Chapter 132
Ellie's POV
The warmth from dinner still lingered in my chest as we moved to the living room, bellies full and spirits high. Dad had insisted on lighting the fireplace—"No proper Christmas without a fire," he'd declared—and now orange flames danced behind the grate, casting shifting shadows across the room. The Christmas tree lights twinkled in sync with my heartbeat, or maybe that was just my imagination.
"Alright, family tradition time," Mom announced, pulling out the ancient Charades box from the cabinet under the TV. The corners were literally held together with duct tape. "Jackson, I hope you're ready to embarrass yourself."
"I'm actually terrible at this," Jackson admitted, settling onto the floor beside me. His shoulder pressed against mine, warm and solid.
"Perfect," Dad said, grinning wickedly. "That's the whole point."
The first round had Dad acting out some Christmas movie, flailing his arms and making exaggerated galloping motions. It took me a full thirty seconds to realize he was pretending to be a reindeer pulling Santa's sleigh.
"Rudolph!" I shouted, dissolving into laughter as he added an elaborate nose-honking gesture. "Dad, that's literally the worst reindeer impression I've ever seen."
"It got you to laugh, didn't it?" He winked, collapsing back onto the couch beside Mom.
Then it was Jackson's turn to guess while Mom acted. She'd barely started miming when he said, calm as anything, "Home Alone."
Mom's jaw dropped. "How did you—I literally just started!"
Jackson shrugged, that small smile playing at his lips. "You tilted your head like Macaulay Culkin. Dead giveaway."
Even I hadn't caught that. Dad let out a bark of laughter, clapping Jackson on the shoulder. "This one's sharp, Ellie. Better keep him around."
If only you knew how much I intend to, I thought, watching Jackson's ears turn slightly pink at the praise.
We moved through several more rounds, and with each one, I felt the knot of anxiety in my chest loosening. Caleb was still out there somewhere, yes. The threat hadn't vanished. But right now, in this moment, surrounded by laughter and firelight and the people I loved most, the world felt... manageable. Like maybe we could handle whatever came next.
"Your turn to act," Dad said, tossing me the card.
I groaned when I read it. The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. How was I supposed to act that out?
I scrunched up my face, hunched my shoulders, and made exaggerated stealing motions. Jackson got it in five seconds flat.
"Show off," I muttered, but I was smiling.
By eleven-thirty, we'd moved on to hot cocoa and Mom's famous gingerbread cookies—the ones she always made on Christmas Eve. The kitchen smelled like heaven: cinnamon, ginger, brown sugar, and something indefinably home.
"Come help me with the decorating," Mom said, pulling out the icing bags. "You know your father can't be trusted with fine motor control."
"I heard that," Dad called from the living room, where he and Jackson were supposedly organizing tomorrow's gifts but were actually just talking quietly. About what, I wasn't sure, but Jackson's posture was relaxed in a way I'd never seen before.
Mom and I stood side by side at the kitchen island, shoulders touching as we piped white icing onto gingerbread men. Her hands were steady and sure, creating perfect little buttons while mine came out slightly wobbly.
"You look happy, sweetheart," she said softly, not looking up from her cookie. "Really happy."
My throat tightened. "I am. Jackson... he makes everything feel less scary, you know?"
"I know." She set down her piping bag and turned to face me fully. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. "Your father and I, we've been watching you two together. The way he looks at you, honey—like you're the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life."
Oh God, if she only knew how literally true that was.
"Mom—"
"No, let me finish." She took my hands, getting icing all over both of us. "I was worried, after everything with Lucas. I was afraid you'd lost faith in... in finding someone who could really see you. But Jackson, he sees you, Ellie. All of you. And he's not scared."
I couldn't speak. He didn't just accept it. He thought it was beautiful.
"Thank you," I managed, my voice cracking. "For accepting him. For letting him be here."
"Sweetheart." Mom pulled me into a hug, flour and icing and all. "Anyone who makes you smile like that is welcome in our home. Always."
At midnight exactly, the old grandfather clock in the hallway chimed, deep and resonant. Outside, snow was falling harder now, coating the world in pristine white.
"It's officially Christmas," Dad announced, rubbing his hands together. "Present time!"
We gathered around the tree, the four of us settling onto the floor like kids. The pile of wrapped boxes seemed to glow in the firelight.
Dad went first, handing Jackson a carefully wrapped package. Jackson's fingers trembled slightly as he peeled back the blue paper to reveal a thick cashmere scarf.
But it was the card that made his breath catch. I watched his eyes scan the handwritten message, watched his throat work as he swallowed.
"Welcome to the family, Jackson," Dad had written in his careful script. "We're glad you found your way to us."
Jackson's hands tightened on the card. For a moment, I thought he might actually cry. "I don't—" His voice broke. "Thank you. This means more than you know."
Mom reached over and squeezed his hand. "You're not a guest, Jackson. You're family."
That did it. A single tear slipped down his cheek before he quickly wiped it away, laughing self-consciously. "Sorry, I'm not usually—"
"Don't apologize," I said, threading my fingers through his. "Not for being real."
Then it was Jackson's turn. He reached into his jacket pocket—he'd been carrying it with him all evening, I realized—and pulled out a small velvet box, deep forest green.
My heart stuttered.
"This is for you," he said quietly, his amber eyes locked on mine.