Chapter 25
JADE
I wake up confused.
Not panic-confused. Just… slow. Heavy. Wrapped in something warm that doesn’t belong to my bed.
There’s a fire popping somewhere nearby. A low, steady crackle. The faint smell of pine and sugar and smoke. And arms.
Arms around me.
I freeze for half a second.
Then I remember.
Leo.
Last night comes back in fragments. Cookies. Terrible movies. Laughing so hard my stomach hurt. His shoulder under my cheek. Me saying I’d just rest my eyes.
Apparently, I lied.
I shift slightly and realize I’m curled against him, my back to his chest, his arm draped over my waist like it’s always been there. Like it belongs. We’re both still in the ridiculous matching Christmas pajamas. My feet are tucked between his calves for warmth.
I’m… comfortable.
Dangerously comfortable.
His breathing is slow and even, warm against the back of my neck. He’s still asleep. I can feel his heartbeat through his chest, steady and calm, like it’s anchoring me.
For a second, I just stay still.
No alarms. No dread. No guilt.
Just quiet.
Christmas morning light filters in through the windows, pale and soft, turning everything gold. The world feels paused, like it’s holding its breath with me.
I don’t remember deciding to trust him again.
But here I am.
Wrapped up. Safe. Warm.
Loved — even if we haven’t said it out loud again yet.
I tilt my head slightly, enough to see his face. Relaxed. Younger like this. No sharp edges. No armor. Just Leo.
My chest tightens.
This is what I was afraid of.
Not getting hurt.
Getting this back.
I move carefully, trying not to wake him, but his arm tightens instinctively, pulling me closer. His chin dips, brushing my hair.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
I smile before I can stop myself.
“Hey.”
“Merry Christmas,” he says, eyes still closed.
“Merry Christmas,” I whisper.
We don’t move for a while.
And for now, that’s enough.
“Feel like breaking the internet today?” he asks.
His voice is still rough with sleep, warm and lazy in my ear.
I blink, tilt my head just enough to look at him. One eye open. Hair a mess. Smile crooked and hopeful like he already knows the answer but doesn’t want to assume.
“What?” I say.
He gestures vaguely between us. “I mean… look at us.”
I glance down.
Matching Christmas pajamas. Red plaid. Reindeer. I’m wrapped in his arms, hair wild, face bare, cheeks flushed from sleep. He looks unfairly good for someone who fell asleep halfway through a terrible Christmas rom-com.
“We both look hot,” he adds, dead serious. “In these Christmas-laid jammies. With reindeer.”
I snort. “You are ridiculous.”
“And yet,” he says, eyebrow lifting, “you’re still here.”
I sit up a little, the blanket sliding down, and study him. The room is glowing now, full morning light bouncing off ornaments and tinsel and the ridiculous amount of Christmas trees Susan insisted on. Everything feels… real.
Not curated. Not performative.
Just us.
“You really want to post us like this?” I ask. “No spin? No captions explaining anything?”
He shrugs. “I don’t want to explain. I just want to show up.”
That lands.
I think about all the versions of myself that hid. The girl who ran. The girl who disappeared. The girl who thought she owed everyone certainty.
I don’t anymore.
“Sure,” I say, laughing softly. “Why not?”
He looks surprised. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m not hiding from who I am anymore. Or my choices. Even the confusing ones.”
His expression shifts—something deeper than excitement. Respect. Gratitude.
I grab his phone before he can overthink it, angle it above us. We both look sleepy. Happy. Real.
No makeup. No armor. No captions yet.
Just Christmas morning.
He hits post.
Somewhere out there, the internet probably combusts.
I don’t care.
I curl back into his arms, tuck my face into his chest, and let myself feel this without trying to define it.
For once, I don’t need to know where this is going.
I just know I’m exactly where I want to be.
“So,” he says softly, forehead resting against mine. “Nothing heavy today?”
“Agreed,” I whisper.
The word feels like a promise instead of a rule.
But my chest tightens anyway, because light doesn’t mean empty. It doesn’t mean I haven’t missed him. It doesn’t mean my body hasn’t memorized his.
“I missed you,” I admit, voice barely there. “For months.”
His hands hesitate at my waist, like he’s asking permission without words. Like he’s still trying to be good. Still trying not to hurt me.
I cover his wrist, guiding him closer.
“Bad boy, Leo,” I murmur, half a smile tugging at my mouth.
He exhales, shaky, and I feel it everywhere.
“I won’t apologize for wanting you,” I say, firmer now. “Or for still being confused. I’m stronger than I was before. And I get to choose.”
