Chapter Thirty-Five
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Aria
Christmas morning arrived without fanfare.
No clatter of Nan’s slippers on the timber floor. No radio playing old carols too loudly while she wrestled with the oven. No sharp, fond “Jaxon, get up, love—the cream won’t whip itself” drifting down the hallway.
Just soft grey light filtering through the curtains, the distant hum of cicadas, and the faint smell of last night’s rain on the frangipani outside.
Aria woke first. Jax was still asleep beside her—face slack, one arm thrown across her waist, breathing slow and deep.
She watched him for a long minute: the faint lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there last Christmas, the way his lashes rested against his cheeks, the small scar above his eyebrow from a karting crash when he was fifteen.
She traced it lightly with her fingertip. He didn’t stir.
She slipped out of bed carefully, pulled on one of his hoodies—too big, sleeves falling past her hands—and padded to the kitchen.
She’d wanted to do this right. Wanted to give him something normal, something Nan would have recognised.
So she’d planned Christmas lunch the way Nan always had: roast chicken (because Nan insisted turkey was “too American”), roast potatoes, gravy made from the pan drippings, steamed greens, and—most importantly—pavlova.
Nan’s pavlova was legendary: crisp meringue shell, soft marshmallow centre, whipped cream, kiwifruit and passionfruit piled high.
Last Christmas she’d watched Nan make it—helped a little, memorised the rhythm.
These past few days she’d studied YouTube obsessively: tips on sugar, temperature, cooling.
She’d wanted to get it right. For him. For Nan.
She could do this.
She couldn’t.
The egg whites refused to stiffen properly.
The sugar clumped. The oven temperature was wrong—too hot, then too cool.
The meringue cracked when she tried to spread it.
The chicken skin burned while she was distracted rescuing the pavlova.
Smoke alarms shrieked. She waved a tea towel at them frantically, swearing under her breath in Korean and English.
The potatoes stuck to the tray. The gravy split.
By the time Jax appeared in the doorway—hair mussed, eyes still heavy with sleep—the kitchen looked like a war zone: flour on every surface, burnt bits in the sink, smoke still curling lazily from the oven door.
Aria stood in the middle of it, shoulders hunched, staring at the collapsed, weeping pavlova on the bench like it had personally betrayed her.
She looked up when she heard him.
“I wanted to—” Her voice cracked. “I wanted it to be like hers. I wanted you to have something normal. Something… good. Today. And I ruined it.”
Tears welled fast—embarrassment, grief, exhaustion all crashing together. She swiped at them angrily.
Jax crossed the room. He didn’t look at the mess. Just looked at her.
Then he laughed—soft, warm, surprised.
She stared at him. “Why are you laughing?”
“Because you’re standing here in my hoodie, covered in flour, glaring at a meringue—and all I can think is how much I love you.”
The words landed like stones in still water.
Aria froze.
He stepped right into her space—thumbs brushing the fabric of the hoodie.
“I love you,” he repeated, quieter now, eyes locked on hers.
“I’ve loved you for a while. A long while.
I was just… scared. Scared you didn’t feel the same.
Scared if I said it, you’d confirm this whole thing was still something fake.
That I was still just the guy you used to make Min-Jae jealous, and you were still just the girl I used to clean up my image for the team.
I was terrified you’d look at me and remember it was never supposed to be real.
That I’d lose you the second the cameras stopped flashing. ”
Aria’s breath caught. Tears slipped free again—this time not from failure.
“I love you too,” she blurted, voice shaking.
“So much it hurts. I wish I’d realised it earlier.
Min-Jae was over for me so long ago, but I didn’t see it.
I kept telling myself I needed to fix something, to go back, to make it right.
I spent so long thinking love had to be dramatic—jealousy, fixing, proving.
But you… you just stayed. Through the mess, through the distance, through everything.
You made me believe I could be loved exactly as I am—no games, no scorekeeping.
I used you to make him jealous, to feel like I still had some power in a situation where I had none.
And I was terrified you were only with me because it looked good for your career—steady girlfriend, no more headlines, the perfect settled driver the sponsors loved.
I was so scared that the second the arrangement ended, you’d walk away. That I’d only ever been convenient.”
She pressed her forehead to his chest, fingers curling into his T-shirt.
“But you consumed me. I have never wanted to be as close to anyone as I wanted to be to you. Not even him. I told you once that he was my soulmate. I didn’t even know what that meant. You showed me. But I was terrified you’d only ever see me as the girl who needed saving.”
Jax’s hands slid up to cup her face—thumbs wiping tears, eyes shining with something raw and unguarded.
“I never saw you as someone who needed saving,” he murmured. “I saw someone fierce and bright who made me want to be better. Not for sponsors, not for headlines—for you.”
