Page 124 of Going Viral for Christmas
Ava’s slender fingers trail the frame ofPersuasion, hovering over the opening line.
“I used to underline this one in every copy I found,” she says softly, almost to herself.
I step beside her. “Why?”
“At first glance, it’s not exactly romantic.” Ava tilts her head, her hair falling, creating a curtain between us and the rest of the world. “But it sets up the deeper themes. It’s about second chances. About someone being worth the wait. It made me believe that even if I messed everything up—if I wasn’t brave the first time—I might get another shot someday.” She laughs once, dry and hollow. “Except real life doesn’t work like that.”
“No… it doesn’t.” The words are rough in my throat. I drag a hand over my face, wishing I could scrub away the truth of it. My chest caves in at her quiet pain, my heart pounding like it wants to argue otherwise, then her body turns toward mine.
“But you keep showing up like it might,” she says.
A heavy silence surrounds us. What Ava just said means she’s finally seeing me. And for the first time, she doesn’t push me away because she’s terrified of what happens if she doesn’t.
“Because you’re worth it, Bells.” I slide a stray hair away from her face.
Her breath shudders, as if she doesn’t believe that about herself. That tears me up inside.
“I used to get lost in these books,” she says, waving toward the walls, moving the spotlight away from her. “Not for the happily ever after, but the yearning. The tension. That ache when someone’s afraid to want too much, but wants it anyway. I know that ache.”
“And now?” I ask because Ineedto know and understand her hurt if I ever want to be the one she doesn’t run from.
“You know.”
“Do I?”
“Yes, I write about it,” she says. “About love that I’m too scared to ask for. I write about women who get it right, even if I don’t.”
I don’t hesitate. “You deserve a beautiful love story, Bells. Not just the ones you give everyone else.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Did the idea never occur to you?”
She shakes her head. “Not in a long time—or maybe ever. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“Start here,” I whisper, reaching gently for her hand. “With this chapter. With me.”
Ava stares at our joined hands—mine large and callused from axe handles and book signings, hers delicate but sure. They’ve spent a lifetime bracing for impact.
Her thumb brushes the inside of my wrist. It’s the gentlest touch. But surges through every vein in my body.
“If I let someone write their way into my story again, I’m scared of the ending,” she admits, her voice trembling at the edges.
My heart thuds, deep and painful, against my ribs. “Then don’t let them write it for you. Write it yourself. Write the terrifying and messy. I’ll be whatever you need me to be—your plot twist, your cliffhanger, hell, even your tragic hero if that’s what it takes—but I’ll never take the pen out of your hand.”
She laughs a breath. Then—God—she leans her forehead into my chest.
“I’m not good at this,” she whispers.
“Good,” I say, brushing a knuckle along her cheek. “Neither am I.”
We stay like that for a breath… two… five. The world still spins beyond the gallery’s tall, frost-touched windows. The city glitters in soft focus. But in here, in this small moment carved from pages and heartbeats, it’s ours.
I lean down, but not to kiss her. Not yet. To feel her nose brush mine. To feel her exhale when she lets the walls drop an inch lower. And, gently, her lips press to my cheek—so light it’s as though she’s testing how it feels to let herself hope.
Ava pulls back, eyes swimming with unshed tears. “Ready for the next room?” she asks, voice thick.
I nod, hand still warm around hers. “Lead the way.”
