Epilogue - Claire - One Year Later
It’s the morning of Christmas Eve. I wake to the scent of cinnamon, and the voice of Bing Crosby.
Jax hums at the stove, shirtless despite the cold, making the same cinnamon oats as last year. The Christmas tree glows with our ornaments, each one a chapter of our story.
"Morning, wife." He doesn't turn, but I hear his smile.
Wife. Three months married. The word still makes me smile.
We’re at the holiday market where the air smells like roasted chestnuts and sugared snow.
Somewhere behind me, a brass quartet plays a warm, unhurried version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” The music threads through laughter and sleigh bells.
The whole square glows, the sidewalks edged with candlelit lanterns and evergreen garlands dusted with frost. Booths line the edges of the festival like gingerbread houses, each one draped in twinkling white lights and ribbon.
Red and gold bows hang from pine-bough arches, and shopfront windows flicker with candlelight behind painted snowflakes.
I pull my scarf tighter, the wool brushing my cheeks, and slow near a booth where a little girl in a green velvet coat tugs on her mother’s sleeve to point at a hand-painted rocking horse. The vendor hands her a peppermint stick with a wink, and the girl grins like Christmas came early.
It kind of did.
Because this time last year, I was standing right here with my phone in one hand and a heart I wasn’t sure how to put back together in the other. I tried to convince myself I was fine, that this place, this town, this man, weren’t meant for me.
I was wrong.
Jax walks beside me now, his gloved hand brushing mine, the bulk of his coat barely hiding the curve of his arm where it wraps protectively around a cloth tote. Inside is something carved and delicate, but I’m not allowed to see it until morning.
“I can hear you thinking,” he says.
“I’m just remembering,” I say, glancing at him from beneath the edge of my knit hat. “This market. Last year.”
His mouth twitches, the beginnings of a smile he usually saves for when we’re alone.
“That was the worst damn moment of my life.”
My heart tightens with affection as I slide my hand into his. “Mine too. Until it wasn’t.”
We step past a booth filled with miniature sleighs, the scent of cedarwood curling into the cold night. My boots crunch softly over a scatter of pine needles. I stop, the cold brushing my cheeks, letting it all soak in.
Maybe it’s the market that’s changed. Or maybe it’s just me, seeing it all with steadier eyes.
I no longer carry my phone, always looking for the next shot. There’s no agenda or likes between me and the moment. My blog still exists, but it’s changed. It’s less about destinations. More about people and presence. It’s about staying, instead of always chasing the next view.
There’s a post pinned to the top of the page. Just one image: Jax, backlit by firelight, snow in his beard, hands cradling a mug as he stares straight at me. The title: “The Mountain Man Who Saved Christmas (and Me).”
People thought it was fiction.
I let them.
Jax stops in front of a vendor with painted glass ornaments and leans in to examine a hand-painted one shaped like a cabin with smoke curling from the chimney. It’s detailed and perfect, right down to the little stack of firewood at the door.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” he asks.
I smile. “That it looks like home?”
He nods once, then gestures toward the vendor. “We’d like this one, please.”
Later, we wander past the cider stand and the local maple syrup booth, where the man behind the counter offers us a sample drizzled onto fresh snow packed in a tiny bowl. Jax hands me his and watches while I taste it, like he can’t decide if he’s more interested in the syrup or my reaction.
“It’s sweet,” I say, and his eyes drop to my mouth.
“You are,” he says. He watches me as I blush, the space between us tightening. His knuckles brush my wrist, slow and deliberate, before his hand finds mine again, fingers lacing tight.
A year in, and he still makes me blush.
We cross into the quieter part of the market near the edge of the square where the crowd thins.
A trio of women sing carols in three-part harmony, their shawls catching the wind as they sway together.
I slow near a table of hand-knit stockings and trail my fingers across the embroidery.
One has a stitched pine tree. Another, a tiny star.
Jax doesn’t say a word. Just tugs gently on my hand.
I follow him.
He leads me into the narrow alley beside the bakery.
It’s quieter here, tucked between brick walls that hold the heat from the ovens.
We’re near where he found me last year at the ornament stand with my eyes full of tears, a phone full of staged shots and stories I didn’t even believe anymore.
Back then, I hadn’t learned how to stay or believed I could belong anywhere, least of all here.
Now, standing beside him with the first snowflakes drifting through the golden light, I realize I already do.
