Chapter 60
Tom
The mason jar snow globe sat on the corner of his drafting table, catching the thin strip of winter light that filtered through the blinds.
Glitter drifted lazily, flakes of silver and soft gold swirling like snow in slow motion.
Beside it, the picture frame he’d painted—lopsided roses and all—held the photo of Lauren from last Christmas.
Her joy was so bright it almost glowed through the streaky paint.
He caught himself staring again.
At her.
At them.
At the handmade world he’d dismissed as childish. Now he just wanted to live there with her.
He could see it so clearly now. All the ways he’d failed her, all the ways she’d still opened herself to him.
She’d been so warm.
And he’d been so undeserving.
He thought of her, beneath him, arching. Her thighs bracketing his face. Her hands sliding into his hair.
The sounds she’d made.
Heat flushed through him. He closed his eyes, breathing until he could think again.
He dragged a hand through his hair, dragged his gaze away from her photo, and forced himself to look at the blueprints glowing on his monitor. The Kent extension plan sprawled across the screen.
He zoomed into the layout and frowned.
It wasn’t wrong, exactly.
It just wasn’t anything.
He rested his elbows on the desk, head in his hands.
Lauren would never design like this. She didn’t start from “What will people think?” or “What will the neighbors approve of?” or “What would Richard Barrett accept?” Lauren’s creativity started from inside.
What do I love?
What makes me smile?
What feels like me?
Tom swallowed hard. The truth of it sat in his chest.
She wasn’t fearless—he understood that now. She felt the fear, and she created anyway. He wasn’t strong like her.
Even this—this small, steady commitment to trying, to learning her language, to changing—he was doing it because she’d shown him how. Because she’d walked into the fire first. Because she’d set the example.
He was following her. He always should have been. He always would from now on.
He turned back to the plans.
Not to add color or glitter or wreaths—this wasn’t about imitating her aesthetic. It was about learning how to find his own.
What do I love?
What makes me smile?
What feels like me?
He moved a wall; widened a window; shifted the flow of the room. He imagined moving through this space. He imagined a house that embraced its owners. Something warm. Something real.
Something like her.
He glanced again at the mason jar.
The glitter had settled for a moment, then—just from the soft hum of the heating—rose again in a tiny spiral.
He didn’t need to be as strong as her. He didn’t need to have her courage. He didn’t need to lead.
He only needed to follow.
To keep choosing her, again and again.
He made one more adjustment on the blueprint and nodded to himself.
Not her taste. Her bravery.
That was the type of style he wanted to build with.
He may not be her equal. But he would follow her lead forever.
Just like he’d followed her lead on the weekend.
Scraps of fabric littered the table—early attempts, crooked bits of embroidery, two edges he’d hacked off in disgust an hour ago.
Tom exhaled, slow and unsteady.
This was going to be the one that worked.
The square that he was creating to show Lauren how he saw her.
Powerful. Incredible. Radiant.
Brave.
He smoothed the small piece of fabric in front of him—a soft winter-blue background he’d cut three times to get right.
In its center, he’d penciled the faint outlines of a front door.
Their door. The moment she’d stood there, blazing in the colored glow of her own handmade Christmas, telling him to get out.
He squinted as he tried to thread the needle. The thread slipped, missed the eye. Tom swore under his breath and tried again.
A new memory rose up.
The night he’d returned after Christmas. That itchy, unhappy feeling crawled straight up his ribs, into his throat at the memory.
He’d walked into the bedroom and… nothing.
No garland over the headboard. No little felt snowman she’d stitched their first year. No star mobile she’d hung above their bed.
Just cold walls. Bare. A hollowed-out room.
She had taken Christmas down. Not because the season was over—but because of him.
He’d carried his parents’ judgment and laid it over her Christmas warmth like a frost, snuffing her out. He had crushed Christmas right out of her.
He’d taken the holiday she loved with her whole heart and taken some of that shine away. It had been unforgivable.
The needle slipped, biting his thumb. A bead of blood welled, bright and accusing.
He needed to concentrate.
He reached for the fabric square again. It would be a simple rectangle for a doorway with Lauren shining outward as a burst of light and power.
She’d been magnificent. The quilt pushed into his arms. The door slammed in his face. Magnificent despite the pain he’d caused her.
He stabbed the needle through the fabric.
He pictured the boxes of Christmas decorations she’d put out with the trash. Garlands and glitter-dusted ornaments. Tablecloths and tea towels.
She’d thrown it all away.
All her Christmas.
All the joy.
All the little pieces of magic she used to stitch into their winters. The craft he’d mocked. The ornaments he’d rolled his eyes at. The handmade bits he’d never bothered to understand.
Now it all sat in a corner of Lauren’s parents’ living room.
Safe. Waiting. Held for her because she couldn’t bear to hold it herself.
Tom stitched another shaky line down the side of the little drawn door.
What good was any of it—rescuing all that stuff—if he couldn’t give her back the magic of Christmas?
The way she used to hum carols. The way she used to hang tinsel. He’d stolen that from her.
Tom set the needle down for a second. His breathing felt thick.
The square was going to show her courage.
The moment she saved herself. The moment she claimed the respect he should have always had for her.
Stitch by stitch, he outlined the doorway.
Then the shape of her—a silhouette in negative space, not defeated, but luminous.
He’d embroider light around her, not shadows. A halo of gold thread to show the fire in her.
To show the moment she chose herself.
He pulled the needle through, tugging the thread tight.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was honest.
He kept sewing.
If he could stitch even one fraction of her bravery into this square, it would be luminous.
He bent back over the fabric, hands and heart steady.