Chapter 25 #2
I kiss him before he can say anything else.
The world narrows to steam and warmth and the way he holds me like I’m something precious, not fragile. Like he’s grateful, not entitled.
Snow keeps falling outside. The house creaks softly. Christmas morning hums on without us.
There’s no urgency. No proving.
Just two people choosing each other — for now.
And for the first time, that feels more than enough.
We go downstairs laughing, trying and failing to be quiet.
My hair’s still damp, tangled, sticking to my neck.
I’m wrapped in one of Leo’s absurdly plush Ritz-Carlton robes, Christmas pajamas underneath, sleeves swallowing my hands.
Leo looks even more ridiculous—plaid pajama pants and a white tank top, hair a mess, barefoot like he forgot this house is basically a museum most days.
We round the corner—
—and stop dead.
Like, full-on screech-to-a-halt.
Leo’s parents are already in the formal room.
Dressed to the nines. Coffee cups in hand. The tree lit. The fire roaring. And beneath the tree—mounds of presents. Too many. All wrapped. All pristine.
“Oh,” I whisper, cheeks instantly on fire.
I instinctively step back, every instinct screaming retreat, but Leo catches my hand and tugs me gently closer.
Before I can protest, his mother waves a manicured hand like this is the most normal thing in the world.
“Come on,” she says lightly. “Presents.”
I blink. “I— I wasn’t—”
“They’re all for you.”
I freeze.
“What?” I croak.
Leo looks just as stunned as I feel. He turns to his mother slowly, brows knitting. “Mom?”
She lifts her cup, completely unfazed. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s Christmas.”
I glance at the pile again. My stomach twists. This is too much. Too fast. Too… Holt.
“I really don’t—” I start.
Leo squeezes my hand. Grounds me.
She meets my eyes then. Really meets them. No sharpness. No calculation. Just something quieter. Softer.
“You don’t owe us anything, Jade,” she says. “But we wanted you to know… you’re welcome here.”
Then she winks.
Actually winks.
I don’t know what to do with that.
Leo lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for years. He nudges me forward, low voice in my ear. “Just open one.”
I kneel by the tree, still half-convinced I’m dreaming. The paper rustles loud in the quiet room. Inside—nothing flashy. A scarf. Thick. Wool. Deep green.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, and I mean it.
More gifts follow. Books. Cozy things. Thoughtful things. Nothing loud. Nothing performative.
Something in my chest eases.
Maybe people really can change.
Or maybe this is just… trying.
Either way, for this moment, it’s enough.
Leo drops down beside me, shoulder brushing mine. Our fingers lace together without thinking.
We break for coffee and breakfast like nothing extraordinary just happened.
Like I didn’t wake up wrapped in Leo’s arms on Christmas morning. Like my heart isn’t still humming.
The kitchen smells like espresso and cinnamon and something buttery in the oven. His dad’s reading the paper. His mom’s moving around with purpose, silk robe, perfect hair, but there’s something… looser about her today. Less brittle.
I sip my coffee, warming my hands around the mug.
“I can’t stay,” I say quietly, meeting Leo’s eyes. “Susan and I are heading to the Cape.”
His jaw tightens just a little. He bites his lip, nods once.
“Yeah. I figured.”
Then he hesitates.
“I got you something,” he says. “I wasn’t sure if I’d even see you today. I was going to hang on to it. Just… in case.”
My stomach flips.
He stands and heads upstairs before I can say anything. I stare into my coffee like it might tell me what’s coming.
When he comes back down, he’s holding a small, wrapped box.
Too small.
My pulse spikes. Jewelry.
“Leo,” I start, already anxious.
“I saw it,” he says quickly, sitting across from me, earnest. “My dad and I were in New York. And I just knew. It’s jade.”
I blink.
“Not just because of your name,” he adds. “It’s the stone. Emerald green. Strong. Ancient. Beautiful. It lasts.”
He swallows. “I want you to have it. Even if—”
I open the box before he finishes.
And I forget how to breathe.
It’s a full set. A thick jade necklace, polished and deep green, heavy in the best way. A matching ring set in white gold. Drop earrings. A chunky jade bracelet that looks like it was carved for armor as much as elegance.
It’s stunning.
It’s me.
I laugh softly, overwhelmed. “Leo… it’s beautiful.”
“Will you put it on?” he asks. “With the pajamas?”
I smile, nod, hands a little shaky as I clasp the necklace. It’s cool against my skin. Grounding. Like it belongs there.
His mother appears in the doorway, coffee cup in hand.
She stops short.
“Oh,” she says. “Leo. That’s stunning.”
He looks startled. “Yeah?”
“You have a good eye,” she adds. “You have my taste.”
I glance up, unsure what to say.
“Thank you,” I manage. “For… welcoming me.”
She studies me for a long moment. Then she exhales.
“You know,” she says slowly, “Leo said something to me once that hurt. But he was right. I never made this place a home.”
Leo stiffens beside me.
“But hearing you two laugh,” she continues, softer now. “Seeing him smile again… that’s what Christmas is about. I don’t know you well yet, Jade. But I’m glad you’re here.”
Something loosens in my chest.
I don’t say anything dramatic. I don’t need to.
I just nod.
Leo’s hand finds mine under the table. Steady. Warm.
And when it’s time to go—when Susan pulls up out front, already honking—I stand, heart full but not heavy.
This isn’t goodbye.
It’s just… see you soon.
And for the first time, that feels safe.
Leo helps me gather my things without rushing.