“I stopped pretending it was fake months ago,” he whispered. “Maybe even that first night in Brisbane. But I was too scared to say it out loud. Too scared you’d pull back the second you realised I wasn’t just playing along anymore.”
“I stopped pretending too,” she said, voice breaking. “I just didn’t know how to tell you. I was so afraid I’d ruin the one good thing I had.”
He kissed her then—slow, deep, tasting of relief and months of unspoken fear finally released. No rush. No desperation. Just the quiet certainty of finally saying the thing they’d both been carrying in silence.
She kissed him back—hands sliding into his hair, pulling him closer. They moved together—backward steps, a soft bump against the counter, laughter muffled against each other’s mouths when the burnt tray clattered to the floor.
They stumbled toward the bedroom—door shut, the world narrowed.
Jax
The kitchen mess faded behind the closed door.
Months apart had left an ache he hadn’t named until now: empty hotel beds, podiums without her smile, nights reaching for her and finding nothing.
Aria stood by the bed, still in his hoodie, eyes soft. Real. His.
He crossed to her slowly. “Can I?” Fingers at the hem.
She nodded. He lifted the hoodie away inch by inch, tracing the skin beneath—goosebumps rising, waist, breasts, collarbones. “I missed you,” he whispered, voice rough with everything he’d held back. “Every day.”
She tugged his T-shirt off, palms flat to his chest. “Your heartbeat,” she breathed. “I missed this sound.”
Clothes fell away slowly. Fingers lingered: her touch on his tan lines, his lips brushing the small scar on her hip.
They sank onto the bed. Jax settled above her, braced on forearms, watching her face in the soft morning light. He kissed her forehead, her closed eyelids, the tip of her nose, then her mouth—slow, lingering, until she sighed against him.
His lips moved lower: the curve of her throat, the hollow of her collarbone, that sensitive spot just below her ear that always drew a shiver.
He took his time with her breasts—kissing the soft undersides, circling each nipple with his tongue until they tightened, then drawing one gently into his mouth.
She arched slightly, fingers threading through his hair, breathing his name like a quiet plea.
He kissed down her stomach, nuzzling the warm skin there, breathing her in—vanilla, warmth, the scent that was only her after all this time. When he settled between her thighs he looked up. Her eyes met his—dark, trusting.
He tasted her slowly, reverently—long, languid strokes of his tongue, savouring every small hitch in her breath, every soft sound she made.
One hand laced fingers with hers above her hip; the other rested on her thigh, thumb stroking gently.
He learned her again—pressure, rhythm, the exact way she liked to be touched after so long apart—until her hips lifted, her back bowed, and she came quietly, trembling, his name a broken whisper against the pillow.
He kissed his way back up her body—every sensitive place he remembered—until his mouth found hers again. She tasted herself on his lips and pulled him closer, legs wrapping around his waist.
“I need you,” she whispered against his mouth. “Inside me. Please.”
Eyes locked on hers, he positioned himself at her entrance. “I love you,” he said, low and sure.
“I love you,” she answered.
He entered her slowly—inch by careful inch—both of them gasping softly at the stretch, the heat, the overwhelming rightness of it.
After months apart it felt almost too much: full, close, home.
He stilled when he was fully inside her, forehead pressed to hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet room.
They stayed like that for long moments—just joined, hearts beating against each other, small shivers running through them both.
Then he began to move—slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged against every sensitive place inside her.
No rush. No urgency. Just deliberate, measured thrusts that built the pleasure quietly, steadily, layer by layer.
Her nails traced light paths down his back; his hand cupped her breast, thumb brushing her nipple in lazy circles that matched his rhythm.
They whispered between kisses—soft, fragmented things: how empty the nights had felt without the other’s breathing, how hotel rooms echoed, how every victory had tasted flat, how they’d carried each other like a secret promise through the distance.
Their pace deepened gradually—still slow, still sensual, but inevitable. Hands linked above her head. Legs entwined. Eyes never leaving each other’s.
“Come with me,” he breathed against her lips.
She did—quietly, shuddering, face buried in the curve of his neck as the waves rolled through her. He followed moments later—deep, pulsing release, hips pressing flush as he groaned her name low against her shoulder, holding her through every lingering tremor.
They didn’t separate right away. He stayed inside her, softening slowly, while she traced idle patterns across his back. He kissed her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth.
“Merry Christmas,” he murmured, voice wrecked and tender.
She laughed softly—happy, tear-streaked. “Merry Christmas.”
They lay tangled together a long time—sweaty, sated, breathing in sync. The ruined lunch waited forgotten in the kitchen. Cicadas sang outside the window.
Inside, they had each other.
And for the first time since Nan was gone, Christmas felt like home.
Like the start of something real.