Chapter 22

The weeks blur together, a rhythm stitched out of routine and warmth. November drifts in with shorter days, frost gathering on windowsills, and the city dressed in early holiday lights that blink faintly against the dusk. Conrad feels the season mostly in Amelia's presence. Her hand slipping into his coat pocket with his, the way she insists on fixing his scarf when the wind cuts sharp, the pink blooming in her cheeks when she teases him.

They spend their nights in companionable silence, the soft clatter of keyboards filling his apartment as they work side by side. Study breaks spill into laughter, fingers brushing over shared pens, lips grazing over mugs of coffee. It's ordinary, yet it doesn't feel ordinary at all. Somewhere along the way, he realizes he's not just spending time with her—he's building a life around her.

And then it's his birthday.

Conrad hadn't planned anything—no parties, no fuss. Birthdays had stopped feeling like celebrations years ago. But Amelia insists on keeping it special, low-key but deliberate. "Just let me do this for you," she says that morning, pressing a kiss to his temple as he hunches over his laptop. "I promise, no surprise parties, no embarrassing songs." "You don't have to go to any trouble," he protests weakly, but she's already disappeared into the kitchen, humming to herself. When he returns from his afternoon lab, the apartment smells like garlic and rosemary. She's transformed their small dining table with a cloth he's never seen before, candles flickering in the dimmed light. Amelia stands by the stove, hair pulled back, wearing a sweater he once mentioned brought out her eyes. "You did all this?" he asks, dropping his backpack. She turns, wooden spoon in hand. "Your mum's recipe. Laurel sent it to me. She said it was one of your favourites growing up." Her smile falters slightly. "Is that okay?" Conrad crosses the room in three strides, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind. "More than okay," he murmurs against her neck. Over dinner, his mother's famous herb-crusted lamb that tastes so close to the original it makes his chest ache, they talk about nothing and everything. Amelia tells him about her progress on her project, gesturing with her fork, wine sloshing dangerously in her glass. He finds himself laughing more than he thought possible. "I have something for you," she says later, when they're tucked into his room with the curtains drawn against the city night sky. "Two somethings, actually." She hands him a small package wrapped carefully in silver paper. Conrad turns it over in his hands, feeling strangely nervous. Inside is a framed photograph she managed to find—a candid of his mother at the beach, smiling with her hair swept back by wind, looking younger than he remembers her. "How did you—" "I asked Laurel if she had any photos you might not have seen before. She dug through some old albums and found this one from before you were born." Amelia sits beside him, her shoulder warm against his. "She said it was taken the summer your parents got engaged." His throat tightens, words failing him. In the photo, his mother looks carefree, untouched by the cancer that would eventually claim her. It's a version of her he never knew. "Is it too much?" Amelia asks softly, uncertainty creeping into her voice. "I thought—" Conrad pulls her into his arms instead, holding her like she's the only thing tethering him to the moment. "No one's ever given me something like this," he manages finally, his voice rough. "I thought you should have it," Amelia says, her fingers gentle on his wrist. "Everyone deserves to be remembered at their happiest." Conrad swallows hard, running his thumb over the edge of the frame. "This... this means more than you know." His chest tightens, grief and gratitude tangled together. For a moment, all he can do is look at her, wondering how she always knows what he needs before he does. She touches his cheek, brushing away moisture he hadn't realized was there. "Happy birthday, Conrad." He gets up, moving into his living room and sets the frame carefully on his bookshelf angling it so his mother's smile catches the light. When he returns, Amelia's expression has shifted, a playful glint in her eyes. "I have a second gift that is a bit more the opposite..." She reaches for the hem of her sweater, pulling it slowly over her head to reveal red silk lingerie underneath, the material catching the low light. "Of sentimental," she teases. Conrad laughs, startled and flustered. "You've been wearing that all through dinner?" "Mmhmm." She moves closer, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. "And thinking about this moment the whole time." When she slips closer, fingers curling at his collar, laughter gives way to something hotter, needier. Her lips find his, soft at first, then more insistent. He slides his hands up her sides, feeling the contrast between smooth silk and warm skin. "Tell me what you want," she whispers against his mouth. "It's your birthday." The request catches him off guard. They've been together like this before, but always with a certain gentleness, an unspoken carefulness. Tonight feels different. "I want..." He hesitates, then decides on honesty. "I want to not think for a while. I want to just feel." Amelia's smile turns knowing. She pushes him back against the pillows, straddling his hips. "I can help with that." What follows is a dance of discovery. Conrad finds himself testing boundaries, admitting in half-growls and whispers that he likes things a little rougher, more than vanilla. His hands find her wrists, pinning them above her head as he kisses down her throat. "Is this okay?" he asks, suddenly uncertain. Her answer is to arch against him, eyes dark with want. "More than okay." The silk lingerie ends up on the floor, forgotten. Amelia surprises him with her willingness. Not just willingness, but enthusiasm. She guides his hands where she wants them, tells him when to slow down, when to press harder. When he grips her hair, she gasps in a way that sends heat spiralling through him. "I've wanted this," she admits between kisses. "Wanted to see you let go." Later, when they're both breathless, she kisses his knuckles after he releases her wrists from above her head. The tender gesture contrasts with the intensity of moments before. "I trust you," she tells him, eyes serious despite her flushed cheeks. "Completely." And he believes her. For Conrad, that trust is everything, more precious than any gift she could have given him. He pulls her against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against his own. "Best birthday I can remember," he murmurs into her hair, meaning it.

