Epilogue
HENSON
A YEAR LATER
Where’s the kibbeh bil sanieh? I said no one touches it until I take a picture!”
The shout echoes from the kitchen, followed by a chorus of overlapping voices—some in English, most in rapid-fire Arabic.
Pots clatter. Someone says “yalla!” and another person answers back with what I’m pretty sure is a curse, based on the tone.
Someone else is yelling “ta‘āl hon!”, which I’ve learned means “come here.”
I laugh to myself as I sit on the couch, nursing a sweating glass of water and trying to look ready to help.
This is Amira’s world. Beautiful, bright, and chaotic in a way that feels completely normal. It reminds me of home.
I’ve never heard this many people talk at once, let alone in a language I don’t understand, but somehow, I don’t feel out of place.
A few months after we came back to Seattle, Amira introduced me to her family.
I was more nervous than I let on. Her ex had left a bad taste in their mouths, and I wouldn’t have blamed them for having doubts.
But they were open. Curious, though not invasive.
They didn’t judge me, and I got to show them that I wasn’t Chad.
That I respected their culture, their home, and most of all—Amira.
It took some time.
Eventually, I proved to them that I was here to stay.
This year, for the first time ever, I didn’t go home to Nantucket for Christmas.
My mom was a little sad when I told her I wouldn’t make it to her traditional Christmas Eve dinner.
But when I promised that Amira and I would be in Nantucket in time for New Year’s—no big party, just family—she softened.
She loves Amira like a daughter and I’ve loved to watch their relationship blossom over the past months.
I get off the couch and walk over to a mantle where many frames hold pictures of Amira and her family. She’s an only child, though never felt lonely with the amount of cousins she has.
A pair of arms wrap around me from behind, soft and familiar, and the nerves that were building in my body instantly settle.
“Hey, stranger,” Amira murmurs against my back. “You okay?”
I nod and lean into her touch. “I’m good. Just... absorbing.”
She hands me a small glass of something clear. I bring it to my nose and blink. “This smells like black licorice.”
“It’s Arak. A little something to calm your nerves.”
I laugh under my breath. “You sure it’s not going to knock me out?”
“Not unless you take three shots in a row. Then maybe.” Her grin softens. “You’re doing great, by the way. My mom already told me to make sure you get a second plate before my uncle steals all the stuffed grape leaves.”
I shake my head, overwhelmed in the best way.
Amira’s been nothing but patient, understanding, and attentive with me.
She asked me months ago if she could explain my anxiety to her family.
With my blessing, she did. Since then, they’ve gone out of their way to make me feel comfortable.
Her mom always checks in when we’re in a big group, always makes sure I have somewhere quiet to step away if I need it.
I sit back down on the couch and Amira sits next to me, legs tucked up under her, and I set the glass of Arak on the table.
Because suddenly, I want something else.
I tilt her chin toward me and kiss her, softly at first. But then her lips part, and I feel the unmistakable flick of her tongue against mine.
My pulse jumps.
“Mira,” I warn, already feeling myself harden in my slacks. “You know what happens when you give me tongue.”
She hums against my mouth, completely unbothered, and kisses me again—deeper this time.
My hand slides up her back, drawing her closer, until her chest presses against mine and my restraint starts to fray at the edges. I shift, trying to keep it together while her fingers graze the back of my neck.
“I’m not above sneaking upstairs right now,” I murmur, lips brushing hers.
Amira pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, cheeks flushed. “Later. After dessert.”
“You better mean that.”
“I always do.”
Right then, my phone buzzes on the side table, the screen lighting up with an incoming video call. I glance over and see Brianna’s name.
“Answer,” Amira says, already rising to her feet.
I catch her wrist and tug her back long enough to smack her ass. She yelps, laughing as she turns toward the kitchen.
“Tell them I said hi!” Amira calls over her shoulder.
I grin, heart full as I pick up the phone and accept the call. Brianna’s face fills the screen, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, eyes wide with excitement.
