Chapter 51
Lauren
Lauren was in the attic when the doorbell rang.
By the time she made it downstairs, she was a little breathless, her socks sliding on the polished wood.
She opened the door and Tom was there.
“Hey, Lo.”
Her heartbeat stuttered. “Hey.”
The world outside smelled of cold pine and woodsmoke, the kind of night that bit at your skin and made every word feel sharper.
“Can I take you somewhere?” he asked. “Tonight?”
“Out?” she echoed. “Now?”
He nodded. “I promise it’s not a trick or a grand gesture or—well, it is kind of a gesture, but not grand. More like…a medium one.”
Her mouth curved despite herself. “A medium gesture?”
She should say no. She had paint drying upstairs, commissions waiting, a whole future to build that didn’t revolve around him. But he looked hopeful, and earnest, and too much like the man she had loved for years.
“What should I wear?” she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.
His eyes traveled the length of her—paint-flecked leggings, old cardigan, the faint shimmer of silver on her wrist where she’d brushed against wet paint. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks.
“You look perfect,” he said quietly. “Just—rug up warm.”
Her breath hitched. “Perfect,” she repeated, like she was testing the word.
Tom’s expression was serious. “Perfect.”
He’d told her he would be courting her. Wooing her. And experiencing it was… intoxicating.
When he offered his hand, she hesitated for half a heartbeat—then took it.
The cold nipped at her face as they stepped outside. Snow crunched under their boots.
She glanced sideways at him as they reached the car. He looked at her, catching her eye and smiling.
For a heartbeat, excitement bloomed—sharp and fizzy and impossible to suppress. He was taking her somewhere. Somewhere secret. Somewhere romantic?
But hope was a treacherous thing.
She’d hoped before—so much that she’d peeked in Tom’s bag and convinced herself a necklace was waiting for her. And then, still raw, she’d seen an envelope and let the hope flare again.
She could still feel those twin moments like knives under her ribs.
And yet—even after she’d stopped hoping, he’d surprised her.
He’d stood in the January chill, on the trail where he’d once proposed, and handed her a new envelope.
A letter. Words.
And despite it all, those words had healed something. Christmas didn’t ache the way it had. The season she loved wasn’t tainted anymore.
Maybe tonight could heal too.
He squeezed her hand, and warmth spread up her arm, blooming in her chest like something stubbornly alive.
Tom opened her door, his thumb brushing over her knuckles before he let go.
Maybe healing didn’t need grand gestures. Sometimes it came in the quiet weight of a hand you still knew by heart.
The tires crunched over packed snow as the car slowed to a stop.
The church.
Their church. The place where she’d walked toward him with shaking hands and a heart so full she’d thought it might burst.
The parking lot was empty, but a section of the snow had been freshly cleared—a clean, perfect rectangle under the soft wash of the headlights.
Tom got out and came around to her side. He opened her door, and the night air swept in—sharp, metallic, full of ice and winter damp. Her breath misted in front of her like a fleeting ghost.
“Come here,” he said gently, holding out his hand.
She stared at it for half a beat, her heart tripping over itself. His hand was steady. Familiar. Dangerous.
Before she could overthink it, she placed her palm in his. Warm, rough, grounding.
When she stepped out, the world went quiet—the deep, holy quiet that only comes with snow. Like the air itself was holding its breath.
Tom leaned past her into the car and then music spilled out into the night.
Her breath caught.
The opening notes to their song—soft, slow, inevitable.
The song that played when they’d danced for the first time as husband and wife.
Her heart stumbled. “Tom…”
He didn’t answer. He just extended his hand again.
She went to him slowly, every step a battle between sense and want. Her heart ached with it.
His arm slid around her waist. His other hand found hers, and the familiarity of it hit her so hard she had to exhale carefully just to stay upright.
They began to move to the familiar, devastating lyrics. Elvis confessing that he couldn’t help falling in love. Lauren understood that feeling all too well.
Snow crunched beneath their boots, a soft percussion beneath the music. Her breath unfurled in white wisps between them. His coat brushed hers with each turn, each step.
She could feel his heartbeat through all the layers of fabric—steady, confusing, infuriating.
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting her forehead rest near his collarbone. Soap. Cold air. Him. The smell hit her like memory turned physical—like being twenty-six again and believing forever was something solid.
When she looked up, his gaze was already on her. Wide open. Unguarded.
