Epilogue
SLOANE
Seb is going to kill Ivy, and honestly, he’d be within his rights, because the Santa suit she begged him to wear is at least two sizes too small. It feels deliberate on her part, although she’d never admit it.
The velvet strains across his shoulders, the belt is cinched at a nearly indecent angle, and one sleeve has ridden up past his elbow, baring a forearm that looks like it could open a jar by staring at it. All told, he looks like a hostage in a holiday-themed ransom video.
“This is humiliating,” he says, adjusting the hat for the fourth time.
“You look incredible,” Ivy tells him. “Very jolly.”
“I look like I’m being punished.”
“Also true.”
Rowan’s apartment is too small for this many people, which is exactly why it works. Luca showed up three hours ago with a lopsided tree he swears he acquired legally, and now it’s leaning against the bookshelf, dropping needles whenever anyone walks past.
Theo strung the lights on the tree and ran out of them two-thirds of the way around, so one side twinkles and the other is dark pine and a single ornament Niko placed before losing interest and walking away without comment.
There’s wrapping paper underfoot, garlic bread going dark in the oven — Luca’s, naturally — and somebody’s playlist keeps cycling between carols and a trap remix of “Jingle Bells” that makes Rowan tense every time it comes on.
I’m in the corner of the couch in one of Rowan’s sweaters, knees pulled up, with a mug of something Luca swears is mulled wine. At this moment, I’m half-listening to Theo and Niko argue about whether Die Hard counts as a Christmas movie.
“It takes place at Christmas,” Theo says. “It’s a Christmas movie.”
“The Shining takes place in winter. It is not a winter film,” Niko says.
“That’s the worst comparison I’ve ever heard.”
“And yet you can’t refute it.”
Theo looks to me for backup. I shake my head. “I’m Switzerland.”
“You’re a coward.”
“I’m at peace.”
Across the room, Rowan leans against the kitchen counter, a mug in his hand, half-smiling at something Luca’s saying. Three months ago, he’d have topped up a drink nobody asked him to, redirected the conversation, and rinsed a glass while he did it.
Tonight, Rowan is just letting the chaos breathe.
He catches me watching and lifts the mug, the smallest tilt, like a toast.
I lift mine back.
It’s been weeks since the gala, and nothing has gone sideways. I keep bracing for it. The post came down, Mason stayed suspended, and the whispers didn’t disappear overnight, but they stopped feeling bigger than me.
It hasn’t all been cleaned up, though.
There's a girl from my comms seminar — Delaney, who used to save me the window seat and pass over her spare pen whenever mine died — who doesn't quite meet my eye anymore.
She's polite about it, which is somehow worse than if she'd just picked a side out loud. I've stopped waiting for her to circle back, and some other people, too. Some people liked the smaller, quieter version of me, and that one didn't come back either, and I can live with that.
And the grant came through — my grant, my project, my story — and Moreno has been helping me work on it since. It’s my truth, and it’s helping me heal and finally find my place at Halden.
The oven timer goes off.
“That’s the garlic bread,” Luca says, not moving.
“Your garlic bread,” Rowan says.
“Our garlic bread. It’s Christmas.”
Rowan sighs, gets it out, and declares it DOA, dropping the black lump of carbs on the counter. But the fact that he doesn’t immediately panic and order more food, or start cleaning the mess Luca has caused by overcooking, counts as some sort of progress.
“Right,” Seb announces, hoisting a black garbage bag Ivy has labeled SANTA’S SACK in gold marker. “If I’m wearing this, I’m doing the job. Sit.”
“You don’t have to—” Rowan starts.
“I said sit.”
We sit.
Ivy sits first, nearest to Seb, because she’s been orbiting him all night like a predator sizing up prey. So far, she’s refilled his cup when it was already full, adjusted the hat she jammed on his head, and bumped his shoulder to get past when there was a clear three feet of space.
And, of course, Seb hasn’t noticed a single second of it.
But I have.
I keep it to myself, and the Secret Santa starts to go around, Seb handing each package out and reading the names off the tags like he’s calling roll. He hands Luca the first package, then watches as Luca tears it open and holds up a fire extinguisher.
“For the next time you cremate the apple pies,” Theo says. “Or the garlic bread…”
Luca grins, his eyes bright. “This is the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever gotten.”
“That’s genuinely sad,” I tell him.
“Somebody looked at my life and thought, this man needs help,” he says. “I feel seen.”
Theo opens the next gift, and laughs. “Ballroom dancing lessons… Niko, was this you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Niko pauses. “But it has good reviews.”
Niko is next, and he unfolds himself from the armchair, accepts a small flat box, and opens it like he’s defusing it. It’s a mood ring, and when he slides it onto his finger and holds it to the light, the stone goes from black to a deep, ominous green.
“What does green mean?” Niko says, flat.
“Repressed longing,” I say, making it up on the spot.
Luca makes a noise like a dying kettle and slides down the wall onto the floor, and that’s the end of him for about ninety seconds. Niko takes the ring off and puts it on a different finger. Green again. Luca wheezes from the floor.
“Hale,” Seb says, tossing a package to Rowan.
Rowan sits on the arm of the couch beside me, his thigh warm against my shoulder, and unwraps a label maker. A proper one, with a cartridge already loaded. He turns it over. He turns it over again. He does not put it down.
“No,” I say.
“I didn’t say anything,” he says.
“I know what your face is doing.”
“My face is doing nothing.”
“You’re already thinking about labeling the spice rack.”
He sets it on the coffee table with both hands. “Later,” he says.
“I’m next,” Seb says.
“Open it,” Ivy says, bright and pointed enough that I glance at her.
He opens it — a sprig of mistletoe, tied with red ribbon.
I keep watching Ivy as Seb leaves it on the side table and reaches past her for a handful of chips. This is the first time I’ve ever seen her speechless, a look so out of place that I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing.
After the gifts, the chaos thins. Somebody swaps the playlist to something with a beat, and Luca objects to no avail. Niko tries the ring one last time, gets green, and removes it for good. The tree leans a little farther.
Rowan drops down onto the cushion beside me, and the dip of it presses my shoulder into his chest. He takes my hand, turns it palm up, and folds something into it. It’s small and warm, and when I look down, it’s a key.
I look at it, then at him.
“You’re here more than I am,” he says, like it’s nothing. “It’s just a key…”
“Rowan,” I say. “It’s not just a key.”
I kiss him and Luca wolf-whistles from the floor.
“Get a room,” Theo says.
“I have one,” Rowan says, pulling away from me. “You’re in it.”
We kiss again, and when I pull back, he keeps his forehead against mine for a second, then settles into the couch, and I tuck under his arm with my feet up under his thigh. It’s the same position I held that night at Ironwood House, and I’ve decided it’s mine.
“Happy?” I ask.
“Very.”
“No doubts?”
“About the league? None.” A beat. “About letting Luca cook the garlic bread? Many.”
Across the room, Ivy has retrieved the mistletoe and is, with the patience of the truly committed, positioning herself beside Seb. She looks at him, expecting fireworks, and he stares at her, still oblivious.
The key is in my hand, and I close my fingers around it and stay exactly where I am — in his sweater, on his couch, in the loudest and warmest room I’ve ever been in, feeling totally at home and totally myself.
And when the tree leans another degree toward the floor, nobody moves to fix it.