The bungalow.
My mom’s bungalow.
For a second, I couldn’t breathe. It looked the same yet completely different. The peeling paint was gone, replaced with soft cream siding and deep green shutters. The sagging porch had been rebuilt, glowing under fairy lights. A wreath hung on the door, pine, cinnamon, and red ribbon, just like the one Mom used to make.
“I don’t… I don’t understand,” I whispered. “I sold it last spring.”
“I know,” Felix said quietly, parking in the drive.
The engine hummed to silence. I stared, throat tight, heart pounding. “You said we were going home.”
He turned to me, eyes gentle. “We are.”
My hands shook as I opened the car door. The snow muffled everything, even the sound of my boots crunching on the path. The porch light flickered as if the house recognized me.
Felix followed a step behind, his breath warm against the cold air. He reached into his coat and handed me a small velvet box.
I gazed down in confusion, and Felix chuckled, taking it back and opening it. Inside, a silver key blinked at me.
The front door creaked open before I could ask how, and a familiar laugh rang out.
“About time!” Olivia called, standing in the glow of the hallway. “You two drive slower than Santa’s sleigh in rush hour.”
“Olivia?” I blinked. “What are you—”
Then I saw it.
The tree.
Twinkling in the corner of the living room. Not the store-bought kind, but a real one, full and uneven and perfect and covered in silver ribbons and tiny, handmade ornaments. Some I'd made at the club with the other Littles, and some that the children from the company day care had made me. The fireplace was lit, stockingshung with care. Even the faint smell of cinnamon and cocoa filled the air.
My knees nearly gave out.
Olivia beamed, brushing snow off her coat. “Merry Christmas, Clayton.” She nodded toward Felix, eyes shining. “He did good, huh?”
She squeezed my hand and slipped out into the snow, humming as she went, leaving us alone in the quiet, glowing house.
I turned to Felix, my heart in my throat. “You…bought it?”
He nodded, slow and calm, but I saw the flicker of nerves in his eyes, rare for him. “I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else taking it apart. Your mom built something full of warmth, even when it was falling down around her. You told me that once. I wanted to give it back to you. To us.”
My vision blurred. I pressed a hand to my mouth. “You remodeled it?”
He smiled faintly. “Top to bottom. New wiring, new floors. Olivia handled the decor because, well—”
“Because you think beige is a color palette,” I managed, half laughing, half sobbing.
“Exactly.”
“The house is in both our names now,” he said softly. “I thought maybe it was time you had roots again. Not the kind that trap you, the kind that hold you steady.”
I stared at house, taking in the sparkling kitchen, then at him. “Sir, Daddy…” My voice broke. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why I wanted to.”
I couldn’t stop the tears then. I stepped into him, arms around his neck, and he caught me like he’d been waiting for it all night. “It’s beautiful,” I whispered against his chest. “It’s perfect.”
He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. “It’s home.”
