Updated Jan 26, 2026 • ~6 min read
We’d been living together since October. But it was December when Jaxon asked the question that made it official.
“Do you want to make this permanent?”
We were decorating for Christmas—the first Christmas I’d celebrated in this house since Grammy died. Jaxon was untangling lights while I hung ornaments on the tree.
“Make what permanent?” I asked.
“This. Us. Living together not because of legal battles or fake relationships, but because we want to. Because we’re choosing this.”
I set down the ornament. “I thought that’s what we were already doing.”
“We are. But I want to make sure you know—this isn’t temporary for me. This isn’t until the house is renovated or the book tour ends or whatever. This is permanent. You, me, this house. Forever.”
“Forever is a long time.”
“Good. I’m planning on a long time.”
I crossed the room, wrapped my arms around him. “I want permanent too. Want to wake up in this house with you every morning. Want to argue about whose turn it is to do dishes. Want to build a life that’s boring and domestic and ours.”
“Boring and domestic sounds perfect.”
“It really does.”
So we made it official. Stopped maintaining separate bedrooms (we’d been sleeping in the same bed for months anyway). Combined our stuff properly—his books mixed with mine, our clothes sharing closet space, his coffee mugs next to my tea collection.
Mars came over to help finalize the move.
“You two are disgustingly cute,” they announced, watching Jaxon and me debate where to hang a photograph.
“We’re practical. There’s a difference.”
“You’re feeding each other cookies while decorating. That’s not practical, that’s a Hallmark movie.”
“A Hallmark movie where the male lead violated the female lead’s privacy?”
“Okay, maybe a darker Hallmark movie.”
But Mars was right—we were disgustingly cute. I’d fought it for months, tried to maintain cool distance, convinced myself I wasn’t that person who got soft over domesticity.
Turned out I absolutely was that person.
I loved making coffee for Jaxon in the morning. Loved the way he’d leave notes around the house: “Writing is going great! Proud of you!” Loved the domesticity of grocery shopping together, arguing about whether we needed more pasta (we always needed more pasta).
“I’m becoming the kind of person I used to mock,” I told Mars.
“The kind who’s happy?”
“The kind who talks about her boyfriend constantly and thinks everything he does is charming.”
“That’s called being in love. It’s gross. Embrace it.”
I was embracing it. More than I’d ever thought possible.
On Christmas Eve, we hosted dinner. Mars came, Ruby Mae, Des, Silas and his wife Teagan who’d flown in from LA. The house was full of people and laughter and the smell of Jaxon’s cooking.
“Imogene would love this,” Ruby Mae said, looking around the crowded dining room. “This house alive again. Full of family.”
“Chosen family,” I corrected.
“The best kind.”
After dinner, after everyone left, Jaxon and I sat by the Christmas tree drinking wine.
“Last Christmas I was alone in my apartment,” he said. “Eating takeout. Convinced I’d never have this.”
“This?”
“Home. Family. Someone to share holidays with.”
“Last Christmas I was here with Grammy. Knowing it was probably her last Christmas. Trying to memorize every detail.”
We sat in silence, thinking about how much had changed in a year.
“She’d be happy we’re together,” I said finally.
“Yeah. She would. Smug, probably. Her plan worked.”
“Manipulative to the end.”
“The best people usually are.”
I leaned against him. “Thank you for this Christmas. For making it not sad. For filling the house with people again.”
“Thank you for letting me. For choosing to celebrate instead of grieve.”
“I’m doing both. But the celebrating part is winning.”
We watched the tree lights twinkle. Outside, snow fell softly—the kind of perfect Christmas Eve snow that looked fake but was real.
“Can I tell you something?” Jaxon said.
“Always.”
“I’m happier than I’ve ever been. Here, with you, in this house. Building this life. And I just—I want you to know that. Want you to know I choose this every single day.”
“I choose it too. Choose you. Choose us.”
“Good. Because I have plans for us.”
“What kind of plans?”
“The kind that involve forever. But we’ll get to that.” He kissed my temple. “For now, just know I love you. More than I thought I could love anyone.”
“I love you too. Even though you read my diaries.”
“Especially because I read your diaries. That’s how I knew you were worth fighting for.”
“That’s a terrible justification for privacy violation.”
“I know. But it’s true anyway.”
We fell asleep on the couch that night, wrapped in blankets and each other, the tree lights still glowing.
When I woke at 2 AM, Jaxon was carrying me upstairs.
“I can walk,” I mumbled.
“I know. But this is more romantic.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
I did. God help me, I really did.
In bed, wrapped in his arms, I thought about the last year. Everything I’d lost and found. Grammy’s death. The house. The diaries. Jaxon.
Learning that home wasn’t a place but a person.
Understanding that chosen family was real family.
Believing, finally, that I was worth staying for.
“Jaxon?” I whispered into the dark.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for staying. For choosing me. For proving that people can stay.”
“Thank you for letting me. For being brave enough to try.”
“I’m still scared sometimes. That you’ll wake up and realize I’m too damaged.”
“Then I’ll remind you every day that you’re not damaged. You’re careful. You’re strong. You’re the person I want to build a life with.”
“Promise?”
“Every single day. For the rest of our lives.”
I believed him.
For the first time in twenty-eight years, I believed that someone staying wasn’t a miracle.
It was just love.
And I finally understood that I deserved it.
All of it.
The house, the family, the man who’d seen my broken parts and loved them anyway.
Grammy had been right.
I didn’t need walls.
I just needed people brave enough to stay.
And Jaxon was the bravest person I’d ever met.
Even if he had terrible judgment about reading other people’s diaries.
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