Chapter Forty-One Aurora
Chapter Forty-One
Aurora
The elevator ride felt too fast.
I barely had time to think before the doors slid open to his floor, and suddenly my reflection stared back at me in the elevator mirror: soft cardigan, green like pine leaves, white trousers pressed neat, soft curls tucked behind my ear.
Too much. Definitely too much.
I told myself I was coming for Honey.
Honey needed me.
Honey stays with Joshua.
Honey is safe here.
Not for the human. Never for the human.
Still, I caught myself smoothing the cardigan before knocking.
The door opened almost instantly.
He looked… different. Relaxed, even. Hair messy in that deliberate kind of way, sleeves rolled up, towel thrown over one shoulder like he’d been tasting or plating something.
And then, the smell.
Warm, savoury, rich.
It hit before I even stepped in.
I walked toward the counter, blinking at the spread: golden roast potatoes, carrots glazed like glass, Yorkshire puddings puffed perfectly, and a roasted chicken steaming at the centre.
“I—Roast dinner?” I asked, unable to hide the shock in my voice.
He nodded, leaning back on the counter as if he hadn’t just performed a miracle. “I looked it up. What English people eat for Christmas. Alex was useless; he just said, ‘a roast’. But… what kind of roast? I figured—”
He paused, meeting my eyes for a second before looking back at the food.
“—you might miss home.”
I did.
I didn’t even realise how much until that moment.
Oxford. The cold cobblestone streets, the ringing bells, the smell of winter markets, the chatter of students carrying Christmas parcels.
Here, it was just neon, palm trees, and sunlight that never felt warm. And somehow, he noticed.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and stepped closer to the counter, running my finger along the edge of a plate to give myself something to do.
Honey jumped up on a chair nearby, pawing at the air for attention, and I couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. Joshua glanced over, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.
“S-smells amazing.”
He gave a quiet hum, rubbing the back of his neck. “Let’s hope it tastes half as good as it smells.”
I shouldn’t have been comfortable. I shouldn’t have liked the way his voice softened when he spoke.
But I did.
And the food, I didn’t expect him to actually pull it off.
But he did.
The roast was… perfect. The kind of perfect that made my chest ache a little. Crispy potatoes, buttery inside. Gravy thick and warm, exactly how it should be. Even the stuffing—God, the stuffing tasted like something Mum would’ve made.
“Good?” he asked quietly when I finally stopped chewing, trying to hide the way my eyes might’ve been shining just a bit too much.
I nodded, pressing my lips together before parting them a bit. “Very.”
His shoulders eased. I caught it in the corner of my eye, the way he exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath since I walked in.
We ate in silence after that. Not awkward silence, not really. Just… quiet. Honey was curled up between us on the floor, twitching its tail in little half-dreams, the pretty lights blinking slowly on the treat.
Everything felt nice. Really nice. I almost didn’t want tonight to end.
After finishing, I was about to stand to help clear the plates, even though I couldn’t really hold much with one arm, when something slid across the table.
A soft sound.
I looked down.
A small, square-shaped gift. Wrapped neatly in gold paper, a bow tied at the top, just slightly uneven, like he’d actually done it himself.
I blinked up at him.
He shrugged, looking suddenly very interested in his drink.
“It’s nothing. Just… I don’t know. Everyone gets gifts on Christmas, right?”
I hesitated, my heart doing this dumb, fluttery thing in my chest. Slowly, I reached out and pulled the gift closer with my good hand.
I looked at him again. He wasn’t watching me this time; he was pretending to scroll on his phone, but his thumb wasn’t even moving.
I could tell he was waiting.
So I started to unwrap it carefully, piece by piece.
Not because it was expensive or fancy or whatever.
But because… no one had given me a Christmas gift in years.
Not since home stopped feeling like home and the fact that it was him, the person who’d once made my life hell, was sitting across from me, too nervous to look up… It felt unreal.
Almost like forgiveness.
Almost.
The paper slipped off, and there it was.
A book.
A romance book.
Not just any cheap paperback, either; it was a thick, glossy cover, a beautiful kind of heartbreak title printed in gold across the front. One of those slow-burn ones I’ve been eyeing for months but never bought because I couldn’t justify spending that much on something that wasn’t ‘necessary’.
I blinked. Once. Twice.
He… remembered?
The scene on the bus flashed in my head: the way he caught me reading, the way his voice brushed low when he said, “That character should’ve done this instead.” And how mortified I was that he was reading over my shoulder.
And now this?
I ran my fingers over the embossed letters on the cover, tracing the gold as if it were fragile. “Y-you—” I started, my voice barely above a whisper.
He glanced up finally, his expression unreadable.
“I figured…” he said slowly, pausing to clear his throat. “You like reading. You looked—uh—really into it last time. Thought you’d like a… another one? A physical book.”
Another one.
Right. Like this wasn’t the most thoughtful thing anyone had done for me all year.