“Did you confirm with Mira about the fireworks?” my niece asks, skipping any kind of greeting.
“Merry Christmas to you, too, Bri,” I reply dryly.
She laughs. “I’m sorry. Merry Christmas, Henny. So... did you?”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Yes, Brianna. We’re doing fireworks again, just like last year. What is it with you and fireworks, anyway?”
A shrug. “I don’t know. I just like flashy things. Sue me.”
I laugh, genuinely caught off guard by how much my niece sounds like a full-grown adult. “You really are your father’s daughter.”
I glance toward Amira. Sensing my stare, she turns with a grin that still manages to knock the breath out of me. She tilts her head, curls bouncing, and raises her brows as if asking, What?
I shake my head and smile to myself.
“Damn right I am,” Brianna says proudly.
Before I can respond, she blows me a kiss and hangs up.
I stare at the empty screen for a second, still smiling. Then I look toward the kitchen again, where Amira is now laughing with her cousins, completely at ease.
A year ago, I didn’t think I had it in me to fall again. To let anyone in.
Now, I’m spending Christmas surrounded by loud conversations in Arabic, smelling like cumin and garlic, sipping Arak.
This is what peace looks like.
This is what home feels like.
And as Amira walks back over and curls herself into my side, I realize something I’ve been thinking about for a while.
It’s time.
Amira
The scent of za’atar, sumac, and caramelized onions wafts through the house like a warm embrace.
It clings to every surface, wrapping around garlands, twinkle lights, and that ridiculous reindeer centerpiece Mama insists on using every year.
The whole house sparkles: red, green, gold—unapologetically festive.
Henson has his arm draped casually around my shoulders. He’s relaxed in a way that still makes my heart pinch a little. A year ago, the idea of him in this room, in my world, would’ve felt impossible. But now? He belongs here.
“Amira!” Baba’s voice booms from the dining room. “Yalla, come help me finish setting this table before your mother starts yelling!”
I grin and slide off the couch, giving Henson’s thigh a little squeeze, and head toward the noise. The dining room is a swirl of mismatched voices, Arabic and English bouncing off one another as cousins pass plates and someone sings along slightly off-key to Fairuz playing in the background.
Happiness hums in my chest.
After my breakup with Chad, the doubts, the quiet unraveling of who I was… having Henson here with me this Christmas feels like I finally chose right. Like I finally chose me.
My dad’s at the head of the table, fiddling with the linen napkins, his glasses slipping down his nose. “Your aunt folded these wrong,” he mutters. “She’s sabotaging my aesthetic.”
I laugh, stepping in to help.
As I fold napkins into tight little fans, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out instinctively, half-expecting it to be a vendor update.
I’ve got two holiday events happening simultaneously tonight, and while my team is solid, I always keep an eye out just in case.
The New Year’s Eve party I threw for the Millers last year exploded online. One viral drone video later and my inbox has never been the same. I’ve got bookings well into next year and, for the first time, I’ve stopped questioning if I deserve this.
I smile to myself, grateful for the opportunities, for the family I gained in Henson’s parents, Worth, and even that sassy little niece of his who’s way too smart for her age.
Then I glance at the screen.
Unknown Number: Come to the door.
My entire body goes rigid.
No he fucking didn’t.
Henson appears beside me. “What’s wrong?”
I turn toward him, heart pounding. “I think Chad is at the door.”
His brows pull together, and I hand him my phone, the message still glowing on the screen.
Henson’s expression instantly darkens.
“Please don’t make a scene,” I plead, placing a hand on his chest. “I don’t want my family to know he’s here.”
His jaw ticks, nostrils flaring, but he nods once. “I’ll take care of it.”
He storms toward the front door, and I follow close behind, nerves coiling tighter with every step.
“I’ll be right back, Baba!” I call over my shoulder.
My father doesn’t even glance up and just grumbles something else about the napkins.