By the time November fades into December, their relationship has slipped into something steady but undeniably magnetic. They don't announce it to anyone, that's not their style, but it's impossible to hide when they orbit each other this closely.

It's the little things that would give them away.

Later, the truth comes out during a coffee run with Tyler, Agnes, and Theo. They're crammed into a corner booth, cups and croissant crumbs cluttering the table. Tyler is mid-rant about his latest coding project when Amelia shifts closer, resting her head against Conrad's shoulder like it's second nature. Conrad doesn't think. He just leans down and presses a kiss to the crown of Amelia's head while she's scrolling through her phone. The silence is deafening, then explodes. "I knew it!" Agnes slams her palms on the table, coffee sloshing dangerously close to her laptop. "Oh thank fuck!" Theo throws his hands in the air, nearly knocking over the sugar caddy. "Oh my God, finally," Tyler groans, but he's grinning ear to ear. Amelia hides her smile behind her coffee cup while Conrad tries not to look too pleased with himself. "How long?" Agnes demands, leaning forward. "And don't you dare say 'we're just friends' because I swear—" "Six weeks," Amelia admits, setting down her cup. "Give or take." "Give or take?" Conrad raises an eyebrow. "You're the one who keeps saying our first date wasn't that night at the restaurant but instead back in that first year we met." "Semantics, we've technically been on hundreds of dates but you just called them 'friend dates', as though you weren't deeply obsessed with me back then.'" Amelia flicks her wrist dismissively, but can't quite hide the smile playing at her lips. "Yeah, Conrad," Theo interjects, "that's weak even by your standards." Conrad rolls his eyes. "Fine. Six weeks. Happy?" "Ecstatic," Tyler deadpans. "Now I can finally stop pretending I didn't notice Amelia sexting you across the table the last time we were in the Library." Amelia chokes on her coffee. "You saw that?" "I have seen many things," Tyler says solemnly. "Many, many things." "Okay, that's enough," Conrad cuts in, feeling heat creep up his neck. Agnes isn't deterred. "So who made the first move? Please tell me it was Amelia because Conrad has the emotional courage of a sea cucumber." "Hey!" Conrad protests. "A very handsome sea cucumber," Amelia pats his arm consolingly, then grins. "But no, it was actually him." "Details," Theo demands. "We've invested too much time watching this slow-motion train wreck of attraction." Amelia glances at Conrad, a silent question in her eyes. He shrugs, surrendering to the inevitable. "He kissed me," she says simply. "In a hallway at Denny's Halloween party." "You mean the night that you guys wore matching costumes that you pretended weren't matching costumes?" Agnes asks. "You mean the night after he almost he got her pregnant with how intense their eye sex was at the bar?" Tyler adds. "You guys were keeping track of everything we did?" Conrad asks, incredulous. "We had a betting pool," Theo admits shamelessly. "Agnes owes me twenty bucks." Their friends are relentless with teasing, but beneath it all is genuine joy. And somehow, it feels good—like stepping into the light after keeping something precious close.

