Page 82 of Back to December
Because she does.
She always leaves breadcrumbs—messages, notes, soft things that smell like sugar. And every time, I follow them right back here. Maybe that’s what love is: choosing to follow even when you don’t know if the trail leads home.
“I love you, Laila,” I whisper to the dark. “Come back to me. I promise I’ll keep you safe.”
Nothing but silence echoes back.
At least she’s sleeping. Maybe wherever she’s gone in her dreams, she’s happy.
Maybe she’s somewhere I can’t reach—caught between who she was and who she’s becoming. Henry would probably call it her mirror scene, the part of the story where the heroine finally faces herself.
I stretch to set the coin on the nightstand. Moonlight glints off it once again, sending a shimmer of pale light across her skin.
Maybe the morning will bring us something new.
A different page or a rewritten prophecy. A softer kind of light this time.
Her breathing is steady, a quiet lull that pulls me into sleep.
Sometime in the night, between wakefulness and sleep, she inches closer to me. Or at least I think she does. The warmth crosses the pillow wall, light as breath, melting the cold.
But the idea is enough to send me into a deep, comfortable drift—the kind that feels safe.
Like we’re finally crossing back over to ourselves.
thirty
LAILA
I can’t rememberthe last time I slept so soundly. The sheets are soft, the blankets thick, and honestly, it’s like being wrapped up in a cocoon of warmth and safety.
There’s a comforting heaviness, familiar and grounding. Like Holden, when we’d fall asleep on the couch watching movie marathons and wake up tangled together.
My eyes fly open.
There’s an arm sprawled across my waist, and absolutely no trace of the pillow wall I insisted on last night. It’s a little awkward, but not enough to justify the fluttery feeling in my chest.
I am not supposed to be here.
I ease away, careful not to wake Holden, wincing when I inch out from the warm spot of our snuggled-up bodies.
Holden’s arm tightens around my waist, tugging me back to him.
“Where’s my wife sneaking off to?” His voice is still gravelly from sleep.
Wife?
WIFE?
Even on our fake honeymoon,he didn’t use the term so loosely.
Holden is mostly still asleep, and the man isn’t this quick with his wit first thing in the morning. What is happening right now?
“I was going to make coffee,” I croak, my head spinning.
He nuzzles my neck, his beard scratching against my skin. “I set the timer last night. Stay with me a little longer.”
The words echo last night’s plea, “come back to me. I’ll keep you safe”. He’s acting like nothing between us ever broke.
