Chapter 40
Olivia
From The Ground Up - Dan + Shay
God Only Knew - Sidney
I’m not saying I cried over a framed photo, but if anyone asks, I was suffering from a mild case of seasonal allergies and temporary emotional weakness.
There’s one thing missing from this photo.
God, I’ve read that text more times than I’ll admit out loud.
The message. The moment. That damn photo.
It’s seared into my brain. I saved it to my phone without hesitation, then panicked and hid it in a folder, like that might stop me from staring at it every night.
His face fills the frame—messy hair, crooked smile, those deep dimples—and Teddy’s behind him, covered in icing, holding a half-eaten cookie and a babycino like they’re his most prized possessions.
They look happy. At home. Like nothing’s missing.
Except me.
And apparently, he thought so too. Don’t even get me started on the framed photo.
Because the second I got home that night, I bawled.
I cried myself to sleep like a hormonal teen watching The Notebook for the first time.
Not because I was sad or heartbroken. Not entirely.
It was something deeper than that. Gratitude, maybe.
Love, probably. The worst part? That damn gift was thoughtful.
Personal. Sentimental in a way that made my insides ache.
That’s my thing. I do the thoughtful gestures. I give the heart-string-tugging surprises. How dare he weaponise my own words and throw them back at me with a bow and perfectly timed sincerity?
I’d told him he wasn’t playing fair. I didn’t realise how right I was. And after that?
Tulips.
More bloody tulips. Bright yellow and obnoxiously joyful. An entire bouquet delivered to my doorstep. To my house this time. Mum saw them first.
“Ooh, someone’s got an admirer!” she’d said, eyes sparkling.
“They’re from Amelia,” I lied without blinking.
Both my parents turned to look at me like I’d grown two heads.
Even Dad arched a brow and gave me a look that made me want to hurl the vase out the window.
They knew. Everyone knew. And I hated how easy I was to read when it came to him.
The girls have been checking in, too—Isla, Imogen, even Zoe.
Subtle nudges. Quiet texts. Little prods wrapped in emojis and heart eyes.
But I’ve kept them all at arm’s length. Because this is for me.
Not them. Not anyone else’s opinions or ideas about how I should feel.
About what I should forgive. It should be my decision.
And honestly? He’s doing everything he said he would. Every promise. Every goddamn word.
Another text buzzed through yesterday.
Sebastian: Teddy drew this today ???
It was a scribbled mess in bright colours—stick figures holding hands, a weirdly realistic Diesel in the corner, and what I think was meant to be a rainbow, or possibly spaghetti.
He’s been doing that a lot lately. Sending updates.
Texts. Photos. So many photos. Teddy with ice cream.
Teddy in the bath. Teddy asleep on his chest. Teddy building a rocket ship from cardboard and glitter.
But also… Sebastian. Smiling. Living. Just existing in the small moments, like he wants me to see he’s not hiding anymore.
And God help me, I do love him. That’s the terrifying part. I know I love him. With this awful, aching clarity that makes my lungs feel too tight in my chest.
Because what if he doesn’t love me?
Not truly. Not deeply. What if I’m just some beautiful chaos that he mistook for forever?
I know it’s irrational. No man doing this—chasing, showing up, sending flowers—is operating on lust alone.
But try explaining that to the small, bruised part of me that always expects the good things to vanish.
Christmas is tomorrow. A whole new year is coming.
And I don’t know if it’ll include him. But I hope it does.
The house smells like cinnamon, roasting garlic, and potential chaos.
Our annual Mitchell Christmas Eve dinner is in full swing.
Amelia’s trying to keep the kids from eating dessert first, Xavier’s setting off indoor party poppers like a menace, and I’m in the world’s ugliest elf-green shirt with “Santa’s Favourite Wild One” ironed across the front in red glitter, courtesy of Isla.
I’m talking about everyone wearing their own matching hideous shirts.
We couldn’t have escaped this if we tried.
Every year, there’s a new theme, and this year happened to be glitter-themed, inspired by Wicked.
The doorbell rings just as I’m pouring cranberry sauce into a bowl. “Olivia! Get the door, sweetheart,” Mum calls from the kitchen.
“What? Why me?” I holler back.
“Just go, Liv. Please.”
I narrow my eyes. “Who is it?”
“Oh… uh…” She fumbles. “Must be the delivery guy dropping off the trifle dish I ordered.”
Right. Very convincing. Still, I wipe my hands on my ridiculous shirt and make my way to the door. The moment I open it, the breath catches in my throat.
