safe hands #2
“They pop open, and inside there are little things like a crown, a joke, and a tiny gift.” He sits down beside me on the couch. “We’ll pull them together, okay?”
“Okay.”
We both hook fingers on the crackers and pull. They pop loudly, startling me into laughter. After a little puff of glittery smoke, a small plastic fish, a slip of paper, and a folded yellow paper crown tumble into my lap.
“Now, for the most important part,” Oliver says, unfolding the paper crown. He shifts closer, kneeling in front of me as he gently places the crown over my head. His fingers delicately graze my temple, brushing my hair back just enough to settle it into place. He looks at me for a long second.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, and somehow that paper crown feels heavier than gold.
“Now yours,” I say, reminding him he needs to put on festive, ridiculous headwear too.
He slips his crown on and smirks at me. “Good?”
“Perfect.”
“Now,” he says, leaning forward to grab a stack of DVDs from the table. “Welcome to the holiday movie portion of the evening. Take your pick.”
“Oh, I’m in charge?”
“Tonight, yeah.”
I take the stack and sift through the titles: Love Actually, Home Alone, It’s a Wonderful Life, White Christmas, and The Holiday.
“This is a strong list,” I say, trying to buy myself time to make a decision as I weigh them like Olympic contenders.
I settle on It’s a Wonderful Life. Oliver gets up to dim the lights and pour another bottle of wine, then sinks back down next to me on the couch.
I don’t know if it’s the wine or the food or the way he’s made an English Christmas just feel like my Christmas, but my whole chest feels warm and full, and I can’t remember feeling like this on any holiday.
He throws a flannel blanket over us, and I curl up, draping my legs over his. He wraps an arm around me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The movie begins, and even just the first few notes of the score hit me with a sad nostalgia.
I’ve watched this movie every year since I was a kid, in whatever city my parents had me in for the holidays.
Every hotel room always had it on. I’d sit there, takeout in my lap, pretending I didn’t care, but I’d cry every time.
It wasn’t even just about George Bailey and everything he learned.
I’d cry because of Mary. I’d cry because someone saw her—really saw her—and thought she was worth the moon.
Because when George looks at her like she’s the only person in the world, I would wonder if I’d ever feel that.
If someone would ever look at me like that.
And now I have the weight of Oliver’s arm around me.
When George shouts, “What is it you want, Mary? You want the moon? Just say the word and I’ll throw a lasso around it and pull it down,” something in me twists.
I glance up at Oliver, and he’s looking right at me, and I swear I can see the moon in his eyes.
When George reaches the bridge, broken and desperate, I feel Oliver go completely still. He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t have to. I know what it means for him—to have that belief that the world would be better without him, that the world took the wrong brother.
I reach for his hand, sliding my fingers between his. His thumb brushes along my knuckles, and we sit like that for the rest of the movie.
When it ends, and the screen fades to black with “Auld Lang Syne” playing, Oliver looks over at me.
“Good choice,” he says, voice quiet.
I stare over at my bag, knowing what’s hidden inside. It’s time. I know it is. Wrapped under the weight of his arm, with the ghost of that movie still in the air, I know this is the right moment.
I untangle myself gently, stand up, and head over to my bag. He watches me curiously, but doesn’t say anything. I pull out a small package, wrapped in green paper and tied with a gold bow, and sit back down next to him. I can hear my heart hammering in my ears.
“I, um…” I swallow. “I have something for you.”
Oliver blinks. “You got me a Christmas present?”
I nod, suddenly shy. “I did.”
He sits up straighter and smiles. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” I say. “I wanted to.”
He stands up and walks over toward his Christmas tree, picking up a small wrapped gift.
“If I had known we were exchanging gifts,” he teases, voice low and playful as he hands it to me.
I smile, already feeling the warmth in my chest rushing to my face. “After that dinner? You didn’t have to—”
“Just open it.”
The red paper is shiny. I take my time opening it, mostly because Oliver used an extraordinary amount of tape for such a small box.
Inside the box, a delicate gold necklace glints back at me. Hanging from the fine chain is a small silhouette of the London Eye.
My breath catches in my throat as my fingers tremble a little. “Oliver…”
“I wanted you to have a reminder of a time you faced something that scared you and did it anyway,” he says, watching me carefully. “And also, to remind you that no one gets to make you feel small.”
My heart is so full I can barely form words.
“Oliver, I…”
“May I?” he asks gently, reaching for the necklace.
I nod, turning away from him and pulling my hair into my hand. His fingers are warm as they trace the back of my neck. He latches the clasp and the pendant rests right against my collarbone.
“Thank you, Oliver.” I turn and look at him, and I know right then—this is the most seen I’ve ever felt. It might be a necklace, but it feels like Oliver just gave me the moon.
“Okay,” he says with a smile. “My turn.”
He picks up the present like it’s fragile, like it already means something before he’s even opened it.
He peels back the paper slowly, and then he sees it.
The cover is worn—its green cloth binding faded by age. His lips part slightly as he runs his fingers over the gold-embossed title: The Wind in the Willows.
“Addison…”
“Open it,” I whisper.
He does, and then he gasps. Inside, on the left side jacket, is the name Henry Mackenzie, scrawled in messy, boyish handwriting.
The silence between us stretches. For a long time, he just stares at the name as if it might disappear.
“How…?” he says, voice barely audible. “How did you find this?”
“Remember that day you walked me around your hometown?” I ask.
Oliver nods. “You told me he used to get it from the library, so when I got back to London, I called them. And emailed. A lot. I didn’t know if they’d still have it.
They didn’t—it had gone out of circulation and been donated.
But I tracked it down and asked if they’d be willing to part with it.
Told them why. Then they mailed it to me. ”
Oliver stares at me like I’ve just reached inside him and rearranged his heart. He runs his hand down the faded cover like he can feel Henry inside. He opens the book again and notices the inscription I left on the first page: For the days you miss him the most.
“No one has ever… done something like this for me,” he says, voice cracking.
“I wanted to.”
And then he’s kissing me. It’s not heat or hunger, it’s something else entirely.
It’s gratitude and vulnerability, like he doesn’t know how else to say thank you because words aren’t enough.
So I kiss him back, taking his face in my hands, feeling the weight of a memory tucked between us in a children’s book.
He cups my jaw in his hand. “You undo me, you know that?”
“Right back at you, Captain.”
“Come to bed.”
I nod wordlessly. He stands and holds out a hand. I take it and he leads me to his bedroom. He slips my sweatshirt over my head and then undresses himself with quiet ease. He tugs at the waist of my sweatpants and slowly rolls them down my legs. Every move is slow, like I’m worth worshipping.
We move together slowly, deliberately. There’s no rush. It’s just us—two people finding peace and comfort with each other on Christmas Eve.
When it’s over, we stay tangled together in the sheets. His fingers trace the pendant resting against my collarbone, and I can feel him smile. I kiss his temple and wrap myself around him.
“Happy Christmas, Addie,” he murmurs.