Chapter 21
Lauren
The coffee shop sat dark behind its glass windows, a Closed for the Holidays sign taped to the door. Lauren stood staring at it, her breath ghosting in the cold air. The cheerful lettering, the little doodle of a snowflake, felt almost cruel.
Christmas was over, but the street still sparkled with leftover magic. Strings of lights blinked on the lampposts, stubborn and cheerful. Someone had left a wreath hanging on a door across the street, its ribbon half-frozen and trailing in the wind.
Lauren’s fingers tightened on her coat. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected when she’d agreed to this. A glass of wine, maybe. Conversation. A chance to see him and not fall apart.
She hadn’t expected this familiar ache, this sense of standing inside a memory.
Six years ago, this café had been the beginning.
She’d felt so excited. A handsome man taking her on a date, a beginning.
And now she was standing here knowing how it ended. Knowing he didn’t respect her, not really. Knowing tonight wasn’t a second chance—it was a ghost. A reenactment. Something she was allowing herself and that tomorrow she’d have to be strong again.
The windows reflected only darkness. The inside of the café was empty, chairs stacked on tables.
A crunch of boots drew her back.
Tom reached her and stood beside her, breath clouding in the cold. He held something in his gloved hands—a thermos.
He didn’t speak. Just unscrewed the lid and poured. Steam curled into the frigid air, and the scent hit her instantly—cocoa and cinnamon, familiar and devastating.
“Hot chocolate?” she asked, her voice barely carrying.
He nodded. “I looked up your recipe.”
That shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have reached inside her chest and twisted. The heat of the cup seeped through her gloves, and for a moment, she loved him so fiercely it took her breath away.
And she let herself lean into that feeling—just for this one moment. Just for tonight. She could borrow the memory, slip into the softness of before, even if she knew it wasn’t real anymore.
They stood like that—two figures in the snow, the city hushed around them. The Christmas lights blinked slow and steady down the block. Somewhere, a car passed, tires whispering over the slush.
Lauren sipped. The chocolate was rich and sweet. The taste filled her mouth, thick and nostalgic.
She loved to make this hot chocolate for Tom in December. He would come home from work, loosen his tie, and find her singing along to carols while stirring a pot on the stove. She loved that. Loved creating warmth, creating traditions.
Now she knew it had been silly. Silly to open herself so wide for someone who thought the very best parts of her were embarrassing.
“Tom…” She shook her head, trying to find her footing. “You can’t just fix this with gestures.”
“I know,” he said. “But I also know that we are meant to be together. I’m going to court you, Lauren. Like the first time. Whatever it takes to make you take me back.”
For a moment, she couldn’t speak.
The words were absurd. Outdated.
Court her? Who said things like that anymore?
Snowflakes caught in his hair, melted on his lashes. They had first come here six years ago. Now he looked both older and achingly familiar.
She hated how handsome he still was.
Hated how his voice, low and rough, could still curl around her name like it belonged to him.
Lauren turned her gaze back to the café, to the reflection of the two of them standing there where their younger selves had once sat.
She remembered how that first date had ended—him walking her to her car. How he’d brushed a kiss against her cheek, tentative and full of promise.
God, she’d believed in that promise.
Now she knew where that promise led. A husband who wanted only part of her. Lauren, without the crafting. Lauren, without her love of handmade excess.
She took another sip of the hot chocolate, letting the warmth sink beneath her ribs.
The lights reflected off the glass, red and gold and green, until the whole world shimmered with color.
She let the feeling wash over her—the illusion of magic, of what they used to be. She let herself enjoy it. Because tonight, she wanted to pretend.
For a brief, fragile moment, it almost felt like Christmas again.
Tom pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. For a moment, neither of them moved. Lauren stared at the house—their house.
The porch light glowed faintly against the snow, painting the steps gold. The wreath still hung in the entryway like a ghost of Christmas. She’d missed it in her purge.
"Let me walk you up," Tom said, already opening his door.
Lauren’s heart was beating too fast, like it couldn’t decide whether to flee or stay. She stepped out into the cold, boots crunching against the icy path.
The night air bit her cheeks, sharp enough to sting. Tom fell into step beside her, close enough that she could feel his warmth through the layers of clothing. His hand hovered near her elbow—not quite touching, but close enough that her body noticed anyway.
They stopped at the door. Lauren fumbled for her keys, hyper-aware of Tom standing too close, smelling too good.
"Lauren." His voice was deep. Serious.
She looked up at him. The porch light caught his features, all strong lines and earnest eyes.
"I meant what I said." His breath clouded between them. "Every word."
Lauren's keys bit into her palm. She should go inside.
She thought of his parents wielding their cutting remarks while Tom said nothing.
How could she be with someone who thought she was less than him? Who saw her joy as tasteless, her love as excessive? Who thought glue guns and glitter were beneath him?
"Tom—"
"I know you don't believe me yet." He took half a step closer, and Lauren's back pressed against the door. "I know I have to earn it."
Tom's gaze moved over her face like he was memorizing it—her eyes, her mouth. His hand came up slowly, giving her time to pull away. He brushed her cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Lauren should step away. Should go inside and lock the door between them.
She didn’t move.
His thumb traced along her cheekbone, and Lauren shivered—though not from the temperature.
His other hand came up, cupping her face with both palms now. Lauren realized with a jolt that she'd closed her eyes. When had she done that?
"Lauren." Just her name, but the way he said it—rough and aching—made her sigh.
"I miss you," he whispered. "God, I miss you so much."
She opened her eyes at that. He was watching her with an expression that made her catch her breath. Want and regret, all tangled together.
Lauren's hands came up of their own accord, fisting in the front of his jacket. Holding him there or holding herself steady—she wasn't sure which.
"I'm right here." But she knew that was a lie.
"No, you're not." His forehead dropped to rest against hers, and Lauren felt his breath warm against her lips.
The honesty of it cracked something in her chest. Her fingers tightened in his jacket.
"Tom—"
His nose brushed against hers.
"Tell me to leave." His voice was barely more than a breath. "Tell me you don't want this. I'll wait as long as you need. I'll—"
She kissed him.
She didn't decide to do it. Her body simply moved—rising up on her toes, closing that last impossible distance, pressing her lips to his.
For one heartbeat, she forgot everything except how right it felt, all the reasons not to drowned out by the pull of habit and love and longing.
Tom made a sound—broken, relieved—and kissed her back. His mouth moved against hers with a gentleness that made her want to cry, and when his thumb stroked along her jaw, she did make a sound—something between a sob and a sigh.
His hands slid from cradling her face into her hair, and Lauren felt herself melting against him. She lost herself for a long moment, kissing her husband, kissing the man who had taken her to an empty café and poured her hot chocolate from a thermos.
Tom pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers again. Both of them were breathing hard, creating little clouds of warmth in the frozen air between them.
"I don’t want to lose you,” he said quietly.
And for one fragile, dangerous second, she wanted to believe that was enough.
But love was a luxury. Respect was the thing she couldn’t live without.
She felt the prickle of the wreath press into her spine. “Goodnight, Tom.”
His hands fell. The warmth vanished.
Lauren turned her key in the lock, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
The house was dark, stripped of Christmas. Of her delusions of her marriage.