Sebastian stands at the door. Tall and unfairly good-looking, with that stupid, stupid face that’s already unravelling every ounce of resolve I’ve spent weeks stitching together. I don’t even get a word out before something small and fast collides with my legs.
“Teddy!” I gasp, catching him before he knocks me off balance.
“Hi!” He beams, wrapping his arms around me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is. I glance up, and Sebastian’s watching me, eyes soft, voice low.
“Hi, Trouble.”
God. Why does that still make me melt?
“What are you doing here?” I ask, blinking back the wobble in my chest. “It’s Christmas Eve!”
“I know,” Teddy says solemnly. “But Dad’s been sad.”
“Has he now?”
Teddy nods. “Very. He cried watching Finding Dory.”
“I did not,” Sebastian grumbles. “He’s lying.”
He’s absolutely not lying. I smirk despite myself. “Sure he is.”
“I’ve been thinking. I know you said you didn’t want an apology,” he says, “so… think of this as me showing up instead.” He reaches behind him and hands me a wrapped parcel. “I know it’s Christmas Eve, but Teddy wanted you to open this now.”
I glance at the paper. Gold foil. A lopsided bow. I swear, my heart is already thudding. I start to unwrap it, then pause, guilt nudging me. “Should you… Did you guys want to come in? God, I’m the worst host ever, making you stand out here—”
“We’re fine,” he cuts in gently. “Open it here.”
My fingers tremble slightly as I peel back the paper.
Inside is a folded card with a drawing tucked neatly within it.
Crayon colours spill everywhere in that familiar, earnest chaos only Teddy can create.
Stick-figure Daddy. Stick-figure Teddy. An oversized Diesel.
And then me, a little stick version, labelled clearly, but with spelling errors beneath, just like the others.
But it’s the bottom line—written in chunky, careful and surprisingly correct letters—that steals every bit of breath from my lungs.
Olivia, can you be my mummy?
Teddy tugs at my sleeve. “I made it for you.”
I look at him, the words stuck in my throat.
“Daddy says not everyone’s meant to be a mummy,” he says, gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder. “But it takes… uh… a special person. And Daddy says that you’re special.”
Oh.
Oh. The tears hit so fast I don’t stand a chance. “You want me to be your mummy?”
He nods solemnly, still not quite meeting my eyes. I drop to my knees, wrapping my arms around him.
“Why are you crying? Did my drawing make you sad, again?” he asks softly.
“No, love. It made me very happy.” I sniff. “You make me very happy.”
He beams. “So, can you come to my house? Every day?”
“Would you like that?”
He nods enthusiastically.
Sebastian clears his throat again. “Teddy, why don’t you give her the other present?”
Teddy grins, pulling a sprig from his pocket. “Mistletoe!”
I raise a brow, watching as Sebastian bends down to whisper in his son’s ear. “What do we do when we see mistletoe?”
“You kiss someone.” His face turns a shade of pink.
Sebastian smirks. “What do you say, champ? Shall we give Olivia a kiss?”
Teddy blushes, then leans in and plants one on my cheek.
I giggle through the tears. I stand, facing Sebastian.
He’s watching me, like I’m the only thing on his damn orbit.
“You scared the hell out of me, Liv,” he says, voice low.
“You made me feel things I’d buried years ago, and instead of holding on, I ran.
Told myself I was protecting Teddy. Truth is, I was protecting myself. ”
My heart stutters.
“We’re not that different, you and me,” he continues.
“You hide behind wildness, wanting to make something of yourself. I hide behind quiet, hoping that others would make me feel enough. You move through the world like a storm, trying to leave your mark, whereas I’ve spent years trying to disappear, hoping someone might still find me.
” He pauses, voice rough but strong. “It’s like we’re opposite ends of the same thread…
pulled tight in different directions, but somehow meant to meet in the middle. ”
Tears slip again, blurring his face. Because how the hell did he just say exactly what I’ve never been able to?
“You told me to figure it out,” he murmurs. “So I did. Properly this time. And I figured out that my life’s a hell of a lot smaller without you in it.”
He steps closer, lifts a hand to my face.
Calloused fingers brushing my cheek. “I want your messiness. Your sarcasm. Your overthinking and your silly renditions of every Disney song like it’s a bloody stadium show.
I want your bad dance moves in my kitchen, your chaotic playlists, your awful Christmas shirts, and your weird habit of organising everything by chaotic colour-coded lists. I want it all, Trouble. I want you.”