Chapter 16
ELLE
The coffeemaker gurgles, filling the kitchen with the rich aroma of dark roast. I wrap my hands around my mug, staring out the window. It’s Christmas morning and the house settles into a quiet I haven’t experienced in years—the kind of peace that makes me nervous.
The quiet of the kitchen is disturbed by Phoenix appearing in the doorway, shirtless and sleep-rumpled, his dark hair sticking up at odd angles. The pillow crease across his cheek makes him seem younger, more vulnerable than the rockstar who commands stages across the country.
God, he’s gorgeous. Ink decorates his chest and arms—the skull and roses over his heart, the phoenix rising from flames across his shoulder, and the constellations representing us and our dreams. Against the backdrop of my Christmas tree with its twinkling lights, he’s pure contradiction.
Dangerous and domestic. Rock god and sleep-tousled man who spent the night on my couch because he’s trying to do the right thing.
The V of his hips disappears into low-slung jeans. Morning light catches on the silver barbell through his left nipple, and heat floods through me—sharp and immediate.
He’s here. Real. In my kitchen on Christmas morning.
“Coffee?” I offer.
“Yeah.” His voice comes out rough, gravelly from sleep. He crosses to me, bypassing the coffee pot entirely, and slides his hands around my waist. “Morning.”
“Good morning.” I tilt my face up as he leans down, his mouth finding mine in a slow, sweet kiss.
His lips move against mine, and every cell in my body aligns. This rightness that terrified me for five years suddenly feels inevitable.
Phoenix groans, deepening the kiss, one hand sliding up to cup the nape of my neck. The mug warms in my grip as he presses closer, his chest solid against mine, his tongue teasing at my lower lip. Desire uncurls low in my belly, chasing away the last cobwebs of early morning fog.
His other hand splays across my lower spine, pulling me tighter against him. I can taste sleep on his tongue, coffee on my own, and something indefinably Phoenix that makes me want to abandon the mug on the counter and drag him toward the couch where he slept last night.
Or better yet, my bedroom.
Bare feet patter on the hardwood, rapid, purposeful and heading straight for the kitchen.
“Mommy!”
We spring apart. My pulse hammers as I spin toward the living room archway where Melody stands frozen, her auburn curls a riot around her face and her reindeer pajamas wrinkled from sleep.
“Santa came!” She launches herself across the kitchen. But she stops short, her attention snagging on Phoenix.
My breath catches. My pulse thuds against my ribs way too fast and hard.
Phoenix looks to me for some kind of answer or permission but I have none. This is new territory for both of his. He drops into a crouch, bringing himself to her eye level. “Hey there, I’m your dad.”
Melody tilts her head, studying him with the intensity only a four-year-old can muster.
She steps closer, her small hand reaching out to touch his bare shoulder, then trailing down to poke the Phoenix design on his bicep. “Why do you have pictures on your arms?”
I stifle a laugh. She says it with such wonder, like she’s discovered something magical.
“Tattoos,” Phoenix says quietly. “Do you like them?”
“This one’s my favorite.” She pokes a rose with her finger. “It’s pretty.”
He laughs. “Yeah?”
“Uh-huh.” She tilts her head, studying him with fascination. “You have lots.”
Phoenix glances at me. I grab his t-shirt from where it’s draped over the back of the couch and toss it to him.
He catches it one-handed, relief crossing his face as he tugs it over his head. The fabric stretches across his shoulders.
She grabs his hand, tugging him toward the living room. “Come on, come on! Santa brought more presents!”
He goes without hesitation, shooting me a glance over his shoulder, pure wonder mixed with terror. I follow them, setting my coffee mug on the counter, my throat tight.
This is happening. This is real.
The living room transforms into chaos within minutes.
Wrapping paper flies everywhere as Melody tears into presents with gleeful abandon—a stuffed unicorn with a glittery horn, a set of princess figurines, coloring books with fat crayons.
Phoenix settles on the floor beside her, his long legs stretched out, one bare foot crossed over the other.
I curl up in the armchair, phone in hand to capture everything. Phoenix catches me filming and his mouth quirks—not quite a full smile, but something softer. The kind that used to undo me backstage when he’d catch my eye mid-song.
Still does, apparently.
Melody abandons a half-unwrapped present to dart into the kitchen. She returns clutching a pancake from the batch I made earlier, sticky syrup already smeared across her cheek. She plops down beside Phoenix and tears into another gift.