“Thank you,” I said, smooth, no stutter, voice barely above a whisper.
He leaned back against his chair, rubbing his jaw, as if he were trying to hide how awkward he felt.
“It’s supposed to be a good one. The woman at the store said it’s, uh… ‘romantic and emotionally devastating.’”
That earned the smallest laugh from me
Emotionally devastating.
He really picked that.
Honey meowed from the floor, brushing against my leg as if it was nudging me to say something, do something.
I looked back at Joshua, really looked this time: the messy hair, the sleeves rolled up, the faint nervous twitch in his fingers as if he wanted to say more but didn’t know how.
“…It’s perfect,” I whispered finally, hugging the book to my chest.
His eyes flickered up at that, and for the first time all night, he smiled.
Not the smirk.
Not the forced grin.
A small, real, almost shy smile.
I looked down, tracing the edges of the cover, that fluttery ache still caught in my chest, when he finally spoke again quietly, like he didn’t want to ruin the moment but couldn’t stop himself either.
“Try to finish it,” he said, eyes still on the faint light flickering off the Christmas tree. “Before… you know.”
I looked up. “B-before?”
He shifted in his seat, jaw tightening, as if the words themselves tasted bad. “Before the time’s up.”
Oh.
Right.
Before my arm heals.
Before I go.
I bit my lip and nodded, hugging the book tighter to my chest.
He continued, still not looking at me, voice quieter this time. “I want to hear about it. The book, I mean. What you think. How it ends.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat, blinking down at the book. “I’ll read it,” I said softly. “A-all of it.”
He finally looked at me then, and for a second, the air shifted. Like the world paused between us, me sitting there holding something so fragile, and him looking like he didn’t know how to let go.
“Good,” he murmured, half a smile tugging at his mouth. “Guess I’ll have to cook again then. So you can tell me while we eat.”
I laughed quietly, shaking my head, pretending not to feel that pull in my chest again, the one that kept reminding me I shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t want him.
But it was Christmas; I didn’t want to think.
I just wanted to stay here a little longer with the book, the lights, Honey curled between us, and Joshua Lockhart pretending that our time wasn’t limited.
I moved from the counter to the living room and sank into the couch, book still in my lap, the warmth of the room wrapping around me like something I didn’t quite deserve.
The faint clatter of dishes came from the kitchen.
I looked up and saw a sight that made me softly smile to myself a bit: Joshua Lockhart, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair falling into his eyes, washing dishes like he wasn’t the same person who once terrified me.
And then there was Honey.
The tiny ball of fur was curled up perfectly in the hood of his hoodie, purring loud enough that I could hear it from here. Every time Joshua leaned forward to rinse a plate, Honey’s little head popped out before sinking back down again, like it was its own small wave.
I couldn’t help smiling more; it was too cute.
He didn’t even notice, too focused on not waking the kitten.
Brooding, cold, mean, sharp-edged Joshua Lockhart… had a kitten sleeping in his hoodie and was washing dishes on Christmas.
It didn’t make sense.
None of this did.
He’d been the cause of so much of my pain, and yet here he was, the only one who made sure I wasn’t alone, who quietly tried to fix what he broke in the only way he knew how.
Honey loved him.
That tiny creature followed him everywhere, trusted him without question, and fell asleep to his heartbeat.
Maybe because, somehow, even under all that frost, he was warm.
I looked down at my book again, pretending to read, but my eyes kept flicking back to him, to the small, ordinary gentleness of it all.
And I thought, maybe Honey’s onto something.
He was still drying the last plate when I finally found the courage to speak.
“H-hey.”
He turned, towel draped over his shoulder, brows furrowing a little as if he expected something serious. “Yeah?”
I hesitated. My fingers toyed with the edge of the book in my lap. Honey lifted her head from her sleep, blinking at me, as if even she wanted to hear what I’d say next.
I swallowed, forcing the words out before I could overthink them. “Are you… busy on the twenty-seventh?”
His brow arched. “The twenty-seventh of this month? Two days from now?”
I nodded, tucking my knees up to my chest, my voice softer than I intended. “Y-yeah. It’s… my birthday.”
The silence that followed made my chest tighten. He froze mid-wipe, the towel still in his hands, eyes flicking toward me as if he hadn’t expected that.
“Your birthday?” he repeated quietly, almost as if he were testing the word.
I nodded again, shrugging quickly to brush it off. “It’s not a big deal. I-I just… didn’t want to spend it alone this year. But if you’re busy—”
“I’m not.”
He said it fast. Too fast.
Then he cleared his throat, setting the towel down, trying to play it off casually. “I’m not busy,” he repeated. “So… don’t make plans.”
My heart skipped, and I looked down so he wouldn’t see the way my cheeks warmed.
“Okay,” I whispered, almost smiling.
“Okay,” he echoed, nodding once before turning back to the sink… but I saw it.
The small, fleeting grin tugging at the corner of his mouth was hidden behind the steam rising from the tap.