Page 88 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
Because here, with him, I don’t have to hide.
And I don’t want to ever go back to pretending I do.
By the time the custard is half gone, the booth feels smaller—warmer, closer. I’m not sure if it’s because the heat’s blasting too high or because Eli keeps brushing against me like he’s testing how far I’ll go. His thigh presses to mine. His hand rests on the bench between us until his pinky hooks around mine. He’s not subtle about it, but no one seems to care.
His mom’s telling some story about Eli as a kid—something involving a sled, a sprinkler, lots of mud, and an emergency room visit—and I can’t stop grinning. Eli groans beside me, his head dropping onto my shoulder.
“Mom,” he whines, his voice muffled against my hoodie, “you’re ruining my mystique.”
“You don’thavemystique,” Jules says dryly, licking her spoon. “You have chaos.”
Eli peeks up at her with a glare that’s all brotherly menace, but his hand slides fully into mine under the table, fingersthreading through mine with quiet confidence. And I don’t pull away. Not this time.
It’s the smallest thing—a shared space, a touch, a moment that no one calls out—and I swear it’s everything.
Because no one here is flinching. No one’s whispering or pretending not to see. They’re just… letting us exist.
When Eli tilts his head up again, he’s smiling at me. “You’re smiling,” he murmurs, so quietly that it’s for me alone.
“Don’t get used to it,” I say, but my thumb finds the inside of his wrist and strokes once, slowly. His pulse jumps beneath it.
“Too late,” he teases.
And then, because he’s Eli, he leans up and kisses the corner of my mouth. It’s quick, soft, sticky with peppermint custard—and the world doesn’t fall apart. His mom just laughs. Jules wolf-whistles. His dad pretends to groan but can’t hide his smile.
For once, I don’t look away. I just kiss him back, quick and sure, before settling an arm around his shoulders.
“Gross,” Jules mutters, snickering.
“Jealous,” Eli shoots back, stealing my spoon and a bite of my custard like he owns me.
I let him. Because maybe he does.
The drive back is quieter,but not in a bad way. The windows fog with warmth, soft music hums low through the speakers, and Eli’s head lolls against my shoulder before we’re even halfway home. His fingers rest loosely in mine, our hands tucked between our thighs.
Outside, the world blurs by—trees and storefront lights and the kind of Southern winter night that still smells like grass instead of snow.
From the driver’s seat, his mom hums along to the radio. His dad’s telling her something about a neighbor’s broken porch light, voice calm, content. Family talk. Ordinary talk.
And I want to be part of it. I want this to last longer than a holiday. Longer than borrowed time.
Eli shifts beside me, murmuring something half-asleep. His hand squeezes mine. I press a kiss to the top of his head before I can stop myself.
Ava catches my eye in the rearview mirror. She doesn’t say a word—just smiles, soft and knowing, like she’s already seen this story unfold before.
I look away, back to Eli, and breathe him in. Peppermint and warmth and everything I didn’t know I was missing.
I think I could stay right here forever.
THIRTY-THREE
ELI
A few dayslater
The Christmas market takes up the whole damn town square—twinkle lights strung from one lamppost to the next, every booth dripping with tinsel and cinnamon smells. A band’s playing off to one side, some kid murdering a sax solo ofJingle Bell Rock, and I’m eating it up like it’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.
Max, predictably, looks like he’s pretending not to have fun. Which would almost work if he wasn’t holding my hand.
