Chapter 69
Tom
For a moment, Tom couldn’t process the words.
I am ready for you to come home.
They were sharp, bright, disorienting. Something inside his chest lurched, then cracked wide open. He’d imagined this moment a hundred times. A thousand. But imagining it had never touched the reality of hearing her say it.
His knees went weak.
He made a sound—God, he didn’t even know what it was. A laugh, a sob, something half-strangled.
“Yeah?” he managed, his voice scraping out of him, wrecked and hopeful.
“Yeah,” she said, smiling at him. “Merry Christmas, Valentine.”
And then she leaned in. Her hands came up to his face, warm against his cheeks.
Her mouth touched his—gentle at first, then certain, then full of all the things they hadn’t said, all the things they’d survived.
The necklace he’d made pressed lightly against his sternum where her body leaned into his, one imperfect bead digging into his skin each time she shifted.
She loved him. She wanted him home.
His fingers settled in the soft dip where her spine curved. She felt impossibly, wonderfully real beneath his palms.
The quilt lay pooled around them—her quilt, their story—all the bright and painful stitching that had brought them to this point.
The Christmas tree twinkled off to the side, throwing flecks of warm light across her hair.
His ridiculous, lopsided necklace hung at her throat, catching the glow with every breath she took.
He let himself feel—the warmth of her body, the weight of hope settling into his bones, the dizzying relief. He was undone. Completely, beautifully undone.
“I’ll make it good for you,” he whispered. “I’ll make it better. I’ll—God, Lo, I’ll do everything right this time.”
She brushed her nose against his gently, a quiet hush of a gesture.
“You’re already doing it,” she murmured.
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers, his hands tightening at her waist, anchoring himself to the moment.
“I love you,” he said.
Tom woke to warmth.
Not the blanket. Not the February sun pushing a thin strip of light across the ceiling.
Lauren.
She was curled against him, breathing slow and even, her thigh thrown over his, one hand pressed against his bare chest like she was anchoring him there—like she was making sure he wouldn’t disappear.
Not again.
Not ever.
He lay perfectly still, terrified that even a breath too loud would break the spell. Last night replayed behind his eyes in slow, stunned loops—the glowing room, the quilt across their knees, her soft “Merry Christmas, Valentine,” and the way she’d kissed him.
She’d taken him back.
His throat burned with it. Relief, love, disbelief—all crowding the same small space in his chest until he could barely breathe. He hadn’t realized hope could hurt this good. Last night hadn’t been a dream. She’d said she loved him. She wanted him home.
Lauren shifted, the necklace he’d made sliding gently against her throat—crooked beads, uneven chain, heart charm sitting off-center and perfect.
It felt like experiencing a sunrise inside his own chest.
She stirred then, eyelashes fluttering against her cheek before her eyes opened. Soft. Warm. Real.
“Hi,” she murmured.
Tom swallowed. “Morning.”
A quiet moment stretched between them. Then Lauren grinned.
“I should… probably explain something,” she said.
Tom pushed himself up on one elbow. “Okay.”
She bit her lip. “The Divorced AF piece. It wasn’t… mine. I mean, I made it, but it wasn’t how I felt about us. It was a commission. One of my clients hired me to make it.”
Relief hit him so hard he almost laughed. “You’re telling me you weren’t making a public declaration that you were divorcing me?”
She rolled her eyes, but her mouth curved. “Nope.”
He dropped his forehead to her shoulder, exhaling a shaky laugh. “Good. Great. Fantastic.”
Her hand slid into his hair, warm and gentle.
“I should have told you sooner,” she added.
“You didn’t owe me anything,” he murmured. “Not after what I put you through.”
“But I’m telling you now,” she said quietly. “Because you’re my husband.”
His chest went tight in the best possible way. Her husband.
He lifted his head. “Wait. You have clients?”
Lauren’s expression brightened. “Yeah. Things kind of… took off. I’ve been doing commissions. Installations.”
A hot rush of pride hit him like a wave. “Holy shit, Lo.”
Her brows lifted. “You’re surprised?”
“I’m not surprised,” he said honestly. “I’m in awe.”
And he was. Awed and humbled and furious with himself that he hadn’t been the first one championing her. How had he ever convinced himself that her sparkle was childish instead of brilliance?
She looked away then—embarrassed, pleased, glowing. “I’m still figuring it out.”
“You have a business,” he whispered. “A real one.”
“Mhm.”
He was proud of her. Proud in a way that made his eyes sting and his heart feel too big for his body. Proud like he could walk into every room for the rest of his life saying that’s my wife.
“You’re thriving,” he added, almost reverently.
“Trying,” she said.
He shook his head. “Not just trying. You’re doing.”
He cupped her face with his palm, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone. He needed her to know how he felt. “Lauren, I’m so fucking proud of you.”
Her breath caught. “Tom…”
“I mean it.” His voice went rough. He leaned in and kissed her forehead. Then her cheek. Then the corner of her mouth.
“You’re incredible,” he murmured.
Lauren slid her hand down his chest, tracing the line of muscle with lazy warmth.
They lay there a moment, breathing the same air, their fingers tangling under the quilt and let himself drift, sleepily, happily.
A jolt of panic sparked through him—bright, electric, urgent. “I need to get started on the studio.”
Lauren blinked. “What?”
“The extension,” he clarified. “Your workspace. Your actual, proper studio. As soon as the frost melts this spring, we need to break ground. I need to call the surveyor, and the contractor, and—”
Lauren slid a hand up the back of his neck and tugged him down into a kiss.
Slow.
Deep.
Possessive.
A kiss that melted every frantic gear grinding in his head.
When she pulled back, her lips brushed his cheek as she whispered, warm and teasing, “Tom… spring is a long time away. It’s only Christmas, after all.”
Her fingers curled into his hair, pulling him back to her mouth. “We have time.”