Chapter 26
twenty-six
. . .
Natalie
I wake up slowly, blinking into the pale light spilling through my bedroom curtains, and the weight of Jake’s hand resting over my hip.
He’s pressed up behind me, warm and solid, his breath moving in a lazy rhythm against the back of my neck.
His fingers are curved protectively over the curve of my stomach.
I stay still and let myself enjoy the way his body relaxes around mine. He’s been here more nights than not lately, the evidence accumulating. A toothbrush in the bathroom. His hoodie on the back of my chair. A second pair of shoes by the door.
A month ago, seeing his things scattered through my house would have sent me spiraling. Would have felt like too much too fast, like I was losing control of my own space, my own life.
Now? It settles something in me.
Maybe it’s the baby. Maybe having her inside me, growing and real and impossible to ignore, makes it easier to let him in too.
Like she’s the excuse I needed to stop fighting what I actually want.
Or maybe it’s just him. The way he doesn’t push.
The way he shows up and stays without making it feel like a demand.
“Are you awake?” His voice is low and rough with sleep, right against my hair.
“Kind of,” I murmur. “What time is it?”
He shifts just enough to reach for his phone on the nightstand, his arm tightening around me so I don’t move when he does. “A little after eight.”
“Too early for Christmas Eve,” I say, closing my eyes again.
He laughs softly. “I thought you were the one who liked this holiday.”
“I like this holiday when it starts at ten.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then I feel him move. The bed shifts as he sits up, and I open my eyes to find him reaching for something on the nightstand.
“What are you doing?”
“Hang on.” He turns back to me, a small, gift-wrapped box in his hand. “I was going to wait until tonight, but this feels like the right moment.”
My nerves take over. “Jake, you didn’t have to—”
“I know I didn’t have to.” He settles back against the headboard, pulling me up with him. “I wanted to. Open it.”
I take the box, the wrapping paper soft under my fingers. It’s small, maybe the size of my palm, wrapped in silver paper with a white ribbon. I pull it loose and tear through the paper carefully, revealing a simple white jewelry box. When I open it, my breath catches.
It’s a necklace. Delicate gold chain with a small pendant—a crescent moon with a tiny star nestled inside the curve.
“Jake,” I whisper.
“The moon is you,” he says quietly. “The star is Isla. I saw it and thought…. I don’t know. It felt right.”
My eyes sting. I blink hard, trying to keep it together, but my throat is tight. “It’s beautiful.”
“Can I put it on you?”
I nod, not trusting my voice, and turn so my back is to him. He lifts the necklace from the box, his fingers brushing the nape of my neck as he fastens the clasp. The pendant settles just below my collarbone, cool against my skin.
I turn back to face him, my hand automatically going to the pendant. “Thank you. Really. This is—” I swallow. I lean forward and kiss him, slow and deep, trying to say everything I can’t quite put into words yet.
When I pull back, he cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “Merry Christmas, Nat.”
“Merry Christmas.”
His thumb brushes absently against my stomach, sending a jolt of desire through me. We’ve been good since the night she kicked for him. Not perfect, not suddenly cured of all our baggage, but there’s been an ease to us lately.
He presses a kiss to my shoulder. “I have to go get my mom from the airport,” he says quietly. “Her flight lands around noon.”
“Wait. I have something for you too.”
His eyebrows lift. “You do?”
“Don’t look so surprised.” I climb out of bed, grabbing his shirt from the floor and pulling it on as I cross to my closet.
I reach up to the top shelf, behind a stack of notebooks, and pull down a small, gift-wrapped package of my own.
I climb back onto the bed, sitting cross-legged in front of him. “Here.”
He takes it carefully, like he’s afraid it might break. “Nat, you didn’t have to.”
“Neither did you.” His eyes linger on me, moving around my face like he’s trying to unravel a hidden meaning.
He grins and tears through the paper. Inside is a leather-bound journal, with thick, creamy pages and a strap that wraps around to keep it closed. His initials are embossed in gold on the bottom right corner.
“Nat,” he says quietly, running his fingers over the leather.
“I know you keep everything on your phone and your laptop,” I say, suddenly nervous. “But I thought maybe you’d want something for the important stuff. For Isla. You could write to her, or about her, or just whatever you want.”
He opens it, and I watch his face as he sees what I wrote on the first page.
For Jake. May you fill these pages with all the moments I know you’ll never want to forget.
– N
His eyes lift to mine, and they’re bright.
“This is perfect,” he says, his voice rough. “Thank you.”
He sets the journal carefully on the nightstand, then pulls me into his arms, holding me tight against his chest. I feel his heartbeat under my cheek, steady and strong.
“I love it,” he murmurs into my hair. “I love that you thought about this. About me.”
I love you.
The thought fills my head before I can manage it or control how I want to feel in this moment. The words sit right there, pressing against the back of my teeth, wanting out.
But I’m not ready. Not yet.
So I pull back slightly, clearing my throat, forcing myself back to practical territory. “Is your mom excited to visit?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “And she’s really excited to meet you,” he adds, his voice softer.
I bite back a smile. Meeting someone’s mother is…big.
“My mom is excited to meet you too,” I say. “And your mom. She’s making enough food to feed half of Los Angeles.”
The baby decides that’s the moment to give one solid kick against the inside of my ribs. I wince and press a hand there.
“You okay?” he asks, instantly alert.
“She’s clearly pro–grandmother summit,” I say, exhaling. “Or just protesting how long we stayed in bed.”
He slips his hand over mine, palm warm against the stretch of skin. “She’s making her opinion known.”
“Wonder where she gets that from,” I mutter.