One December evening, they're tangled together on Conrad's couch under a worn blanket. Amelia sits with her back against the armrest, laptop perched on her thighs, the blue light illuminating her concentrated expression. Conrad's fingers absentmindedly play with the ends of her hair, occasionally brushing against the nape of her neck. "So," Amelia says, looking up through her lashes, "I leave for London in a couple days." Conrad's hand freezes mid-stroke. "That soon?" A soft laugh escapes her lips as she closes her laptop. "I've mentioned it at least three times. Dad's trust is finally being settled. I haven't been back since I moved here at nineteen, and now I have the full amount sorted. It'll only be for a fortnight, promise." He shifts closer until his chin rests on her shoulder, his breath warm against her ear. "You're really reminding me of this while I'm in complete bliss, thinking life is perfect?" She bumps his ribs with her elbow. "Poor baby. I can already see the pout forming." Conrad's lips find her temple, lingering there. "I'm not pouting," he murmurs, his voice catching slightly. "But the apartment's going to feel empty without you in it." He swallows, throat tight, before continuing. "If you want, I could—" "No," she interrupts gently, placing a hand over his. "I don't want you to drop everything. You've got deadlines, Conrad. Go learn to be a hero, McDreamy. I'll be back Christmas Eve."

The days slip through Conrad's fingers like water, and before he can catch his breath, he's driving her to the airport. Conrad's car purrs down the highway toward the airport, streetlights blurring past like shooting stars. Amelia sits in the passenger seat, clutching her carry-on against her chest, the emerald wool of her coat catching the dashboard lights. The space between them feels charged yet fragile, their silence a language all its own. At the departures terminal, Conrad cuts the ignition. He reaches across the centre console, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, his fingertips lingering against her temple. "All set?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper. Amelia's lips curve upward, but her eyes betray her. "Just one more minute." Conrad's throat constricts. Every instinct tells him to pull her close and not let go, but he only nods, touching his forehead to hers. "No rush," he whispers. She covers his hand with hers, fingers pressing into his skin. "I'll be home before you miss me." They exist in stolen moments after that—tangled fingers, a shared smile at nothing in particular, her body leaning into his like a question mark. Eventually, she exhales and straightens. Conrad's grip tightens around her fingers. "Fourteen days?" he asks, forcing lightness into his voice. Amelia's eyes catch the airport lights. "It'll be Christmas Eve in the blink of an eye." He laughs softly, even as something in his ribcage contracts. "You're killing me, Harrington." She presses her lips to his—a kiss just long enough to memorize, just brief enough to bear. "Go ace those essays, Fisher," she murmurs against his mouth. He watches her walk away, the gentle rhythm of her steps, the slope of her shoulders beneath green wool, and catalogues every detail. When the automatic doors slide shut behind her, he sinks back into his seat, knuckles white against the steering wheel, feeling suddenly hollow.

His knuckles tap out a restless rhythm on the leather steering wheel, his jaw clenched tight as he pulls away from the airport. Two weeks. Two goddamn weeks. He's always been the guy with a plan, the one who irons out every last detail—and now she'll be halfway across the Atlantic, and there's nothing he can do to pull her back. His thoughts spin as he drives, running through his endless to-do list to stave off the hollow ache in his chest. At the top of that list, call his father. He exhales and shakes his head. He shouldn't. After everything over the last year—years, really—the tension between him and Adam still sits there like jagged glass. But he knows he can't dodge him forever. The dial tone hums once, twice. Then Adam's voice crackles through the car speakers, bright and over-eager as always. "Connie? What's up? You never call me." "Hey, Dad." He forces calm into his voice. "Just wanted to let you know, I'm not coming home for Christmas this year." Silence stretches. Finally, Adam sighs. "Both my boys abandoning me. Jere's off with his girlfriend's family, Laurel's dragging them to her mother's place. Looks like I'll be drinking eggnog solo. So, what could be more important than family time?" Conrad swallows. "I've got deadlines and stuff, but..." He hesitates, heart pounding. "I just dropped Amelia off at the airport. She's flying back to the UK for some family obligations, but she'll be here by Christmas Eve. I'll be spending the holiday with her... as her boyfriend." The word lands new and steady in his chest. There's a beat of silence. Then Adam's voice softens, "Boyfriend?" Conrad breathes in shaky. "Yeah. It's... a new development." Adam pauses, then laughs softly. "That's good. Glad you took my advice." He clears his throat. "Listen, I could come out to California." Conrad shakes his head against the seat, though his Dad can't see. "Not yet, Dad. But soon. I uh.. I want to bring Amelia to Cousins. Show her the house, show her that piece of me. And when that happens... I think I'll be ready for the talk we've both been avoiding." Adam exhales, low and tired. "okay Connie, I'll hold you to it." Another pause. "But at least call me, on Christmas day." Conrad feels the lump in his throat again. "Yeah. I will, Dad." He hangs up and eases back on the accelerator, the road unfurling ahead as he heads home.

