Page 110 of Making It Burn

Neither of us moved.

“Mason?”Beau’s voice was soft.“Thank you.For what you did in there.For standing up for me.”

“I’ll always stand up for you,” I murmured, pulling him in close.“I love you.”

“I love you too.”He kissed me, sweet and lingering.“Now take me home.We have Christmas to celebrate.”

“My place or yours?”

“Yours.I have something to give you.”

“The mysterious present?”

“Maybe.”He grinned.“You’ll have to wait and see.”

* * *

Christmas morning dawned cold and bright, sunlight streaming through my bedroom windows.I woke to find Beau already awake, propped up on one elbow watching me with a soft smile.

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

“Merry Christmas.”I pulled him down for a kiss.“How long have you been awake?”

“A while.I couldn’t sleep.”

“Nervous?”

“Excited.”He kissed me again.“Come on.I want to give you your present.”

We made coffee and settled on the couch, the small Christmas tree I’d bought last week twinkling in the corner.I’d never been much for decorating, but having Beau here made it feel worth it.

“You first,” Beau said, handing me a box wrapped in silver paper with a navy blue bow.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

I unwrapped it carefully, revealing a wooden box.Inside, nestled on navy velvet, was a brass compass—old, beautiful, clearly an antique.I picked it up, feeling the weight of it in my palm, and flipped open the lid.The needle moved, pointing north with absolute certainty.

Then I saw the engraving on the inside of the lid-So you always know where home is.

My throat closed.

“Beau—”

“I bought it before the party.Before everything fell apart.”He took my hand.“I wanted you to have something to remind you that no matter how lost or scared you felt, you had someone to come back to.”

“It’s perfect.”My voice was rough.“You’re perfect.”

“I’m really not.”

“You are to me.”I set the compass down carefully and pulled out a box of my own.“Your turn.”

Beau took it, his hands shaking slightly.Inside was a smaller wooden box—cherry wood, handcrafted, with his initials carved into the lid.And inside that, a letter.

“Read it,” I said.

Beau unfolded the pages—three of them, covered in my handwriting—and began to read.I watched his face as his eyes moved over the words I’d spent hours perfecting last night.