His robe goes back on the hook. My bag gets zipped. He carries everything like it weighs more than it should, like each step toward the door costs him something.
“I asked Susan if I could come today,” he says quietly as we walk out into the cold. “But then I figured… loving you means giving you space.”
That lands harder than anything dramatic he could’ve said.
“Thank you,” he adds, stopping beside the car. “For making this Christmas special for me.”
His eyes are misty now. He’s trying not to show it. I hate how much that makes my chest ache.
He loads my bag into the trunk, shuts it gently. Like slamming it would make this real.
For a second, I don’t want to get in.
I don’t like the idea of leaving him here with his parents, just the three of them in that big, echoing house. One night didn’t fix everything. I know that. But it softened something. And I don’t want him to feel like it was just a holiday illusion.
I hesitate with my hand on the door.
Susan’s already in the driver’s seat. She watches me in the mirror, knowing exactly what’s going through my head.
“Should we…?” I start.
She sighs. “Invite them to Irene’s?”
I nod.
She makes a face. “That’s a recipe for disaster, honey. They’d be polite. Surface-level. Don’t confuse one good night with real change.”
I swallow.
“She let you in because she knows,” Susan continues, gentler now. “If she doesn’t change soon, next year she’ll be alone. That’s not redemption. That’s fear.”
I glance back at Leo.
He’s standing in the cold, hands in his pockets, watching us. Not demanding. Not asking. Just… there.
I open the door and step out again before I can overthink it.
I walk back to him.
“I don’t want you to think this was just a one-night thing,” I say softly. “It wasn’t.”
His jaw tightens. “I don’t.”
“I just need time,” I add. “Real time. Not space because I’m scared. Space because I’m growing.”
He nods. “I know.”
I lean in and kiss his cheek. Not dramatic. Not desperate. Just real.
“I’ll see you soon,” I whisper.
“I’ll be right here,” he says. “Not going anywhere.”
When I finally get into the car, Susan pulls away slowly. I watch him in the side mirror until he’s just a figure in the snow.
My heart hurts.
But it doesn’t feel like loss.
It feels like trust.
And that’s new for me.
That night at the Cape feels like a long, deep breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
The house smells like wood smoke and rosemary and something buttery Irene has had going all afternoon. Mason and Tom are arguing over a board game that stopped following rules an hour ago. Susan’s wineglass never seems to empty. Laughter just… happens. No pressure. No performance.
It’s good. It’s safe.
Shani’s texting me nonstop—screenshots, voice notes, her family chaos. Tristan sends something dramatic from somewhere tropical. Xavier drops a sarcastic Merry Christmas. Even Mindy snaps me from Hong Kong, neon skyline behind her: Miss you. Proud of you.
I smile. I laugh. I feel full.
And still—
my heart isn’t here.
It’s ridiculous. I’m wrapped in a blanket by the fire, surrounded by people who love me, and yet there’s this quiet ache that won’t let go.
Leo.
I picture him standing in the cold earlier, watching me leave. The way he didn’t ask for more. The way he never does anymore.
“I feel bad,” I say suddenly.
Susan looks over. “About what, doll?”
“I didn’t invite Leo,” I admit. “You said he asked to come. And I didn’t… I didn’t ask him.”
Mason glances up, eyebrow raised, but stays quiet.
Susan considers it, then shakes her head gently. “He didn’t push because he respects you. That matters.”
“I know,” I say. “But still.”
I stare into the fire. “I didn’t even get him anything for Christmas.”
Susan snorts softly. “Jade. You gave that boy exactly what he wanted.”
I look at her.
“Time,” she says. “You. That’s not something you can wrap.”
Mason nods. “Yeah. What do you even buy a guy who can buy himself anything?”
Something shifts in my chest.
“You don’t,” I say quietly.
Susan smiles like she already knew where this was going.
I grab my phone.
I don’t plan it. I don’t script it. I just hit record.
The fire’s crackling behind me. My hair’s a mess. No makeup. Pajamas I swore I’d never let the internet see.
“Hey,” I say softly. “It’s Christmas. And I want to talk about forgiveness.”
I talk about the Cape. About family. About how forgiveness isn’t pretending things didn’t hurt. It’s not excusing what people did. It’s choosing not to let it own you anymore.
“I forgave people who never apologized,” I say. “Not for them. For me.”
I pause, then take a breath.
“And I also want to own something. I took my anger out on someone who didn’t deserve it. I projected pain that wasn’t his. And I’m sorry.”
My voice wobbles, but I don’t stop.
“Forgiveness isn’t just something you ask for. It’s something you give. And sometimes, the hardest person to forgive is yourself.”
I post it.
I tag everyone.
Leo.
Susan.
My parents.
Shani.
Tristan.
Even myself.
No captions trying to control the narrative. No hashtags chasing virality.
Just truth.
The response is instant. Explosive. Comments pouring in faster than I can read them. Messages. Screenshots. People saying thank you like I handed them something they didn’t know they were allowed to have.
Then—quietly—I open Leo’s thread.
I still love you.
I never stopped.
I think I used you as a shield for pain other people caused me.
That wasn’t fair. I’m sorry.
I hope one day you can forgive me the way I’m learning to forgive myself.
I hit send.
No expectations. No demands.
Just honesty.
I set the phone down and lean back into the couch, the fire warming my face, laughter echoing through the room.
There is love. So much love. And all that love filled me up and healed me.
Every single person in this room was a part of that story.
The pair in bitterness is gone; replaced by something I know will stay strong. Family, loyalty and love.