The apartment feels unnervingly still without her. Conrad moves through it almost on autopilot—pouring coffee, doing laundry, flipping through notes—but every corner whispers her absence. A hair tie left on his bathroom vanity, the faint trace of her perfume on the pillow, the mug she always claimed as hers—each one tugs at his chest, a quiet ache that won't settle.

He throws himself into studying, but his focus fractures at the smallest reminders. A notification lights up his phone, and he reads it with a grin that tightens his chest instead of easing it.

Passed a bookstore today and thought of you.

He types a quick reply, fingers hovering over the screen,

I might need a map to find my way back to sanity without you around.

Later, he's cooking dinner, the motions familiar but hollow. The chicken in the pan sizzles and crackles, but it's not the same without her teasing commentary, without the subtle smudge of flour she'd have left on his cheek just to make him laugh. Another message arrives,

I Made soup tonight. You'd probably hate it. I added peas.

He laughs softly, snapping a photo of his pan and sending it back, Still not as good as yours, obviously. I'll survive though... maybe. He pauses for a moment, opening his clock app before sending a second message quickly Go to sleep before you wake up late and cranky.

Afternoons bring video calls, and he's drawn to the screen like a moth to a flame. Seeing her face—even through pixels—feels like a lifeline. She leans on her hand, hair tumbling across her cheek, eyes bright, voice soft and teasing. They talk about her being home, her family, even nonsense about favourite coffee blends.

Her laugh carries across the miles, and for a moment, he forgets the distance. When the call ends, he leans back, hand brushing the pillow where her scent lingers, as though he can hold onto her just a little longer.

Walking across campus, a song drifts from a distant speaker, one she had sent him weeks ago. He pauses, letting it wash over him. He can almost feel her there beside him, nudging him, laughing at the lyrics, shoulder brushing against his. He sends her a message

That song you showed me is playing and it makes me miss you more.

He smiles, shaking his head as her response comes through. You'll have to be more specific than that Fisher, I show you lots of songs.

A moment later another text comes through. I miss you too.

In the quiet moments, he finds her everywhere—the curl of hair on the couch, the sweater she left behind, the faint scent in the apartment that makes his chest tighten with every inhale. They text constantly, but never clingy; small fragments of their lives, little reminders that despite the distance, they are still together.

I made coffee like you taught me, almost burned it.

Saw a bird that reminded me of our hike, had to stop and think of you.

Passed a bakery, smelled cinnamon rolls, and now I'm craving the ones from the bakery we found last fall.

The weeks pass in this rhythm—studying, cooking, pacing, laughing quietly to himself at her messages, video calls that leave him breathless when they end, silent moments haunted by her absence. Every text, every small sign of her life is a tether to her, a reminder of how much he wants her nearby.

By the time he pulls up to the airport on Christmas Eve, the apartment feels impossibly empty, and his chest buzzes with anticipation. Two weeks have stretched endlessly, each day filled with reminders of her absence, but now the wait is almost over. Every heartbeat thrums with excitement, every nerve alive with the knowledge that in moments, he'll have her back in his arms.

The car idles at the airport curb, headlights slicing through the early evening fog. Conrad's leg bounces against the brake, chest tight, hands gripping the steering wheel like he can control the world if he just holds on hard enough. Two weeks. Two long, quiet, maddening weeks.

He's barely breathing when he spots her. Amelia steps out of the terminal, hair tousled from travel, a scarf around her neck, a suitcase in tow. She pauses, scanning the line of cars, and when her eyes find his, the faintest curve of a smile tugs at her lips.

For a moment, the world narrows to her. Everything else blurs—the blinking airport lights, the passing travellers, the cold air biting at his cheeks. He puts his car in park, and throws the door open, heart hammering, legs moving faster than his brain can process.

