Chapter 131
Ellie's POV
Around three o'clock, I heard the sound of Dad's car in the driveway. In a minute, the front door burst open in a gust of cold air and laughter.
"We're home!" Mom called out, stumbling in with Dad, both of them laden with gift bags and wearing matching ridiculous reindeer sweaters that Mrs. Henderson must have foisted on them.
Despite my worry, I felt my lips twitch. "Nice sweaters."
"Don't mock the sweaters," Dad said seriously, hanging up his coat with exaggerated dignity. "Mrs. Henderson made them herself. It would be rude not to wear them."
"They light up," Mom added, pressing a button on her chest. The reindeer's nose flashed red. "See?"
I couldn't help it—I laughed. A real laugh, the kind that loosened the tight band around my chest just slightly.
Mom's eyes softened as she looked at me, and I knew she'd seen the tension I'd been carrying. "How are you holding up, sweetheart?"
"Fine," I said automatically. Then, more honestly: "Nervous."
"About Christmas dinner?" Dad asked innocently, but his eyes were knowing. "Or about having a handsome young man sleeping on the floor?"
"Dad."
Jackson emerged from the kitchen at that moment, wiping his hands on a dish towel, and I felt a rush of warmth through the mate bond—his affection, his concern for me, his determination to make tonight good despite everything looming ahead.
"Mr. and Mrs. Green," he said with that easy smile. "I've done some prep work in the kitchen, but I figured you'd want to handle the main Christmas dinner yourself, Mrs. Green. I just got the vegetables started."
Mom's expression softened with appreciation. "That's very thoughtful of you, Jackson. Though you're welcome to help—this is your Christmas too now."
"How's the guest room situation?" I asked, trying to sound casual. "Any luck with the plumbers?"
Mom and Dad exchanged one of those looks—the kind parents think is subtle but actually screams we're scheming something.
"About that," Mom said, her tone just a little too innocent. "I called three different companies today."
My stomach flipped. "And?"
"All booked up through New Year's." She shrugged apologetically, but her eyes were twinkling. "Apparently Christmas vacation means all the plumbers take holiday too."
Dad nodded solemnly. "Can't be helped. These things take time. Might be weeks before we can get someone out here."
I felt a flicker of amusement from Jackson—he'd clearly heard every word and seen straight through their terrible acting.
Despite everything—despite Caleb, despite the looming threat—I felt another knot loosen in my chest. My parents were trying so hard to give us space, to make this normal, to let us be young and in love without the weight of pack politics crushing us.
Maybe, I thought, maybe we can have tonight.
"You're worrying again," Jackson murmured, catching me alone in the dining room as I set out silverware.
I glanced toward the kitchen, where Mom and Dad were loudly debating the proper temperature for turkey. "Is it that obvious?"
"To me." He stepped closer, his hand finding the small of my back. "Talk to me."
"I just—" I set down the forks, turning to face him. "How are we supposed to sit here and have a nice Christmas dinner when—"
"Ellie." His hands came up to frame my face, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones. "Listen to me. We don't know what's going to happen. We don't know what Caleb wants, or what he's planning, or even if it'll be as bad as we're imagining."
"But—"
"But worrying about it now won't change anything." His eyes were soft, understanding. "All it does is steal tonight from us. And I don't want to give him that power."
I leaned into his touch, letting his certainty anchor me. "So what do we do?"
"We have dinner," he said simply. "We celebrate Christmas with your family. We let ourselves be happy, even if it's just for a few hours. Because that's what living is, Ellie—finding joy in the moments between the storms."
Something in my chest eased. Not the worry—that was still there, probably would be until Caleb came and went—but the strangling grip of it loosened.
Jackson kissed my hair and straightened up. "Now come on. Your dad's about to open the wine, and I have a feeling he's going to try to get me drunk."
"He's absolutely going to try to get you drunk."
"I know." Jackson's smile turned wicked. "I'm going to let him."
Dinner was beautiful.
The table looked like something from a magazine spread—golden roasted turkey with crispy skin, cranberry sauce that sparkled like rubies under the candlelight, buttery mashed potatoes piled high, and Brussels sprouts that actually smelled good. Two red candles flickered in the center, and Dad had pulled out his "special occasion" wine: a 1982 Napa Valley Cabernet that he'd been saving for years.
For a moment, standing in the doorway and taking it all in, I forgot about Caleb entirely.
"This calls for a celebration," Dad announced, already pouring a generous glass for Jackson before anyone could object. "Your first Christmas with us, son."
Son. The word hung in the air, warm and significant.
Jackson accepted the glass with practiced grace. "Thank you, sir. It's an honor."
"None of that 'sir' business," Dad said, waving his fork. "We're family here." He topped off Jackson's glass again. "Now, you're a young man. You should learn to appreciate good wine. This pairs perfectly with the turkey."
I watched Jackson take a polite sip, his throat working as he swallowed. His cheeks were already starting to flush—just slightly, a warm pink that made him look younger, softer.
The conversation flowed easily. Dad told stories about past Christmases—the year the tree fell over, the time Mom accidentally set the kitchen curtains on fire trying to flambé something. Mom added details he "conveniently forgot," and Jackson laughed—a real, warm sound that made my chest tight.
"You know," Mom said softly, her eyes on me and Jackson, "sometimes the best things happen when we stop overthinking and just... let nature take its course."
I felt my face heat, but there was something comforting in her words. Permission, I realized. She's giving us permission to just be.
"That's exactly how your mother and I got together," Dad said, launching into a story about a snowstorm and a misunderstanding and a first kiss that neither of them saw coming. "Sometimes you just have to trust that things will work out the way they're meant to."
Jackson's foot found mine under the table, a gentle pressure that said: See? Tonight is ours.
And slowly, finally, I let myself relax into it.