He peels back the paper slowly, and then he sees it.
The cover is worn—its green cloth binding faded by age. His lips part slightly as he runs his fingers over the gold-embossed title:The Wind in the Willows.
“Addison…”
“Open it,” I whisper.
He does, and then he gasps. Inside, on the left side jacket, is the name Henry Mackenzie, scrawled in messy, boyish handwriting.
The silence between us stretches. For a long time, he just stares at the name as if it might disappear.
“How…?” he says, voice barely audible. “How did you find this?”
“Remember that day you walked me around your hometown?” I ask. Oliver nods. “You told me he used to get it from the library, so when I got back to London, I called them. And emailed. A lot. I didn’t know if they’d still have it. They didn’t—it had gone out of circulationand been donated. But I tracked it down and asked if they’d be willing to part with it. Told them why. Then they mailed it to me.”
Oliver stares at me like I’ve just reached inside him and rearranged his heart. He runs his hand down the faded cover like he can feel Henry inside. He opens the book again and notices the inscription I left on the first page:For the days you miss him the most.
“No one has ever… done something like this for me,” he says, voice cracking.
“I wanted to.”
And then he’s kissing me. It’s not heat or hunger, it’s something else entirely. It’s gratitude and vulnerability, like he doesn’t know how else to say thank you because words aren’t enough. So I kiss him back, taking his face in my hands, feeling the weight of a memory tucked between us in a children’s book.
He cups my jaw in his hand. “You undo me, you know that?”
“Right back at you, Captain.”
“Come to bed.”
I nod wordlessly. He stands and holds out a hand. I take it and he leads me to his bedroom. He slips my sweatshirt over my head and then undresses himself with quiet ease. He tugs at the waist of my sweatpants and slowly rolls them down my legs. Every move is slow, like I’m worth worshipping.
We move together slowly, deliberately. There’s no rush. It’s just us—two people finding peace and comfort with each other on Christmas Eve.
When it’s over, we stay tangled together in the sheets. His fingers trace the pendant resting against my collarbone, and I can feel him smile. I kiss his temple and wrap myself around him.
“Happy Christmas, Addie,” he murmurs.
30
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NOTHING'S GONNA HURT YOU BABY BY CIGARETTES AFTER SEX
Oliver’s in the middle of filling his to-go coffee mug when I wander into the kitchen, hair damp from the shower we took together this morning.
“You put on real clothes today,” I tease, glancing at his black trousers and gray wool coat.
He smirks, grabbing his bag that’s hanging over a chair. “Well, some of us have jobs that require leaving the flat.”
“Some of us are lucky to work remotely on light days,” I counter.
“There are no light days when Carlos is involved,” he quips. Oliver opens the fridge and gestures inside. “Made you breakfast.”
I peer past him and spot a container of scrambled eggs and bacon. “My hero.”
He grins, leaning down to kiss the top of my head on his way past. “Yes, I am, considering your breakfast otherwise would have been coffee and more coffee.”
“There is nothing wrong with a breakfast of coffee,” I retort.