"Amelia!" His voice is louder than he intended, urgent and desperate. She laughs, warm and breathless, and before she can reply, he's there, hands on her shoulders, pulling her close.

"For two fucking weeks," he says, voice raw, eyes locked on hers. "I have been losing my mind. I have not held you in my arms, I have not seen you, touched you, heard your voice. You have successfully made me insane."

She sways against him, laughing, reaching up to cup his cheek. "That's a lie," she says softly, "I face-timed you when I cou—"

He cuts her off with a kiss, fierce and desperate, pressing her to him as if letting go now would undo everything. Her hands wind into his hair, fingers tangling, nails grazing his scalp, and he groans against her lips. The world outside—the noise, the lights, the people—vanishes, leaving only the two of them suspended in the heat of the moment.

When they finally break apart, breath ragged, eyes bright, Conrad cups her face, forehead resting against hers. "You have no idea what it's like to be without you," he murmurs, voice low, trembling with something between awe and longing.

Amelia smiles, soft and unguarded, brushing a thumb across his jaw. "You survived," she teases lightly, though her eyes shimmer with warmth. "Barely."

He leans back slightly, hands still on her waist, studying her as though he could memorize every line of her face in one glance. "Barely?" he echoes, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I think I'd rather lose my mind with you than be sane without you."

She laughs, leaning into him, pressing her side against his as they walk towards his car. "You're ridiculous," she says, shaking her head. "But I missed it."

The ride home is quiet but electric, hands finding each other's across the consol, fingers entwining. Conrad steals the occasional kiss, soft at first, teasing, before Amelia leans in, matching him, the warmth of her body pressing into his. Every stoplight, makes it harder to keep their hands to themselves.

By the time they reach the apartment, neither wants to let go. Doors barely latch behind them before Conrad spins her into the hallway, lips finding hers again, hands sliding down to her waist, her arms winding around his neck. They stumble towards his room, laughing breathless and stumbling.

And when the door clicks behind them, and the world is theirs. Soft light spills across the bedroom, the lingering scent of travel and perfume mixing with the warmth between them. They fall into each other, bodies pressing, hands exploring, kisses deepening. His fingers fumble with the buttons of her blouse while she tugs at his belt, both of them trembling with urgency. "I missed you," he whispers against her ear, voice breaking with need. "Show me how much," she challenges, eyes dark with desire. Her back arches as his lips find her neck, her collarbone, lower. Clothes scatter across the floor like fallen leaves. When they finally collapse onto the bed, skin against skin, the desperation in their touch is something new—a hunger born from absence. Each caress carries the weight of two weeks apart, each kiss a promise. "Conrad," she breathes, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. Their usual rhythm gives way to something wilder, needier. His name catches in her throat as her nails dig into his shoulders. They move together like waves crashing against the shore, relentless and consuming, as if trying to erase the memory of separation with the reality of touch. Time blurs. The world narrows to just them—her sighs, his groans, the way she trembles beneath him, the way he watches her come undone. Afterward, they lie tangled in sheets damp with exertion, breathing ragged, hearts pounding in tandem. He traces patterns on her bare shoulder, memorizing her all over again. "I thought about this every night," he confesses, voice low and intimate in the quiet room. She turns to face him, palm resting against his cheek. "Me too," she admits. "Nothing feels right when you're not there." He presses a kiss to her temple, murmuring softly, "Welcome home." She smiles, eyes closing, and the apartment is still again—except this time, it's full. Full of them, full of warmth, full of everything he's been waiting two weeks to hold.