Phoenix watches her juggle the pancake and the toy, amusement flickering across his face. Then his expression shifts. He scans the pile of presents surrounding her. His jaw tightens, the muscle ticks.
He leans toward me, voice dropping low enough that Melody won’t hear over the crinkle of wrapping paper. “I didn’t have a chance to get her anything for Christmas.” Worry threads through his tone, rough and genuine. “I didn’t even think—I should’ve—”
I reach over, my hand finding his. Our fingers thread together. “You did. Just by being here.”
His throat works as he stares at our joined hands for a moment, then squeezes once before turning his attention to Melody, who’s holding up her next present with wide eyes.
She accepted him so easily. Like some instinct recognizes him as hers, even though she’s never known his face, his voice, the way he smells like coffee and hotel soap. Like her DNA remembered what her conscious mind couldn’t possibly know.
Four years of trying to figure out what to say when she would eventually ask me about her dad, thinking someday.
And here’s someday. On my living room floor. Wearing low-slung jeans and the most devastating smile I’ve ever seen as he helps our daughter unwrap a plastic castle.
“A dollhouse!” Melody holds up the box, her eyes wide. “Mommy, can we build it?”
Phoenix takes the box, flipping it over to scan the assembly instructions.
His brow furrows as he unfolds the paper, squinting at the tiny diagrams. “This looks pretty cool.” He positions himself cross-legged on the floor, spreading out the pieces.
The instruction sheet crinkles as he tries to make sense of the diagram.
“Okay, little rockstar. You ready to help?”
She nods eagerly, settling beside him.
“Alright, so...” Phoenix holds up two identical-looking wall pieces, comparing them to the instructions.
“Tab A goes into slot B. Or is it slot C?” He mutters something under his breath, that sounds like a curse word, rotating one of the pieces.
His fingers—so confident on guitar strings—fumble with the tiny plastic tabs and I can’t help but laugh.
“Fuck me, a Zep solo is easier than this.”
He glances at Melody. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have said that.”
Melody giggles. “ Mommy says bad words too.”
“Does she now?” Phoenix shoots me a grin.
“Only sometimes,” I defend.
But he doesn’t give up on the dollhouse. Melody hands him tiny furniture pieces, and he works methodically through each step, the pieces eventually cooperating.
Phoenix—stadium-filling rockstar, perpetual wanderer—kneeling on my living room floor assembling a plastic dollhouse with the focused intensity he usually reserves for crafting the perfect bridge.
She’s so comfortable with him. Like she’s been waiting for this her entire life.
Maybe she has been.
The next two hours blur past in a whirlwind.
Melody drags Phoenix through the house—showing him her room, the art hanging on the fridge, her special rock collection lined up on the windowsill.
He follows her lead with patience I didn’t know he possessed, laughing at her knock-knock jokes, pretending to be properly terrified when she roars at him holding up her new dragon figurine.
I capture it all on my phone. Every laugh. Every moment Phoenix crouches down to her level, giving her his full attention like she’s the only person in the world.
Eventually, the adrenaline crashes. Melody sprawls across Phoenix’s lap on the couch, clutching her stuffed unicorn, her eyelids drooping despite her protests cinnamon roll frosting crusting at the corners of her mouth, .
“Someone had too much excitement,” Phoenix murmurs, brushing curls away from her forehead with a tenderness that guts me.
“I’ll put her down for a nap.”
“Let me.”
He rises carefully, cradling Melody against his chest. She stirs, then settles with a sigh. I lead him to her bedroom down the hall, pulling the covers while he lays her down gently. She doesn’t wake, even when he tucks her favorite blanket around her shoulders.
We stand beside her bed for a long moment. Phoenix’s hand finds mine, his fingers threading through mine and squeezing.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“For what?”
“For this morning.” He pauses, his gaze dropping to Melody sleeping peacefully. “Being with her today... tucking her in like this... makes me think about my parents.”
I turn to face him fully in the dim light filtering through Melody’s.
“I get it now.” His voice drops lower. “What family means. What I’ve been missing.” He drags a hand through his hair. “I want to fix things with them. Try to, at least.”
My heart constrict. He’s already broken the cycle—present, patient, engaged in a way his father never was. This vulnerability, this growth—it’s everything.
“I think that’s incredible,” I whisper.
“Yeah?” Relief crosses his face.
“Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”
He shifts tentatively. “I’d like them to meet Melody. Not right away, but... someday. When I’ve done the work to make things right first.”
