“Good,” I grin, the tension finally lifting from my chest. “Now, let’s get you a glass of wine.”
“My favorite eight words.”
I laugh as he follows me into the kitchen, where Corbin and Trey are still locked in a spirited debate over beer preferences—Corbin defending stouts, Trey arguing for something lighter. It’s surprisingly civil. It’s even a little fun.
I clear my throat with a teasing edge. “Sarge is here, and we’re still waiting on our wine.”
“Right.” Corbin turns, all easy charm, and grabs a glass of wine from the counter. He hands it to me with a small smile that says a thousand things. Then, he turns to Sarge, offering him one, too.
“I’m glad you could make it,” Corbin says.
“Me too,” Sarge replies, and the honesty in his voice stuns me. It softens something deep in me that I didn’t know was still braced for disappointment.
Corbin sets the salad on the table and claps his hands. “I think we’re ready.”
The living room glows warm with the soft shimmer of candlelight. Deanna and Flor are already settled, their glasses in hand, mid-laughter about something I missed. Tate is perched at the table, eyes wide and fixated on the turkey like it’s the star of the show.
We gather. We sit. We settle in—Flor beside Trey, Deanna across from Tate, Sarge at my left, Corbin to my right.
And for the first time in a long time, everything feels… right.
Not perfect. Not easy. But whole.
Family.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Corbin
Jules’ fingers are threaded with mine as we walk through the Christmas Wonderland at Tate’s school, faux snow falling in soft, weightless flurries around us. The string lights above cast everything in a golden hue, like the entire world has been dipped in warmth and magic. Up ahead, Tate and Leo dart between glowing trees and oversized candy canes, their laughter rising above the soft hum of carols playing over the speakers. Somewhere behind us, Pearla trails with a man she’s started seeing. It’s not serious. Yet. But the look on her face tells me she’s hoping.
“What do you want for Christmas?” Jules whispers, her voice so close and soft it barely carries, but it still cuts straight through me.
She doesn’t say it like it’s small talk. She says it like she means it. Like she really wants to know.
I glance at her—at the gentle way her curls frame her face, at the hazelnut warmth in her eyes—and I already know. I’ve always known.
“I just want you.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shy away. Instead, she leans into me slightly, her shoulder brushing mine, grounding me. “Youhave me,” she says, and the words settle into my bones like a promise.
What she doesn’t know is that I’ve been carrying her engagement ring in my pocket for weeks. The same ring I gave her years ago when I thought I knew what forever meant. I’ve taken it with me everywhere. Out of hope, maybe, or superstition. Waiting for the right moment. For the perfect alignment of peace and courage.
Because she deserves that.
After everything I’ve done—everything we’ve survived—she deserves a moment that’s real. One that doesn’t come with regrets or baggage or fear.
She deserves to be asked again. Properly. Not because we’re already living together. Not because we’re raising a child. But because I choose her. Still. Always.
And maybe I’m ready to ask.
“What do you want for Christmas?” I ask her softly, the words barely above the hum of holiday music and the buzz of children’s laughter echoing across the school’s Christmas Wonderland.
Jules' hand drifts instinctively to her stomach. It’s subtle—barely a movement—but I notice. We’ve talked about giving Tate a sibling, but we’re not rushing anything. Right now, we’re focused on healing. On rebuilding something that feels real again.
“Maybe a vacation,” she finally says. “Somewhere warm. The beach, maybe. Just the three of us.”
I smile, heart squeezing as I picture it. Tate chasing waves, Jules’ curls wind-blown and golden in the sunlight. “I like the sound of that.”