His eyes search mine, not hungry — reverent.
“And right now,” I add, “I choose you.”
That’s all it takes.
He kisses me like it’s not about taking, but about meeting me where I am. Slow. Certain. Like we have nowhere else to be and nothing left to prove.
The fire crackles lower. Snow drifts past the windows. Christmas morning hums quietly outside this room.
And for the first time, loving him doesn’t feel like losing myself.
It feels like stepping forward — together.
I don’t know what tomorrow looks like.
But I know this moment is ours.
And that’s enough.
“So,” he says softly, forehead resting against mine. “Nothing heavy today?”
“Agreed,” I whisper.
The word feels like a promise instead of a rule.
But my chest tightens anyway, because light doesn’t mean empty. It doesn’t mean I haven’t missed him. It doesn’t mean my body hasn’t memorized the heat of his skin, the way his breath catches when I’m close.
“I missed you,” I admit, voice barely there. “For months. Every single night.”
His hands hesitate at my waist, fingers curling just enough to feel the tremor in them—like he’s holding back a flood. Like he’s still trying to be good. Still afraid one wrong move will shatter this fragile thing between us.
I cover his wrist, guiding him closer, pressing his palms fully against me. The thin fabric of my sweater does nothing to dull the warmth radiating from him.
“Bad boy, Leo,” I murmur, a teasing edge slipping into my smile.
He exhales, shaky and low, and the sound vibrates straight through me, settling hot and liquid low in my belly.
“I won’t apologize for wanting you,” I say, stronger now, eyes locked on his. “Or for still being confused. I’m not the same girl who walked away. I’m stronger. And I get to choose.”
His gaze darkens—not with hunger, but with something deeper, softer. Reverent. Like he’s seeing me for the first time all over again.
“And right now,” I breathe, “I choose you.”
That’s all it takes.
His mouth finds mine, not rushing, not claiming—just meeting me, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every second he thought he’d lost. The kiss deepens gradually, a quiet unraveling.
His tongue brushes mine, gentle at first, then surer, drawing a soft sound from my throat that makes his grip tighten at my hips.
We move without hurry, shedding layers like old doubts—my sweater, his shirt—until skin meets skin and the air between us feels charged, electric.
His hands trace the line of my spine with deliberate care, thumbs brushing the sensitive dip just above my waistband, igniting sparks that spread everywhere.
I arch into him, feeling the hard evidence of how much he wants this—wants me—pressed against my thigh.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes heavy-lidded, lips swollen. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers, voice rough with restraint.
I shake my head, fingers threading through his hair to draw him back. “It’s exactly enough.”
We sink onto the rug in front of the dying fire, bodies aligning like they never forgot how.
His mouth trails down my neck, lingering at the hollow of my throat, tasting the pulse that races for him alone.
Every touch is deliberate, worshipful—his lips on my collarbone, my breast, the curve of my waist—like he’s mapping the places he’s dreamed of returning to.
When he finally slides into me, it’s slow, eyes locked, breath mingling.
A shared gasp, a moment suspended. He stills, letting me adjust, letting the fullness of him settle deep inside until I’m the one who moves first—rolling my hips to take him deeper.
Only then does he follow, a steady rhythm that builds like the quiet storm we’ve both been holding back.
It’s not frantic. It’s not desperate. It’s reunion—tender, breathless, laced with the kind of heat that comes from knowing exactly how rare this is.
His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining as we move together, climbing higher, until pleasure crests in soft waves that leave us trembling, clinging, whispering each other’s names like prayers.
Afterward, we stay tangled in the sheets, his arms wrapped around me, my head on his chest listening to his heartbeat slow. The fire crackles lower. Snow drifts past the windows. Christmas morning hums quietly outside this room.
And for the first time, loving him doesn’t feel like losing myself.
It feels like coming home—together.
I don’t know what tomorrow looks like.
But I know this moment is ours.
And that’s more than enough.
“And you’re still taking me to the movies,” I say softly, my forehead against his. “And buying me popcorn.”
A corner of his mouth lifts.
“Every time,” he murmurs.
He nuzzles my neck, slow and careful, like he’s savoring the fact that he gets to be here at all. Not rushing. Not taking.
“Shower?” he asks quietly.
I glance up. “Together?”
His grin is all warmth and promise. “Everything together.”
Something in my chest loosens.
“And Jade,” he adds, suddenly serious. “Even if you pull back tomorrow. Even if you wake up and decide you need space again. I’m here. For the long haul. For as long as you choose me.”
That’s what does it.
Not the heat.
Not the familiarity.
The safety.