I squeeze his hand. “They should know their granddaughter. Whenever you’re ready.”
He pulls me close, pressing a kiss to my forehead. The gesture is tender, reverent.
We walk to the living room. It sits quiet around us—wrapping paper littering the floor in multicolored drifts, the Christmas tree blinking steady in the corner. The dollhouse sits assembled on the coffee table, a testament to Phoenix’s stubborn determination and Melody’s help.
Christmas music plays softly from the TV, something instrumental and romantic—all strings and piano. With Melody asleep, the music fills the space, gentle and inviting.
Phoenix pulls me into his arms. His mouth quirks—playful and dangerous. “Do you know how hard it’s been keeping my hands to myself with you looking like that?” He gestures to my outfit of sleep pants and an old band t-shirt.
I reach up, trying to smooth down my hair, embarrassed. “I’m a mess. I didn’t even have time to brush—”
“Don’t.” He catches my hand, pulling me close. His gaze travels over my face, lingering. “I’ve always loved the way you look in the morning. Sleepy eyes, wild hair...” His voice drops lower. “Perfect.”
He slides one hand around my waist, the other cradling my hand against his chest.
We sway together, slow and easy, his body warm against mine. I breathe in pine, coffee, and Phoenix.
His thumb traces circles on my lower spine, a rhythm that matches the music. His other hand slides higher, slipping beneath the hem of my shirt. Warm fingers splay against my bare skin, climbing slowly until his thumb brushes the underside of my breast.
I sigh—soft and involuntary.
His mouth finds my shoulder, pressing a kiss against the exposed skin where my shirt has slipped. His thumb continues its torturous path, grazing my nipple. Desire coils tight, low in my belly, sharp and insistent.
We move together in the soft glow of the tree, our feet shuffling through scattered ribbons and bows, the morning stretching quiet and perfect around us.
His phone rings on the coffee table, breaking the moment. Phoenix hits accept and Casey and Theo’s face fills the screen, palm trees in the background, and the distinctive sound of hot tub jets.
“Hang on, let me get Liam,” Casey says.
“Shit, I forgot about Liam,” Phoenix laughs.
His face comes into view and the background looks nothing like Arizona. “Are you still in Chicago?”
“Um, yeah, about that…” Liam trails off.”
“I told you holding out for a flight was stupid. I guess your lucky hat…” Casey’s word die as a girl comes into the frame.”
“Liam, who’s…” he tries to recover, moving the phone away from her but it’s too late.
“Harper?” Casey asks. “What the fuck are you doing with my sister?”
Theo barks out a laugh. “Holy, fuck, this is even better than Phoenix’s secret baby.”
Casey pushes his face into the water. “Liam!” he yells into the phone.
“Look, I can explain…”
“And that’s my cue to exit. For once, the drama not being about me,” Phoenix chuckles. I quirk an eyebrow.
He silences the phone and then sets it face down on the coffee table. “Now, no one’s going to interrupt us again.”
My stomach tightens at the promise threading through his voice. He crosses to me in two strides, his hands finding my waist, pulling me tight against him.
Then he kisses me—slow and thorough and patient at first, his mouth moving against mine like he’s memorizing the taste of me.
His hand slides into my hair, angling my head exactly where he wants it, and I sink into him, into this moment, into the impossible reality of Phoenix in my living room on Christmas morning.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and the kiss shifts—deeper, hungrier. His other hand grips my hip, pulling me tighter against him, and I can feel the tension coiled through his entire body.
When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against mine, both of us breathing hard. His thumb brushes my swollen lower lip.
“Best Christmas ever,” I whisper.
Thunder claps in the distance, the soft flurry of unexpected snow transitioning into a rare winter storm. As if on cue, the pitter patter of nervous feet echo down the hall and I know she’s looking for me. “Mommy!” she appears in the living room and I scoop her up in my arms.
“Tell me a story,” Melody requests and we settle on the couch, grabbing The Hungry Caterpillar from the coffee table and passing it to Phoenix.
He holds it reverently, a smile gracing his beautiful face. Melody settles between us while Phoenix reads. If only his fans knew how absolutely breathtaking he sounds reading a children’s book compared to his usual metal vocals.
Melody’s head droops onto Phoenix’s lap, her little hand curling around the fabric of his jeans into her palm. “Did you get everything you wanted for Christmas?” I ask, smoothing her curls from her angelic face.
Melody nods her head as enthusiastically as exhaustion will allow. “Santa brought my daddy for Christmas.”