wish for?” he asked.
I hesitated, then shook my head against his skin. “I don’t think you’re supposed to say them out loud.”
“That’s birthday wishes,” he said. “Christmas wishes might have different rules.”
“Don’t try to logic me on magic,” I muttered. “It’s rude.”
He chuckled, the sound low and tired. “Fair enough.” His arms wrapped around me like he could feel how fragile that admission had been.
I closed my eyes, listening to his heartbeat and to the wind outside whispering against the old glass.
“Two wishes,” I murmured, mostly to myself. “And they were big ones.”
Nate said, voice a warm rumble. “It’s okay to want more than the bare minimum.”
My throat burned.
I didn’t answer.
A minute later, his breathing evened out, the muscles under my cheek relaxing as he slipped toward sleep.
I stayed awake a little longer, clutching my wishes to my chest like contraband.
Could someone like me actually have this?
All of this.
And for my father, free.
I let myself slide into sleep believing I could.
Not because the world had become less dangerous or I’d become more deserving, but because, for once, I wanted to believe.