Chapter 10: Christmas Morning Lies
1008 Words
December 25, 2025.
I woke up to the smell of cinnamon rolls baking downstairs and the soft clatter of Mom setting the table for brunch. Sunlight filtered through my curtains—bright, glaring off the fresh snow. Everything looked clean. New.
Everything except me.
I lay there for a long minute, staring at the ceiling, body still humming from last night’s stolen touches. The red dress was crumpled on my chair like evidence. My lips still felt swollen. Between my legs, a low, satisfied ache that made me squeeze my eyes shut and replay his fingers, his mouth against my ear, the way he’d said “tomorrow” like a vow.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Damien: Merry Christmas, little one. Thinking about you in that dress. Counting the hours.
I smiled despite myself, thumbs hovering.
Me: Merry Christmas. I can still feel your hands.
Damien: Good. Keep feeling them. Tell your parents you’re meeting a friend for coffee around two. I’ll send the address.
Me: Okay.
A pause. Then:
Damien: Be ready for me. All of you.
Heat flooded me. I set the phone down before I did something stupid like moan out loud.
Downstairs, the house was already alive. Dad wrestling with the new coffee machine Mom got him. Presents piled under the tree. Mom humming along to Mariah Carey, apron dusted with flour.
I pasted on a smile, accepted a mug of cocoa, helped arrange the brunch spread—eggs, bacon, those perfect cinnamon rolls. We opened gifts slowly, the way we always did. I got a new sketch tablet from my parents, cozy socks from Mia (delivered yesterday), a beautiful leather-bound journal from Damien that had arrived anonymously two days ago. I’d known it was from him the second I saw the handwriting on the card: For all the words you can’t say out loud.
I traced the cover now, under the table, heart twisting.
Mia texted mid-morning.
Mia: Merry Christmas bestie!!! Dad’s making his famous French toast. Wish you were here. Come over later?
Guilt stabbed sharp.
Me: Merry Christmas! Heading out for coffee with an old study buddy soon, but maybe after?
Mia: Boo. Fine. But save room for leftovers. Dad’s in a weirdly good mood today.
I could picture him—calm on the surface, mind on me. Waiting.
Brunch dragged and flew. Photos. Laughter. Dad’s terrible jokes. Mom tearing up over a necklace he’d surprised her with.
At 1:45, I stood in front of my mirror, changing three times before settling on something simple: black leggings, soft oversized cream sweater, hair loose. No makeup except lip gloss. I wanted to look like I wasn’t trying.
I was trying.
I told Mom I was meeting “Jess from art class” for holiday catch-up. She hugged me, told me to drive safe on the snowy roads.
The drive to the address Damien sent took twenty-five minutes—a quiet café on the edge of town, the kind with big windows and barely any customers on Christmas Day.
He was already there, corner booth, black coffee in front of him. Dark jeans, charcoal sweater that stretched across his shoulders. He looked up when I walked in, eyes locking on mine like no one else existed.
I slid into the seat across from him.
“Hi,” I said, voice small.
He reached across the table, took my hand, thumb stroking my knuckles.
“Hi.” His voice was low, rough. “You look beautiful.”
I flushed. “You look… like I want to climb you right here.”
A faint smile. “Soon.”
We ordered nothing. Just sat there, fingers tangled, knees brushing under the table.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said quietly. “Kept thinking about last night. About how you came apart on my fingers while everyone was ten feet away.”
I bit my lip. “I kept thinking about what comes next.”
His grip tightened. “Everything. Today. Tonight. Tomorrow. As long as you’ll let me.”
I swallowed. “Mia wants me to come over later.”
He nodded slowly. “Go. For a little while. Then tell her you’re tired. Come to me.”
“Where?”
“My house. Mia’s going to her aunt’s for a movie night. She won’t be home until late.”
My heart slammed. A whole evening. Alone. No interruptions.
I nodded.
He paid for his untouched coffee, stood, held out his hand.
We walked to our cars in the empty parking lot. Snow crunched under our boots.
At my driver’s door, he backed me against the cold metal, hands framing my face.
“One thing,” he said. “When you come tonight, bring nothing. No excuses. No going home. You’ll stay until morning.”
I searched his eyes—dark, serious, full of everything we weren’t saying yet.
“Okay,” I whispered.
He kissed me then—slow, deep, claiming. His hands slid under my sweater, palms warm against my back, pulling me flush against him. I felt how hard he already was and whimpered into his mouth.
He pulled back too soon.
“Drive safe,” he said, voice strained. “Text me when you’re on the way.”
I nodded, dazed.
He watched me drive off.
The next few hours were torture.
I went to Damien’s house—Mia’s house—for an hour. Ate leftover French toast. Laughed at her stories. Held it together while Damien sat across the kitchen island, calm and devastating, brushing my foot under the counter when Mia wasn’t looking.
At seven, I faked a yawn. “Early morning tomorrow—freelance deadline.”
Mia hugged me tight. “Text me when you get home.”
Damien’s eyes met mine over her shoulder. Burning.
I drove straight to him.
He opened the door before I knocked.
Pulled me inside.
Kissed me like he’d been starving.
And for the first time, we had all night.
No hiding. No rushing. No one else in the world.
Just us.
- Writer
