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434 pages, Kindle Edition
Published December 10, 2025


["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>He wished they were going to his parents’ place for Christmas—it would have been easier that way. Having them come here was always embarrassing. Lauren never seemed to notice what they thought of her DIY crafts. Not that he blamed them. Their house was a joke. The tacky wreaths, the glitter, the homemade ornaments—it was all way too much. If only Lauren would give this Christmas bullshit a rest.
The whole house looked like a kindergarten class, and Lauren was standing in the middle of it, proud as if she’d designed Versailles. Tom felt the familiar heat of embarrassment rise in his neck. Why did Lauren never notice? Glue guns and holly would never impress people who’d grown up with taste.
His eyes fell on the quilt Mia had spread out over the made-up couch. It was a gaudy, mismatched thing. It was an embarrassing gift to give him. Why had she made such a big deal? Why did she have to be like that in front of his parents?
“I’ve tried to ignore all the crafting and the handmade everything, but… it’s too much.” Her mouth opened, but nothing came. He sighed. “I can’t be married to someone like this, Lauren.”
“Grow up, Lauren!” The words came out harsher than he meant. “My parents are right about you, do you know how embarrassing it is that a grown woman spends all her time on DIY knick-knacks?”
“The man I married is ashamed of who I am. And I won’t—” Her voice broke, then steadied. "I can’t live like that.” "I love you,” he said. She gestured to herself, to her Rudolph slippers with the oversized red noses, the house cardigan with the buttons she’d painted to look like peppermints. “Do you? Do you really?” Yes. He felt a hollow churn in his stomach. He just wanted her to be less… less tacky.
He was a coward. Every careful, neutral choice he’d made—every time he’d wished she would tone it down—hadn’t been about standards. It had been about shame. His shame. He’d worried about what his parents were thinking. Worried about how it looked. Her joy had been so open, so pure, that it had embarrassed him. He’d wanted her to be appropriate. He’d wanted her to hide her joy so he wouldn’t have to feel ashamed of it. How could he have been such a bastard?
He didn’t deserve this quilt. Didn’t deserve to touch anything she’d made with her hands. Every stitch was love, and he’d met that love with indifference, with embarrassment, with cowardice. He was a small, spineless man who’d valued his parents’ approval over his wife’s heart. He wished he could unzip his own skin and crawl out of it, leave behind the pathetic idiot who’d ruined everything.
He needed her to understand. He didn’t want her despite her love of crafting. He wanted her because of it. Because that was who she was. And who she was was perfect.
He'd put Lauren in the attic. Like something shameful. Like her joy was something to hide. Tom's hands stilled on the mouse. His chest felt like someone had cracked it open with a crowbar. Jesus Christ. He'd built her a beautiful house¿ and then stuffed her in the smallest, darkest corner of it. Had designed their entire life around the assumption that what she loved— what made her who she was—should be kept out of sight.
“Every time we came here, I let you treat her like shit,” he said, louder now, his voice cracking. “And instead of leaving me the first time I did that, she wanted to earn your approval instead. And she tried. God, she tried.” He had to leave. Had to get out before the walls closed in. But at the doorway, he stopped, one hand braced on the frame. “Lauren was never the embarrassment,” he managed, voice rough. “I was.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. No preamble. No hesitation. The words came out in a rush, raw and jagged. “I’m so fucking sorry.” She blinked. His chest rose and fell fast. “I’m sorry for not standing up for you. For every dinner, every comment I let them make. For lying to myself that you didn’t notice, that it didn’t hurt you. God, Lauren, I just—” He broke off, shaking his head, jaw tight. “I should’ve defended you.”
His life without her stretched in front of him like a road that led nowhere. He’d tried to imagine moving on—some new life, some new future that didn’t have her in it. His mind rejected it every time. His heart refused. His body refused. The idea made him physically ill. He couldn’t move on. He wouldn’t. He knew that with the same certainty he knew his own name.
Tom pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes. He’d thought growing up meant he was supposed to be restrained. Dignified. He’d spent years diluting the color out of everything —out of their home, out of himself, out of her— and he’d called it good taste. He was a fucking joke.
“I am so, so glad you kicked me out,” he said. Her head snapped up. “What?” “I’m glad,” he repeated. “Because if you hadn’t?” His mouth twisted. “I would have stayed exactly who I was. Safe. Cowardly. Hiding behind my parents’ taste and calling it maturity. I’d have kept… holding you down, holding you back.” His voice broke. He swallowed hard and kept going. “You saved yourself,” he said. “You saved me too, even if I didn’t deserve it. You drew a line and you said ‘no more,’ and you walked me to the door and you didn’t look back.”
“I am all in, Lo,” he said quietly. “I knew from our first date that I was going to fall in love with you. And I did. I’m never moving on. There is no version of my life where I move on from being desperately, utterly in love with you. You’re it for me. You’ll always be it.”