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Isabella grinned, recognizing the truth in that. “She is. And that’s exactly why you’re the one who has to face her. Right now, she needs a man who’s brave enough to stand in that storm.” She reached over and patted the box on his knee, refusing to take it. “Go over there, Derek. If she slams the door in your face, at least you’ll know you tried. But don't you dare send me to do your heavy lifting.”
—-----------
The drive to Olivia’s building had been the longest fifteen minutes of Derek’s life. The wrapped gift had sat on the passenger seat like a live grenade, and his eyes had darted to it every sixty seconds as if he expected it to vanish—or explode.
He killed the engine but stayed in the driver's seat for a long moment, his hands gripping the steering wheel until the leather groaned. He'd taken Isabella's advice, and now here he was. He had no idea what would happen when he knocked and Olivia opened the door to see him, but right now, he was just a guy with a peace offering and a heart that was hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against his ribs.
Derek finally stepped out, the air biting at his neck, and began the walk toward the entrance. Every step felt heavy, his boots echoing against the pavement with a finality that made his stomach twist.
He adjusted the gift in his hand, his fingers grazing the edge of the paper as he recalled her reaction to his apology a week ago before he’d walked away. The memory made him close his eyes briefly. Damn… The woman had him all messed up.
When he reached her door, the world seemed to shrink down to that single piece of wood. There was no going back now. If she shut the door in his face, he’d earn it. If she threw the gift back at him, he’d catch it and stay until she heard him out. Whatever happened, he was done being a coward.
Derek shifted the weight of the gift to his left hand, wiped his right palm on his jeans, and lifted it. He didn't give himself time to overthink the consequences. He just knocked—three solid, deliberate thuds that felt like they were vibrating through his own bones.
He held his breath, the silence on the other side of the door suddenly louder than the knock itself.
—-----------
Olivia had spent the previous day transforming her apartment into a fortress of self-care.
She’d navigated the frantic Christmas Eve crowds, filling her cart with everything she’d need to disappear for twenty-four hours: crisp snap peas and bell peppers for fried rice, heavy bags of fruit, and a liquor cabinet’s worth of wine, vodka, and tequila. By the time she’d hauled it all upstairs, she was so bone-tired she’d barely made it through a hot shower before collapsing into bed, falling into a dreamless sleep the second her head hit the pillow.
Isabella had been predictably dramatic about it, her voice full of faux-outrage over Olivia’s "hermit" plans, but Olivia knew her best friend would survive. Izzy had a party to go to and a brother to keep in line; she wouldn't miss her for long. And Tess was, well… Tess was out having a good time with her new boyfriend.
This morning, the exhaustion had been replaced by a quiet, steady strength. The apartment was warm, the light filtering through the windows in soft winter streaks. Olivia felt good. She’d traded the heavy layers of the week for a pair of cream silk pajama pants and a matching crop top, her hair pulled into a high, messy ponytail that left her neck bare. She was ready to be her own company.
The kitchen island was already a mosaic of color—shimmering green scallions, bright carrots, and the deep red of the peppers she was methodically dicing. The plan was simple: fried rice, spicy chicken, a massive fruit salad, and enough cocktails to make the rest of the day and the late-night movies interesting.
The three sharp knocks at the door broke the rhythm of her knife. Olivia sighed, glancing at the clock. Early for the pizza, she thought, assuming the delivery driver was just early delivering the pizza she'd ordered to snack on as she prepared the food.
She wiped her damp hands on a kitchen towel, walked to the front door, and pulled it open with a practiced "Thank you" already forming on her lips.
The words died in her throat. It wasn't the delivery driver with a cardboard box standing in the hallway. It was Derek.
The sight of him was like a physical jolt to her system, his hand still half-raised as if he’d been bracing for a fourth knock. The scent of the cold outdoors clung to his leather jacket, clashing with the warm, domestic smell of the chopped onions and pine inside her home. The neutrality she’d worked so hard to build over the last week threatened to crack as his eyes locked onto hers—dark, uncertain, and painfully intense.
“Hi, Liv,” he said softly. The words were a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to settle in the quiet of the hallway. “Merry Christmas.”
Olivia didn't move. For several long seconds, the only sound was the faint hum of her refrigerator from the kitchen and the distant chime of a neighbor’s television. She stood there, frozen, looking like a dream he’d had a thousand times—only this time, she was real, and she was looking at him with a heart-stopping wariness.
“Hi,” she finally managed to exhale, the word thin and breathless. “Merry Christmas… I didn't… I didn't know you were coming.”
“I know,” Derek said, the confession scraping against his throat. He shifted his weight, his heavy boots feeling clunky on her welcome mat. “I mean, I didn’t call.” He paused, the realization hitting him like a physical blow to the gut. Shit. “Now that I think about it, I guess I should have. I’m sorry… I hope I haven't interrupted anything. Or ruined something.”
Olivia shook her head slowly, a stray strand of hair falling from her ponytail to brush against her collarbone. “Not really. I was just… starting on some food.” She gripped the kitchen towel in her hand, her eyes searching his, “Is everything okay? Is something wrong?”
Derek shook his head quickly. “Everything’s fine. I just…”
He felt utterly out of place, a dark, leather-clad intruder in her bright, pine-scented sanctuary. But she hadn't asked him to leave. She hadn't slammed the door or told him to go to hell. He counted that as a small, miraculous win. He found himself staring for a second too long; she looked devastatingly beautiful with her skin scrubbed clean of makeup and her bare shoulders glowing in the hallway light. She looked like home, and it made the ache in his chest double. Only when her gaze dropped from his face to his hands did he remember why he was standing there.
“Oh,” he muttered, his pulse spiking as he lifted the package. “I, ermm… I wanted to give this to you.”