When we reach the entryway, Henson yanks the door open and there is Chad. His grin falters the moment he sees who is standing in front of him.
“Oh.” The cocky energy drains from his face.
“Oh,” Henson echoes, stepping forward, letting the door close behind us. “What the fuck do you want, Chad?”
A sheepish smile tugs at my ex-boyfriend’s mouth. “I just wanted to say Merry Christmas… and drop these off.”
He holds up two small floral arrangements wrapped in crinkled red paper.
Before Henson can react, I step forward and snatch them out of his hands. “What the hell are you doing here, Chad?”
His brows lift in faux surprise. “I just thought—”
“No. Don’t do that. We’ve been broken up for over a year, Chad.”
He has the audacity to look offended, like I’m overreacting.
“I thought maybe we could talk. Catch up.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Right. And this sudden urge to reconnect has nothing to do with the fact that I’m dating Henson?”
Chad doesn’t answer.
“Of course. You realized I was actually moving on, and now you want back in.” I hold up the flowers. “This is pathetic.”
He shifts his gaze to Henson, trying to play it cool, but there’s unease behind his smirk.
Henson steps in closer. “You don’t get to show up here uninvited, hand over a pity bouquet, and act like this is some romantic movie moment. Mira’s not your second chance. She’s mine.”
I feel the heat of his words all the way through my chest.
Chad scoffs. “Wow. Someone’s a little territorial.”
“No,” Henson bites out. “I’m protective. There’s a difference. And you’re standing on the wrong damn porch. Get the fuck off my fiancée’s property.”
I blink. My heart stops. What?
Chad’s face drops. “Fiancée?”
I glance at Henson, but he doesn’t even flinch, his body brimming with tension.
Chad, clearly thrown, stumbles back a step. “Right. Okay. Well... Merry Christmas, I guess.”
He walks off without another word.
The second we’re back inside and the door shuts, I turn to Henson, chest pounding. “Fiancée?”
His eyes flick to mine, a teasing smirk on his lips now. “Come with me.”
Before I can press him further, he laces his fingers through mine and tugs me gently toward the living room.
“Henson, what are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps into the middle of the room, clears his throat, and raises his voice.
“Hi, everyone—sorry to interrupt,” he says, his hand still holding mine tightly. “I know tonight is already special, but if I could steal just one more moment…”
The room quiets. My entire family turns toward us, curious. My heart stumbles over a beat.
“I didn’t plan to do this right now, but when you know, you know. And I’ve known for a while now that this woman is it for me. She’s kind. Fierce. The calm to my chaos. The reason I breathe easier. She’s my everything.”
Henson turns fully to face me, and suddenly, it’s like we’re the only two people in the room.
“Amira, you make me feel like I can be more than just the man with the big company, the money, the pressure. With you, I get to just be me, and somehow, that’s enough.
You see me. You ground me. You love me in a way I never thought I’d get to be loved.
And I want to spend the rest of my life loving you back. ”
My eyes sting with tears.
I glance toward my parents through blurred vision.
My mom has a hand to her heart, wiping her eyes with the other, and my dad gives me the tiniest nod, his smile proud.
That’s when I know Henson asked them. He included them and made sure this moment would feel right for me in every way that mattered.
Henson kneels, pulls a small velvet box from his pocket and opens it, revealing a stunning ring.
“Amira Noor Haddad, will you marry me?”
My voice cracks as I say, “Yes. Of course, yes.”
The room erupts into cheers, my mom crying, my dad raising a toast with his Arak. Cousins shout over each other. Someone starts playing music on the speakers. And in the middle of it all, Henson stands and kisses me, slow and deep, sealing the moment with a promise.
“I love you, Temptress.”
“I love you more, Heartbreaker.”
This time last year, I was heartbroken, unsure of everything.
This year, I’m home. In love. Engaged.
And finally, exactly where I’m meant to be.