Page 122 of Held-
Cece’s fingers tremble slightly against mine. When I glance at her, tears shimmer in her gaze, catching the candlelight and turning into tiny diamonds. I squeeze her hand, suddenly aware of every pair of eyes in this church. A strange vulnerabilityspreads through my chest, as if the Reverend has reached in and peeled back my skin, revealing all the messy, complicated parts of me I usually keep hidden.
“As we prepare our hearts to celebrate the birth of our Savior, let us remember that Christ came not for the perfect, but for the broken. He came for the outcasts, the sinners, the people society deemed unworthy.” His gaze sweeps across the congregation, lingering on a few faces that suddenly look uncomfortable. “And He calls us to do the same.”
I shift again, wincing as my ribs protest. Mrs. Holloway leans forward, dabbing at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief.
I stare at the wooden cross hanging behind the pulpit, trying to process everything that’s happening. A month ago, I was just another Heaven’s Reject, doing club business and keeping to myself. Now I’m sitting in a church on Christmas Eve while a preacher uses me as some kind of sermon illustration.
The Reverend’s voice softens as he continues. “Tonight, as we celebrate the greatest gift ever given, I ask you to look around this sanctuary. Look at the faces of your neighbors—some familiar, some new. Each one created in God’s image. Each one worthy of grace.”
His gaze meets mine again, and there’s something there I’ve never seen before—respect. Not just tolerance or reluctant acceptance, but genuine respect. It hits me harder than Ethan’s tire iron ever could.
“Let us pray,” the Reverend says, bowing his head.
I lower my head, not because I suddenly believe, but because I respect what this means to Cece. Her father is extending an olive branch in the most public way possible. The least I can do is meet him halfway.
When I look up again, the children are filing in for the nativity scene. I spot Wrecker immediately, towering over theother shepherds in his costume. He catches my eye and gives me a subtle nod.
“Remind me why he volunteered for this again?” Cece leans over and whispers into my ear.
“At least, he asked to be a shepherd, and not baby Jesus. Though I have to admit, I’m a little sad baby Jesus’ penis didn’t pop back up again.”
Cece lets out a small snort, her body shaking with suppressed laughter. She starts to elbow me in the ribs, but stops mid-motion, her eyes widening in horror as she remembers my injuries. Her hand freezes, hovering inches from my side.
“Oh my God, I'm sorry,” she whispers, mortification replacing her amusement. “I wasn't thinking.”
I catch her hand before she can pull it away completely, pressing it gently against my side. “It's fine, princess. I'm not made of glass.”
But the truth is, I'm grateful for her restraint. My ribs are still tender enough that even a playful jab would've had me seeing stars. Not that I'd ever admit that to her. She's been treating me like I'm breakable for days, and while the pampering has its perks, I miss her fire.
“Still,” she murmurs, her fingers now carefully tracing the outline of my ribs through my shirt, “I should be more careful.”
“If you want to make it up to me,” I whisper, leaning closer so only she can hear, “I've got some ideas that don't involve my ribs at all.”
Her cheeks flush pink, and she gives me a look that promises both punishment and reward later. Mrs. Holloway clears her throat loudly beside us, reminding me that we're still sitting in the front row of a church during Christmas Eve service. Right. Probably shouldn’t be having unholy thoughts right now.
I force myself to focus on the nativity scene, trying to ignore the heat of Cece's fingers still resting lightly against my side. Thetouch is innocent enough, but my body doesn't seem to care that we're in a church surrounded by people who probably still think I'm one motorcycle ride away from eternal damnation.
The children playing the Three Wise Men stumble forward, clearly nervous as they present their gifts to Mary and plastic baby Jesus. One kid trips on his oversized robe and nearly faceplants into the manger. Wrecker reaches out with surprising grace, steadying the boy before disaster strikes. The kid looks up at him with wide eyes, probably wondering how a man with neck tattoos ended up in the Christmas pageant.
“He's good with them,” Cece whispers, nodding toward Wrecker.
“Always has been,” I murmur back. “Kids don't care about the tattoos or the cut. They just see someone who listens to them.”
The pageant continues with all the awkward charm of children trying their best not to forget their lines. Mary looks terrified, Joseph keeps picking his nose when he thinks no one's watching, and one of the sheep has decided to sit down and refuses to get back up. It's chaotic and sweet and strangely perfect.
When the final carol begins, everyone stands. I rise more carefully this time, my body reminding me with sharp twinges that I'm still healing. The congregation lifts small candles, their flames creating a sea of light that transforms the sanctuary. Cece holds our candle, careful to keep the flame away from me. The soft glow illuminates her face, making her skin look like it's lit from within. She's never been more beautiful than she is right now, singing some ancient hymn about silent nights and heavenly peace.
The final note hangs in the air, soft and fragile, before fading into silence.
Cece leans against me, her head resting on my shoulder, the candle still flickering between us. Around us, the church glows with warmth and quiet joy.
For the first time in a long while, everything feels still.
I look at her, at the peace on her face, and know this is what we fought for.
Our own kind of Christmas miracle.
CECE - 1 YEAR LATER