The pale morning light trickles through the frost-kissed windowpanes, painting everything in soft silver. Conrad lies still for a moment, simply watching Amelia sleep. Her dark hair spills across the pillow like spilled ink, each strand catching the light. Her lashes flutter against her cheeks, and his heart swells with a tenderness so fierce it makes his chest ache. He slides out of bed on silent feet, careful not to disturb the slow rise and fall of her breathing. In the kitchen, he sets the coffee maker to brew, the rich aroma unfolding through the apartment and mingling with the lingering sweetness of her vanilla perfume. He grins at the memory of last night's laughter as he pours water in, then steals one last look through the bedroom door. Amelia is stretching, one arm arching overhead, the other drifting across her eyes as if to prolong her dream. "Morning," she murmurs, voice husky—and he feels that warm glow in his gut all over again. "Merry Christmas," he replies softly, leaning into the counter. When she glides toward him in one of his oversized navy sweaters, he presses a gentle kiss to the curve of her shoulder. She shivers, and he watches the small smile tug at her lips. "Keep staring like that and I'll never survive breakfast," she teases as she reaches for two mugs. But her other hand drifts to his, and he threads their fingers together. "I'm just savouring my best gift," he whispers, nodding to her. They settle at the little wooden table by the window, decked with a single sprig of holly in a tiny vase. Conrad hadn't felt like decorating much outside of the minimum during her absence, knowing the festive spirit and his hollowed chest wouldn't mesh well. Steam curls from their mugs as they share thick slices of buttered toast and softly scrambled eggs. The world outside is hushed under a light snowfall, and inside, their laughter rises between gentle kisses over the rims of their coffee cups. Every so often, his knee brushes hers beneath the tabletop, and they pause to exchange a look that says more than any words could. After breakfast, Conrad cues up their annual Christmas playlist—Dean Martin, Michael Bublé and a few classic carols in jazzy arrangements. Amelia hums along while they tidy: dishes clinking in the sink, ornaments dusted on the little pine tree in the corner, stray pine needles swept into a neat pile. He catches her from behind as she reaches to dry a plate, wraps his arms around her waist, and rests his chin on her shoulder. She tilts her head back, letting her cheek rest against his collarbone, and closes her eyes. "You smell like home," he murmurs, his voice low. She breathes in and smiles into the sheet of his shirt. "And you smell like coffee and Christmas," she replies, turning in his arms to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Hours slip by in a sweet, gentle rhythm. They refill mugs, shuffle through albums, and let a Hallmark movie play on low—stolen glances and soft laughter at every predictable moment of holiday cheer on screen. Between scenes, she threads her fingers through his hair; he nuzzles her neck and brushes his fingertips lightly along her arm. No words are needed. Their closeness says it all. Late afternoon, when the sun tilts golden through the window, Conrad clears his throat, and Amelia looks up, curious. He's suddenly a shade serious—nervous, even. "I've been thinking..." his voice is soft, almost tender. She arches an eyebrow, one hand settling on her hip with mock admonishment. "That's dangerous," she teases. He smiles and steps closer. "I want to show you more of who I am. I want to bring you to Cousins." His hand finds hers, and he squeezes gently. "My mum's house. The house I grew up in every Summer since I was born. I want to introduce you to my family as my girlfriend—no more holding back. You belong there with me." Amelia's eyes soften, a bright flicker of warmth shining in them. "Cousins," she repeats, her voice trembling just a bit. "I'd love that." He exhales, relief and joy mingling in his expression. "And... I think being there with you will finally give me the courage to talk to my dad about everything, so I can finally heal." Her palm presses against his chest, feeling the steady heartbeat below. "I trust you, and I'll be there with you" she says simply, letting him feel the promise in her touch. Evening arrives wrapped in twinkling lights and the soft scent of rosemary. They cook together—whipping too-salty mashed potatoes, flipping a roast beef that comes out perfectly crisp on the outside and tender within. Flour dusts their hands, their cheeks, even the countertops. They catch each other mid-stir and steal quick, flour-flecked kisses. The kitchen hums with warmth and laughter. At the small table, candles flicker next to a dish of cranberry sauce. They linger over every bite, sharing stories—Amelia's childhood Christmases back in England, Conrad's memories of snowy fields and big family dinners. Shoulders brush. Hands reach across plates to clasp one another's. Every glance, every gentle squeeze, is a declaration of something rich and true. Later, curled up on the couch under a thick wool blanket, they press close as the city glows outside like a field of fallen stars. He tucks one arm around her shoulders, she rests her head on his chest, and he smooths his fingers through her hair. They whisper plans for visiting Cousins, weaving dreams of wine, board games and late-night fireside chats. He lifts his lips to her forehead. "I can't wait for you to see the magic of Cousins." She smiles, nuzzling closer. "I wouldn't have it any other way." Soft and warm in their little apartment-world, they drift into quiet contentment, love wrapped around them like the glow of Christmas lights—intimate, enduring, and entirely their own.

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Thank you all for your continued love and support, only a couple more chapters until we reach Season 3 territory xx