He leans in and kisses me, slow and steady, like he has time, like he’s not about to run to the airport, like we’re not both suddenly standing at the edge of a very big step.
When we pull back, he rests his forehead against mine. “See you at your mom’s house later?”
“Yeah.”
“And Natalie?”
“Hm?”
“Thank you,” he says. “For inviting us.”
I swallow. “Don’t make it weird. It’s just dinner.”
He gives me a look that says we both know it’s not just dinner, then kisses my forehead and finally rolls out of bed.
By the time I get to my mom’s house, the sun is already starting to dip lower, the sky turning that pale, washed-out blue that makes Christmas lights look brighter against the houses.
The air is mild, the kind of cool that feels good after a warm day, not the bone-deep cold people up north complain about in December.
It smells like roasted garlic and something sweet when she opens the door. She pulls me into a hug before I even step over the threshold, careful but firm, her hands automatically bracketing my stomach the way they always do now, like she’s checking on both of us at once.
She pulls back to look at me, eyes scanning my face like she’s trying to read whatever I brought in with me. “How are you feeling?”
“Uncomfortably full of human,” I say. “Otherwise okay.”
She smiles, then glances over my shoulder, clearly expecting someone behind me. “Is he coming?”
“Yes,” I say. “They’ll be here around six, I think.”
Her eyebrows lift, just a little. “I can’t wait,” she says, a little excitement in her voice.
We move into the kitchen, where every surface is covered with bowls, platters, cutting boards, and half-chopped herbs. She’s already in full Christmas Eve mode. A pot bubbles gently on the stove.
She pulls a pan from the oven, the heat washing over us. “So, it’s going well with Jake?” she ask, not looking at me.
“It is.”
I inhale slowly, letting that settle in.
My instincts have betrayed me before. I’ve missed things that were right in front of me.
And yet, there’s nothing jangling in the back of my mind with Jake.
No quiet wrongness I’m trying to ignore.
Just the steady, unfamiliar feeling of being seen and chosen and not rushed.
The doorbell rings, slicing through the moment. My mom wipes her hands on a towel.
“Please don’t say anything embarrassing,” I mutter as I slide off the stool.
“No promises,” she says, and heads for the front door.
Jake stands on the porch in a navy button-down and dark jeans, that glimmer in his eyes that says he’s missed me. Standing next to him is a woman with kind eyes and his same dark hair threaded with silver, cut in a neat, practical bob.
“Hi,” I say, suddenly very aware of how pink my cheeks feel.
“Hi,” Jake says, his gaze softening the moment it lands on me. He reaches for my hand, giving it a quick squeeze before letting go.
I turn to the woman beside him. “Hi. You must be Jake’s mom. I’m Natalie.”
“Linda,” she says. Her smile is warm and immediate, and she goes straight in for the hug. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. I feel like I already know you.”
My mom appears at my side, and I shift so they’re all in front of me. “Mom, this is Jake, and his mother, Linda,” I say. “And this is my mom, Elena.”
“It’s wonderful to meet you,” my mom says, stepping forward, giving Jake a big hug, and then taking Linda’s hand in both of hers.
“Thank you for having us,” Linda replies. “And for feeding us.”
My mom laughs. “Come in. There’s plenty of food. Always.”
Once we make it to the living room, Linda’s gaze drops to my stomach with an impatient fondness. “May I?”
“Of course,” I say, a little surprised at how okay I am with that.
She rests a gentle hand there, a light touch, nothing invasive. “Hello in there,” she says softly. “I’m your grandmother.”
The words hit me somewhere deep, in a place that’s still getting used to the reality of all of this.
I glance at Jake, and the look on his face tells me he feels it too.
My mom’s eyes shine as she watches us, something satisfied in her expression, like a piece of a puzzle has just clicked into place.
Dinner is loud in the best possible way.
My mom keeps bringing food to the table like we’re secretly expecting six more people.
Linda insists on helping serve despite my mom’s protests, which leads to both of them laughing over who gets to carry what.
By the time we sit down, the table is covered with roasted chicken, potatoes, green beans with slivered almonds, everything delicious, and in quantities appropriate for about twice as many people.
Jake sits next to me, close enough that our knees keep finding each other under the table. Our moms sit across from us, already in a deep conversation about holiday traditions.
The conversation moves, flowing around the table.
They ask about my work, my mom tells old stories about me as a kid.
Linda talks about their hometown and Jake and what he was like growing up, little details that make him more real in a way I didn’t know I needed.
There are moments where I forget to be nervous.
Moments where it feels like this has been happening for years.
At one point, I feel his fingers brush mine under the table. “You okay?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” I say, surprised to find that I mean it. “More than okay, actually.”
His hand lingers for a second before he pulls back, but the warmth stays. When it’s finally time for them to go, night has fallen and the air has cooled down. The moms trade numbers and promises to talk again, which I believe entirely.
“Thank you,” Jake says quietly once they’re at the door, his voice meant just for me.
“It went well, yeah?” I say.
“It did,” he agrees. There’s something steady in his eyes.
He steps closer, just enough, and cups my face in his hands, his fingers cool against my skin. He kisses me softly. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine for a second.
“Merry Christmas Eve,” he says.
“Merry Christmas Eve.”
He gives me one last look, then turns to go, helping his mom into the car before climbing into the driver’s seat. I stand there until the taillights disappear at the end of the street, the sound of the car folding back into the quiet of the neighborhood.
My mom opens the door behind me a crack. “You coming in?”
“In a minute,” I say.
I rest my hands over my stomach and feel the faintest movement beneath my palms, like someone turning over to get comfortable.
“Okay,” I whisper, more to myself than anyone else. “We can do this.”
I just stand there for a beat longer, letting the day settle. And I feel happy.