Page 20 of Christmas With the Navy SEAL Mountain Man
Her intake of breath is soft but audible. I've told her bits and pieces about Afghanistan, about the ambush that killed my unit and left me the sole survivor. But I've never talked about the aftermath, the months of surgeries and rehabilitation, the nightmares that still wake me some nights.
"Aaron," she says gently. "Thank you for telling me."
Not 'I'm sorry.' Not 'That must have been terrible.' Just gratitude for my trust, for the piece of myself I've offered.
Something breaks open in my chest, a dam I've held intact for too long.
"I shouldn't have survived," I say, the words rushing out now. "It should have been them. Any of them. All of them. They had families, people waiting for them to come home. I had no one. It wasn't fair."
She shifts, sitting up to face me, her hands framing my face. "There's no fair in war. No justice in who lives and who dies. But I'm grateful you survived, Aaron. Selfishly, profoundly grateful."
The simple declaration undoes me. Tears I haven't allowed myself to shed burn behind my eyes. She sees it, leans forward to press her forehead against mine.
"You honor them by living," she whispers. "By finding joy again. By letting yourself be loved."
Loved. The word hangs between us, unacknowledged yet undeniable. Too soon to say aloud, but there nonetheless, growing stronger with each day we spend together.
"I don't know if I remember how," I confess, voice barely audible.
"That's okay." She brushes her lips against mine. "I'll remind you."
I pull her into my arms then, burying my face in her neck, breathing in her scent as if it can anchor me in this moment. Her arms wrap around me, strong despite their slenderness, holding me together as something inside me finally begins to heal.
When I lift my head, she's looking at me with such tenderness it almost hurts.
"Present time?" she suggests, giving me the space to compose myself.
I nod, grateful for her understanding. "Present time."
She bounces off the sofa with childlike enthusiasm, retrieving the packages from under the tree. "You first," she insists, placing a small box in my hands.
The gift is wrapped in simple red paper with a gold ribbon. I open it carefully, feeling strangely reverent. Inside is a leather bound sketchbook, the cover embossed with an intricate mountain scene.
"Open it," she urges.
I flip through the blank pages, stopping when I reach the first page. There, in her flowing handwriting:
"For the man who sees beauty in the grain of the wood. May you find joy in creating simply for the sake of creation. With love, Leah."
With love. The words make my throat tight.
"I noticed you're almost at the end of your current sketchbook," she explains, suddenly nervous. "I thought maybe you'd like a new one for your designs."
"It's perfect," I say, running my fingers over the cover. "Thank you."
Her smile is radiant. "There's one more."
The second package is smaller, flat. Inside is a framed photograph—the carousel from the Winter Wonderland, captured at sunset with mountains in the background. The craftsmanship of the wooden horses is highlighted in golden light, each detail lovingly preserved.
"I thought maybe," she says hesitantly, "you might like a reminder of the day things started to change. For both of us."
The thoughtfulness of the gift, the way she's seen into my heart without my having to explain, leaves me speechless. I set the gifts carefully aside and reach for her, pulling her into my lap.
"Thank you," I murmur against her lips. "They're perfect. You're perfect."
She melts into me, her body soft and yielding against mine. When we break apart, both breathing harder, I reach behind the sofa for the package I'd hidden earlier.
"Your turn."
