Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Winnifred
It’s been a week since Soren Thorn stood outside my front door and told me he loved me.
A week since I let him in.
Into my house.
Into my life.
Into all the overthinking corners of my heart, I usually guard like they’re made of antique porcelain and very bad decisions. The best part of it all is that he hasn’t left—and I haven’t kicked him out.
We really fit together in ways I never imagined would be possible.
Well—okay. He’s left for work. And twice to grab some clothes next door while he’s moving slowly into my house. But otherwise? He’s here. Every morning. Every night. Every crooked smile and sarcastic one-liner that somehow makes me want to kiss him and scream into a pillow.
Also, that company that’s been calling me for every meeting, brainstorming, and “oops we forgot lunch” emergency? Belongs to him. Obviously.
Oh, and he’s my landlord. So, that’s fun.
Apparently, five years ago, right when the original owner was going to sell the place, he bought it.
It was a combination between the pandemic and his hero complex that didn’t want me evicted.
Meanwhile, I thought the universe had just blessed me with magically affordable rent.
Plot twist: it was Soren. Being Soren. Quietly collecting boyfriend points like a long-game strategist who just didn’t want to admit he liked me.
Now he loves me. The best part is that his toothbrush lives next to mine.
His sweatpants are in my laundry basket.
His coffee mug has migrated to the front of the cabinet like it’s always lived there—same with his fancy espresso machine that hisses like it knows it’s better than my drip pot.
The weirdest part of it all is that nothing feels like too much or a home invasion. It just feels like us.
Right now, he’s in the kitchen trying to reverse-engineer apple cider that tastes like it was made at a Vermont harvest festival by a flannel-wearing farm witch with a cinnamon addiction.
Earlier, he helped me bake cookies. It’s so weird to find my counters are dusted in flour. There’s a half-eaten sugar cookie abandoned on the windowsill. Frank Sinatra is crooning through the speaker Soren insisted we mount under the cabinets—his “gift to the ambiance,” whatever that means.
It’s domestic. Cozy. Slightly off-kilter, yet, completely ours.
I hook a silver ornament onto the middle of the tree and step back to assess. It’s a little lopsided. The top leans too far left, the lights are uneven, and we somehow lost the hook for the angel topper.
But Soren insisted on a real tree this year, wide-eyed and weirdly enthusiastic. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I usually just drag out my pre-lit fake one from the storage closet.
This grinchy boy—who once claimed “festive” was a personality disorder—is now celebrating Christmas. He’s humming. He’s baking. He’s swaying to Sinatra while pouring cider into mugs.
“This one smells like Christmas,” he’d said while we picked it out. “And besides, I want to see your face when you water it like it’s a houseplant.”
He has no idea how serious I am about over-watering. Though, I probably will be letting him know that next year we’re not buying a tree, but that’s a problem for future me.
“This bow’s crooked,” I murmur, reaching up again, biting my lip as I adjust the wired ribbon. He’s already brought over a chair and abandoned it beside me, just in case I need help climbing for the star. Of course, he did.
It’s warm here. And quiet. A soft kind of quiet that makes me want to hold my breath so I don’t disturb it.
Then my phone buzzes on the table just as I’m fluffing the ribbon bow near the top of the tree. I grab it, thumb smudged with glitter because, of course, I am.
“My mom is texting,” I groan.
“Told you we should’ve booked the photoshoot,” he says, way too pleased with himself.
That smug little I’m-right smirk is still alive and well.
Yes, we’re in love. Yes, we’re cohabitating like two adorable, semi-dysfunctional penguins. But let’s be clear: neither of us had a personality transplant.
We still argue over stupid things. Still, throw sarcastic jabs like foreplay.
The only real difference?
Now those arguments usually end with someone getting kissed and fucking against whatever surface is closest.
I read the text out loud, “Sweetheart, I need that picture for the family newsletter. Everyone’s already sent theirs. I’m putting you on top. Isn’t that exciting?”
Of course, she is.
“It’s the Howler, baby. Your ultimate goal,” Soren reminds me.
I glance over at the kitchen. He shrugs while he hums. Yes, Soren Thorn is humming.
The same man who once told me feelings are “inconvenient noise.” He’s stirring something in a pot with his sleeves pushed up and his expression entirely unbothered by the fact that I have reindeer slippers on and our living room smells like pine needles and cinnamon overload.
Last year, this would’ve sent me spiraling.
I don’t have pictures—how am I supposed to win Christmas?
I have to show them I’m winning. This time, the win is by showing Soren’s mom that she got to spend the holidays with her son and not her.
It’s vindictive and terrible. She’s just using me, and old me would be happy to be used just to win the sibling competition.
I should be freaking out, figuring out what we’re going to wear. The thing is that no matter what, I won’t be enough to make her proud. Her other children have been there, done that, and even brought her souvenirs she displays like trophies.
I type back one-handed while adjusting a crooked ornament with the other: Actually, I don’t think I want to be in the newsletter this year. But thanks.
“What do you think if we spend our first Christmas here, in our home?” I ask because, honestly, that’s what makes me happy. That’s what will make the holidays special: spending them with the person I love the most.
He turns to look at me, almost alarmed. “Are you sure?”
I nod and read Mom’s newest guilt grenade. I mean, her text: Winnifred, everyone will ask why you two aren’t included. Can’t you just send one? Just one picture. You and Soren looked lovely in that airport shot you uploaded in your stories.
I could.
But I won’t.
Because the version of me who bent over backward to keep everyone happy? She’s tired. And she’s done performing for an audience that doesn’t give two fucks about her.
I, of course, have to respond: That’s okay, Mom. I never make it into the newsletter; no reason to break tradition. Except, we won’t be there for the holidays. We’re spending them here at home, just the two of us.
I toss the phone on the couch and turn back to the tree.
“I’m not in the newsletter,” I say aloud. “Also, we’re not spending the holidays with them, if that’s okay with you.”
Soren appears behind me like some cinnamon-scented holiday mirage, warm and solid and already too close to resist. He slides an arm around my waist and kisses my temple like he does it on autopilot now.
“Wasn’t that the thing you wanted to be in since you were little?” he asks gently. “Plus, you always go to Winterberry Cove for the holidays.
“Not really,” I admit. “Spending Christmas with them is . . . exhausting. It’s performative. I’d rather be here. With you.”
He hums, then leans closer to whisper, “Good. I like you here better.”
“Where’s here?” I ask, teasing even as I lean into him.
“With me.”
I close my eyes and let it settle in—this warmth. This calm. This simple joy I never used to trust. It’s not perfect. It’s not curated for a family newsletter.
But the important part is that it’s tangible and mine.
Not because I earned it by being extra charming or accommodating or good at shrinking myself down for other people’s comfort.
This is ours because we chose this. We chose love.
I stopped waiting for someone to pick me and started picking myself.
Soren hooks a new ornament on the branch beside mine—an ugly little hockey puck with a Santa hat painted on top.
“Seriously?” I ask, laughing.
“What?” he grins. “It’s festive.”
“I love you.”
He pulls me closer. The room glows gold from the lights. Outside, the sky flirts with snow.
Inside, there’s music, warmth, the scent of cookies, and a man who kisses me like he plans to do it forever.
Today, I’m not holding my breath, waiting for it to slip away.
I’m just letting it be everything I didn’t think I could have—but, fuck, I’m keeping it.