Page 92 of Back to December
He steps closer, tugging me to his chest. “Tradition, remember?”
“Strange tradition,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around his neck.
“Best kind.”
It’s an old song and dance that feels second nature. More muscle memory.
The world falls away as he leans in, and I catch the faint scent of cinnamon and cold air on his scarf. The roughness of his beard scrapes softly against my skin as he kisses me. Slow and certain, like the world could end tomorrow and he’d find me in the next one.
Or I’ll wake up from this glimpse, and he’ll still be waiting. I won’t have pushed him too far away this time. We’re meant for each other.
We’ve done this before, in another time and place. Andjust like before, everything feels like it’s coated in a soft glow. Like literal magic has us wrapped in a protective bubble that no one can touch.
His fingers press against the small of my back, and my body automatically takes another step into him, like it knows that’s where I belong. I run a hand through the hair that’s uncovered by his beanie, the other grasping his collar.
I didn’t understand the way his kiss felt like a promise before, so reverent and gentle that it felt like forever. It was all this.
We break apart to applause. I forgot we had an audience. The kids gag dramatically, while the adults whistle.
“Feeling lucky yet?” he whispers, brushing a stray hair from my cheek.
I can’t answer. I’m too busy trying to steady the ground beneath my feet.
Violet gasps softly. “Would you look at that?”
Lazy snowflakes drift and tumble from the gray sky, almost like they’re in slow motion.
“I thought you said it hadn’t snowed in years,” I say.
Holden’s gaze is fixed on the sky, wonder etched in every line of his face.
“It hasn’t, La. Not since the weekend we got engaged.”
Something in me stutters.
I’ve worn rings before—I’m wearing rings now—but I’ve never lived the moments that led to them.
This is what love should look like. The kind that lingers and stays.
Not burning, not consuming—just steady and golden, the way sunlight slips through snow.
Holden tugs me close again, swaying to the soft strains of a carol floating through the farm speakers. Mymind flickers back to a memory that’s more recent for me than this Holden. How closely it reminds me of a first dance after promises made on a sleigh.
I’ve learned a lot since then.
The kids run shrieking through the first snowfall, their laughter carrying through the pines.
This isn’t simply a melatonin-induced dream; it can’t be. There’s too much of ourrealhistory rooted here. I think it might be a reminder of what’s waiting if I’m brave enough to finally choose it.
A breadcrumb in the snow, reminding me that home isn’t a place you find. It’s a choice you make—over and over again.
Maybe I’m supposed to stick to this path.
Maybe I always was.
thirty-three
LAILA