He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out something small. A square box, wrapped in flannel and tied with twine.
“This is your early gift,” he says, and the roughness in his voice makes my throat tighten.
“Jax…”
“Open it.”
The box is warm from his body and smells like wood. I untie the twine with chilled fingers and peel back the flannel.
Inside is a hand-carved ornament. Two figures, one tall and broad, one curvy and soft, their hands entwined beneath a snow-covered tree.
My breath catches.
“I used the photo on your blog,” he says quietly.
My hands tremble as I run my fingers along the carved edge.
“I love it,” I whisper. “I love all of this that you’ve given me.” I glance toward the holiday market’s bustle, even though it feels as if it’s a mile away from us.
“I know,” he says, tucking me against his chest as the wind lifts and swirls around us. “But I still like hearing you say it.” He gestures toward the box. “There’s more.”
Inside the box is another carved ornament. Two figures, but this time the woman's belly is gently rounded.
My breath stops. "Jax…"
"A question, not a hint." His hand covers mine. "Kids. Family. I know your childhood—"
"I don’t know if I want them yet, but if I do, I want them with you. Everything with you."
His expression cracks open. "Yeah?"
"If we decide it’s right for us, I want to give them the Christmases I never had. The family you lost." I trace the carved belly. "Whenever we're ready, if that’s where we end up."
His kiss tastes like a promise. "Merry Christmas, wife."
It’s Christmas afternoon at home.
The fire has burned down to glowing embers, and the whole cabin smells like cinnamon, browned butter, and maple icing.
I’m barefoot on the kitchen floor, one of Jax’s flannel shirts swallowing my frame, sleeves pushed to my elbows.
There’s icing on my wrist. Probably some on my neck, and definitely some on my thigh.
I gave up trying to keep clean after the first tray of cinnamon rolls came out of the oven and he caught me tasting the glaze straight from the spoon.
I drag my fingertip slowly through the glaze, lifting it to my mouth, letting the sweetness melt on my tongue. His hungry gaze follows every movement. The heat in his eyes makes my pulse skip. I dip again, slower this time, tasting with the tip of my tongue. A low sound rumbles in his chest.
“Careful,” he says, voice low and amused. “I’ve only got so much restraint.”
“You said the same thing last night,” I tease, wrapping my hands around the warm mug he offers.
“Yeah,” he says, and leans in to kiss the corner of my mouth. “And look how that turned out.”
I laugh into the ceramic rim of the mug and wander toward the living room, where the tree glows against the window, each branch heavy with ornaments. Some are carved, some glass, some sentimental and uneven. Near the top, front and center, hangs the camera-shaped ornament I left behind last year.
He found it. Kept it. Hung it where he knew I’d see it.
I curl into the arm of the couch and tuck my feet beneath the blanket we keep draped across the back.
Jax follows, barefoot too, wearing gray sweatpants.
His skin is warm from the oven heat. His hair is rumpled and his forearm is streaked with more icing than any respectable mountain man should allow.
“Your ornaments aren’t on the tree yet,” I remind him.
He grins and disappears into the bedroom, returning a moment later with the wrapped box from the holiday market. I set down my coffee as he opens it, pulling out the carved figures and carefully finding a spot among the pine boughs.
When he steps back, I can see the single ornament clearly. It’s us, hands intertwined. We’re standing still, together, in a world that once moved too fast for me to hold on to anything real.
His hand brushes mine again. It’s not possessive or coaxing, but steady, and certain, and mine.
“I was thinking,” he says, folding onto the couch beside me, the cushions dipping under his weight, “we should add a second shelf in the studio.”
I blink, surprised. “Why?”
“For the art supplies you keep leaving on the table.”
My heart tugs, and not just because he noticed. He’s still doing what he’s always done; making room for me without asking me to change.
I tuck my feet against his leg and rest my head on his chest, listening to the slow rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the worn cotton of his shirt.
“You’re the reason I stopped running,” I whisper. “You never made me feel like I had to earn this.”
He doesn't say anything right away. He kisses my hair and exhales as if I took the weight right off his ribs.
“You never had to earn a damn thing,” he says. “You just had to come home.”
Outside, the wind whistles softly under the eaves. The snow piles higher against the deck. Inside, the light has gone golden and still, with only the crackle of fire and the occasional clink of the coffee pot settling back on the burner.