Chapter Thirteen #2
Christmas in Seoul had always carried a particular sheen—polished, performative, cold at the edges even when the city lights blazed brightest. She and Min Jae used to spend the holiday in their penthouse, all sleek glass and white marble that reflected every camera flash.
They’d order from the same handful of restaurants because cooking felt like unnecessary effort, open bottles of wine too expensive to finish, and arrange themselves near the windows for the inevitable long-lens shots: casual, curated, convincing.
Below them the Han River glittered like spilled sequins, but the whole evening always felt staged.
This was nothing like that.
This was bare feet on warm tiles, cicadas filling the quiet spaces between conversation, Nan—Evelyn—laughing until she had to dab at her eyes with a napkin, her thin shoulders shaking with genuine delight.
This was Jax watching his grandmother with that steady, protective gaze he tried to disguise behind easy smiles and quick deflections.
This was Aria herself, sitting still for once, letting the moment settle inside her chest instead of hurrying to capture it, post it, move on from it.
She hadn’t wanted to accept the invitation at first. Back in Abu Dhabi, when Jax had asked—casual, almost throwaway, as if he were suggesting they grab coffee after qualifying—she had agreed initially but had second thoughts.
Later that night, alone in her suite, she had stared at her phone for a long time before dialling Lena.
“He’s asked me to Brisbane,” she had said quietly. “For Christmas. With his grandmother.”
Lena had paused, the kind of pause that carried weight. “You’re due back here the twenty-sixth for the studio event. But… Min Jae and that actress are everywhere right now. Every headline, every party photo, every airport walk.”
The words had landed like small, cold stones. Aria had closed her eyes. “I know.”
“Take the time,” Lena had said, softer. “Breathe somewhere that doesn’t smell like him.”
So she had called Robert next. Her manager answered briskly, already sounding halfway through three other conversations.
“Australia for Christmas?” he repeated, surprise edging into approval. “Fine. Studio’s booked from the fifth of January. They want you walking in with at least three finished demos. You’ve been writing?”
“Yes,” she had answered, and it was true.
The songs had come in fragments—melodies caught in hotel rooms, lyrics scratched onto the backs of call sheets during late-night flights.
They were raw, restless things: verses about hands that knew exactly where to press, choruses that burned like fever, bridges that ached with the kind of want that made her thighs clench just remembering.
Jax had slipped into every line without permission—his low laugh against her throat, the slow drag of his thumb along her hip bone, the way he looked at her like she was something worth savouring.
Explosive. Churning. Hot in a way that made her skin feel too tight.
She had called her mother last. The kitchen in LA had been loud in the background—plates clattering, her aunts’ overlapping voices, the familiar chaos of holiday prep.
“You’re not coming home?” her mother had asked, voice catching just once.
“I’m sorry,” Aria had said, meaning it. “I need something different this year.”
Her mother had sighed, disappointed but not surprised. “Call me Christmas morning. And send pictures of this boy’s nan. I want to see the woman who raised a racer.”
Now, Aria sat with her feet in the pool and watched Jax lean across the table to refill Nan’s glass with sparkling water, the way he did it without fanfare, without needing thanks.
He caught Aria’s eye and gave her that small, private half-smile—the one that said he knew exactly what she was thinking. Her stomach fluttered, warm and liquid.
She liked it here.
She liked how the humidity turned her hair into soft curls she usually fought with straighteners.
She liked the way Nan called Jax “Jaxon” when she was scolding and “love” when she was proud.
She liked the casual way he touched her when no one was watching—fingers grazing the small of her back as he passed behind her chair, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist beneath the table.
None of it felt rehearsed. None of it was for anyone else.
Later, after Nan had kissed them both goodnight and disappeared into her room with a paperback and a cup of tea, Jax and Aria stayed outside.
The pool lights turned the water a deep, dreaming blue.
He tugged her gently onto his lap; she went willingly, legs straddling his thighs, arms looping around his neck.
His hands settled low on her hips, thumbs stroking slow, absent patterns over bare skin where her sundress had ridden up.
“You’re quiet,” he murmured, lips brushing the sensitive spot beneath her ear.
“Just thinking,” she said. She rested her forehead against his. “This doesn’t feel like Christmas. Not the way I’m used to.”
He waited, patient, giving her the space.
“In Seoul it was always… performance,” she continued softly. “Lights, cameras, business. Here it’s just… real. Warm. A little messy.”
His mouth found hers—once, soft; again, deeper—until she was kissing him back with quiet hunger, fingers threading through his hair. When they parted she was breathing unevenly, pulse loud in her ears.
“I’m glad you came,” he said, voice rough.
She smiled against his lips. “Me too.”
The cicadas kept singing. Somewhere down the street a dog barked once, joyful and sharp. Aria closed her eyes and let the moment stretch, filling every quiet, hollow place she had carried through the year.
For the first time in longer than she cared to admit, Christmas didn’t feel like something to endure. It felt like something she might want to remember.