Twenty-Five
Theo
M y vow floats between us, unclaimed.
It triggers Isla’s retreat.
She withdraws in stages, starting with her shoulders and their slow, imperceptible pull inward. Then her fingers knot together, tight enough her knuckles turn white.
Her smile—so sunny, so very her —wavers. Fades. The darkness it leaves behind hits like a fucking eclipse.
This is where I step back. Give her space. Let her go.
But I don’t. I can’t .
Not when we’re on the precipice of something more. Something real.
So…I recalibrate.
The same way I’d alter a pitch seconds before it crashes.
“Hey,” I murmur, nudging her knee. “Stay with me.”
She startles, blinking like I’ve broken some unspoken rule by entering her fortress.
“Time for your gift.”
Her brows crash inward as she glances toward the tree that’s now stripped bare. “Christmas is over.”
“Ours is just getting started.” I push to my feet, holding out my hand. “Come on.”
She studies my palm, probably searching for hidden strings.
I stay still. This next move has to be entirely hers.
A beat passes. Then another. One more.
She exhales. Soft fingers brush my skin. Tentative at first, but the touch quickly turns firmer. Finally, her hand slides into mine with quiet resolve.
My chest tightens—with relief, this time.
She rises, wobbling slightly.
Instinct takes over, and I steady her with a hand at her waist, anchoring her against me.
Her breath hitches at the contact. So does mine.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur against her ear.
“Theo?” She draws back, squinting up at me. “Why are you being so… sweet ?”
Sweet ? I’m seconds from self-destructing and she thinks this is fucking sweet ?
“Quit stalling, Sunshine. Your gift. My room. Move that perky ass.”
There it is . That smile. Brilliant, bright, and so very her.
“Let me guess…” She taps her chin with mock innocence. “This gift involves your bed?”
“At present? Yes. But trust me, you’ll want to take advantage of it everywhere. Anywhere. Especially your bed. ”
She snorts. Actually snorts.
The sound cracks something open in me, flooding the space between my ribs with warmth.
Isla’s joy?
I’ll gladly spend the rest of my life chasing it, earning it.
“And I bet it’s big!” She giggles as I guide her toward the stairs. “ Too big , I’m sure.”
I throw a smirk over my shoulder. “No such thing as too big , remember?”
She lights up at the callback, her own grin glowing.
“I believe you’ll find it satisfying enough,” I assure her. “Definitely an upgrade from what you’ve been working with so far.”
“ Wow . Cocky much?”
“I was being perfectly cordial. You’re the one who made your present all about my dick.”
“Theo!” A scandalized gasp precedes her laughter, and I feel the tiny pinch of her fingers at my side.
When we reach the top of the stairs, I steer her down the hall to my room. The moment we step inside, she freezes, clocking the boxes on the bed.
All thirteen of them.
The rainbow of pastel-colored cardboard stretches across my comforter.
Isla’s eyes widen as she spots the familiar logo stamped on each lid. “You didn’t! Cotton Feelings
? Foreplay Feelings
? Foreplay + Feelings
“I know which one I’d pick,” I murmur, unable to look away from her.
She pretends not to hear me and instead focuses on unearthing more slogans.
The aptly titled Cupid’s Kinks shirt provokes a low whistle. “Some of the items on this list need a safe word and a legal team.”
She’s not wrong. The list reads like a dare, a felony, and one hell of a weekend.
“At least he asks nicely before defiling,” she says, presenting the final shirt in the box. “ Cupid the Consent King .”
“He even wraps his little arrow.” I point to the stack of condoms in the cartoon menace’s hand. “Classy fucker—no pun intended.”
“Well, March can’t be that bad. Spring is subdued, right?” She tears into the green tissue paper like she’s daring it to prove her wrong.
“Okay, this one’s not even pretending to be subtle.” Snapping the shirt open, she flips it toward me.
I’m Yours. You’re Lucky.
“Possessive and smug.” She grins. “Peak Theo Thorne energy.”
“It suits you,” I say. A little too quickly.
Her eyebrows lift in amusement.
“The color, I mean.”
“Funny. I think of green as your color. ”
“Either way, it looks good on you.” I clear my throat. “Keep going. Next month.”
“April?” Isla hums. “Let’s see…April brings showers of—” She yelps. “That’s not glittery white rain , is it?” She flings herself back onto my mattress, covering her blush with the fabric. “This company is unhinged. I need to work with them.”
“They’d be idiots to pass up on your talent.”
May flies by in a blur of pastel filth, and I let myself drift a little closer.
June is a neon kind of loud. A full-frontal assault on dignity. My steps are quicker now. Lighter.
July hits with Red, White, and Nude .
Isla’s jaw drops. “I’m pretty sure this goes against the Constitution.”
“Would you believe that was the least offensive one? You should see their Founding Daddies collection. The graphics—” I shake my head. “I still have war flashbacks.”
“Now I feel cheated out of a good time!” She laughs and tosses the tee aside, eagerly going after the next one.
“ Bubble Tea and Creativity ?” Her hands fly to her mouth, then back to the shirt. She clutches it to her chest, eyes shining like I’ve just handed her the world in cotton form. “Theo! This one is actually super sweet.”
It is sweet. And so very Isla.
“I’m surprised they kept things so tame.” She taps the clump of tapioca at the bottom of the plastic cup. “The ball jokes write themselves.”
Her grin slips as she presses her lips together. “Thanks. I love it. This one will be worn until it falls off my body in tatters.”
By the time we enter fall, I’m standing next to the bed as she rifles through shirts with abandon .
“ PSL & RBF was my survival motto this year.” Isla waves around one of the September shirts like a battle flag.
“Caffeine on and guard up to suffer through AdCraft’s shit,” I say dryly. “Can’t blame you.”
None of the Thanksgiving tees are safe for the family dinner table. The stuffing jokes are expected, but no one should do pie that dirty.
It takes a while for Isla to make it to December.
“ Silent Night? Hardly .” She rubs her forehead, turning the shirt sideways to examine the comic strip of images featuring Santa and Mrs. Claus making merry via the Kama Sutra.
“I’m all for sex positivity, but most of these positions violate basic laws of physics.
He’s going to break his back. Or worse— hers ! ”
“Come on,” I tease. “We’re talking about the guy who satisfies the entire world in a single night, and the woman who is obviously the brains behind the whole operation. If those two can’t pull off a few gravity-defying moves, the rest of us are screwed. And not in the fun way.”
She wipes tears of laughter from her cheeks as she carefully folds the shirt, placing it in the Christmas pile like it’s some sacred artifact.
I’m drunk on the sight of her as she kneels in the middle of my bed, surrounded by cotton carnage. Hair mussed. Eyes bright. Skin flushed.
Smile on.
“I can’t believe you!” She scans the piles, gaze flicking to me. “This is…a lot.”
“I knew since that night in the kitchen you were meant to live in these shirts. After the Dirty Santa game, I bought out the store.”
Her lips part in surprise. “What?”
“Now they’ll really need your help to replenish their stock. ”
“You’re a tiny bit sick, don’t you think?”
Yes, Sunshine. Terminally into you.
“Completely deranged,” I agree, stepping closer. “And I haven’t even shown you the final gift yet.”
The one in the smallest box that poses the biggest risk.