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I'll Be Home - Meghan Trainor

The days slowed down after that.

Winter break was a strange kind of limbo—no classes, no deadlines, just the soft hush of snow outside and the lazy rhythm of staying in. Kamala kept working from home, still wrapped up in her research and writing, but her energy was different. Softer. Less guarded.

She made us breakfast every morning—black coffee for her, vanilla chai for me. Some days it was oatmeal with berries, other days buttery toast and scrambled eggs. She always hummed while she cooked, something jazzy or soulful. On mornings when I woke up before her, I'd just lay there and watch her sleep for a few minutes. Her lashes fanned across her cheeks. Her breathing steady. Her guard completely down.

She looked so beautiful like that.

And I was so deeply in love with her, it scared me sometimes.

One afternoon, I sat cross-legged on the rug by the window, flipping through one of her old political theory books, pretending to read but mostly just watching her from the corner of my eye. She was on the couch, glasses on, laptop balanced on her thighs. A throw blanket was draped over her legs, and Rome—her cat—was curled in a tight cinnamon roll beside her.

"You're staring," she said without looking up.

"No, I'm not."

She smirked, typing something, then finally glanced over her glasses. "You've been on the same page for ten minutes."

"Maybe I'm just a slow reader."

She raised a brow. "You graduated cum laude in your last two years. Try again."

I dropped the book with a sigh. "Okay, fine. I like watching you when you're in your professor zone. You get all focused and sexy."

Kamala shook her head, but her smile crept in. "You're ridiculous."

"You love it," I teased.

She closed her laptop, stretched, and joined me by the window. Outside, it had started snowing again—big lazy flakes that floated like feathers.

"I do love it," she said, almost too softly.

I looked at her then, really looked. She had her knees pulled up to her chest, her sweater sleeves covering half her hands. Her eyes weren't guarded anymore, just... cautious. Like she wanted to let go but was still afraid of dropping something delicate.

"I know I hurt you," I said. "And I know it'll take more than a few sweet moments to fix that."

She turned toward me, quiet.

"I've been thinking about it a lot," I continued. "How I reacted. How I let someone else's interest put distance between us, even if I never intended it. I should've shut it down earlier. I should've told Karina not to give out my number, and I should've been more honest with you, even if it meant having a hard conversation."

Kamala's gaze softened, but she didn't interrupt.

"I want you to trust me again," I said. "I want you to know that I'm not going anywhere—and I'm not entertaining anyone else, even for a second. Because no one makes me feel the way you do. No one ever has."

She reached over and gently laced her fingers through mine.

"I know," she whispered. "And I'm trying, baby. I really am. Every day."

That was all I needed.

I leaned in, kissed her slowly, and felt the weight between us shift—lighter, more open.

We didn't do anything else that day. We just sat by the window, talking about everything and nothing. Books we loved. Places we wanted to visit. Childhood memories. She told me about her first Christmas as a senator's wife—how fake it all felt. I told her about the year my dad accidentally grilled the turkey because the oven broke.

By the time the sun went down, we'd built a little world between us again—quiet and warm and ours.

Later, as we laid in bed, her arms wrapped around my waist and her chin resting on my shoulder, I whispered, "Will you still want me when this year ends?"

Kamala kissed the side of my neck. "I'll want you even more."

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This is making me so excited for Christmas 😭It's my favorite holiday!