“I remember our wedding,” Tom said softly. “I remember standing up there thinking, ‘How did I get this lucky?’”
Something inside her went tight and molten.
He swallowed. “I wanted to give you everything.”
He gave a humorless huff. “That’s why I took the job with my father. Why I took the safe option. The respectable option.”
Lauren felt his hand pull her just slightly closer, as if instinct demanded it.
“And then I spent so long trying to match his style that I lost sight of my own,” Tom said. “I started designing like him. Thinking like him. Seeing the world like my parents do.”
His voice cracked a little. “I was always weak.”
Her breath snagged. She almost told him no, he wasn’t, but he kept going.
“But you?” His fingers brushed her jaw, slow and reverent. “You’ve always been strong. You’ve always known who you are. You’ve never needed anyone to give you permission.”
The song swelled, soft and shimmering, the notes floating in the snow-lit dark.
Loving him was just like falling—soft and unstoppable.
Just like their song.
Tom’s forehead touched hers. Their noses brushed. Their breaths mingled, warm and fragile.
His thumb traced a slow line under her ear, down her neck. The gentleness of it undid her, made her dizzy.
“You’re freezing,” she whispered, voice trembling.
He smiled—small, soft, unguarded. “Worth it.”
The laugh that broke from her was a soft, startled thing—part ache, part relief.
"I can't help falling in love with you,” he said. Then he kissed her.
The music surged. The cold vanished. The world fell away.
There was only the warmth of him, the aching familiarity of his mouth, the way his hands slid to her back like she was still his.
The ride back was quiet.
Not tense. Not awkward. Just… quiet.
When he pulled up in front of the house, he turned off the engine. His breath fogged the air between them. Snowflakes began to fall again, floating lazily in the beam of the streetlamp.
“Thank you,” Lauren said. Her voice sounded small.
He nodded. “Anytime.”
Part of her still believed that. Part of her still wanted to.
She opened the door, boots sinking into the soft snow that blanketed the front walk. The night felt too quiet after their song, too hollow after the warmth of his hands.
“Lauren?”
She looked back. Tom stood on the porch, eyes darker in the low light. Wrecked. Determined.
“Goodnight,” he said softly.
She forced herself to smile—just barely—and closed the door.
She listened to the engine as it faded away, leaving the house in heavy stillness.
Lauren stood there for a long moment, staring at the home he’d designed for her.
Her home. Their home. A place full of choices—his and hers.
The silence pressed in.
She brought a hand to her mouth. Her lips still felt warm. Over-warm. Like the memory of him was still there.
“Oh God,” she whispered into the quiet, not sure if it was a prayer or a curse.
The house felt different. Not hostile. Not comforting. Just… suspended. As if it, too, was waiting to see what she’d decide next.
She moved through the living room slowly, fingers trailing along the back of the sofa. The bay windows she loved stood like tall, watchful sentinels. Moonlight spilled across the hardwood he’d chosen to match the honey undertones in her grandmother’s dining table.
Everything in here had a reason. A story. A moment where he’d said—or tried to say—I see you.
She hated how much that still mattered.
Her chest tightened.
He had kissed her tonight like she was home. Like she was treasure. Like he was terrified and trying and sorry all at once.
And she had kissed him back.
She pressed her hands to her eyes.
“What am I doing?” she breathed.
She wasn’t ready to give up on her marriage. But she couldn’t forget Tom’s words either. I can’t be married to someone like you.
She walked into the kitchen. The tile was cold under her socks. She opened a cabinet, reached for a mug, filled the kettle. The normalcy steadied her.
She hadn’t realized until she stood here how much of tonight had been dreamlike. How swiftly a kiss could turn into hope. How dangerous that was.
She carried the tea to the table and sat.
Her eyes drifted to the blank places where her decorations used to be—the bare stretch of wall, the empty corner.
She’d stupidly let herself believe that the mess, the glitter, the too-muchness was something he loved about her.
Now she knew the truth. Felt the wound of it still tender.
Tonight didn’t erase any of that.
The mug warmed her palms. Her breath slowed. The quiet settled deeper, fuller.
She’d danced with her husband in the snow. She’d kissed him. She’d felt something open—painful and beautiful.
But she also knew this:
He had to like her not just love her. She needed more than just love. He had to show her he could embrace all of her—color, chaos, Christmas, everything.
Not just tonight, but tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.
Lauren leaned forward, resting her forehead against the cool mug.
The ache in her chest wasn’t despair.
It was love.