"Nana's house?"

Pulling up to the old three floored farmhouse brings back every memory I had as a kid. His Nana's home was our go to. It's old and a little run down now, not well maintained as it once had been, even in the dark it's easy to see the brown shingles hanging on an angle.

"No one knows Nana's."

He gets out first, and I want to protest, but the passenger door opens, and his hand is there waiting for me to take it. I don't. I step out all on my own. Glancing up at the old unlit house should feel scary, but its home.

Inside I expect it to smell like her special gingerbread cookies. Weston flicks on the light and the place is scarce. There's nothing much but a few lonely pieces of furniture in each room. The carpets taken up. The floors bare.

It's cold inside, so I keep my jacket on. It's nothing new, even in its heyday the old house never was heated properly. I follow him over the creaking floorboards to the kitchen.

"Mom insists we sell, but I've convinced her to keep it. For now."

I nod.

"Hungry?" he asks.

My stomach growls, but I protest against it.

"Guess that's a yes."

Old wallpaper is ripped from the wall, most of it hanging down. The countertops are stripped bare, but there's visible signs that someone has been living here. The fridge is stocked, and when he opens the top cabinets above the counter, there's food inside.

"Are your folks staying here?" I ask.

He shrugs off his black leather jacket, and places it on one of the chairs around the table in the center of the room.

He shakes his head, opens the fridge back up, and pulls out a large wad of cookie dough on a plate. I narrow my eyes. He ignores my stare while navigating the kitchen to gather all the baking items needed, and then turns on the old electric stove.

"You? How long?" I ask.

The muscles under his dark t-shirt tense as he pauses at the table, putting the baking pan and roller beside the plate of dough.

"Since Halloween."

"If you've been in town since Halloween, why haven't I seen you?"

"Been busy." He shrugs off my comment, then glances up. His eyes are heavily hooded and downcast. "Are you gonna help me with Nana's cookies, or what?"

I try to ignore that there's something going on, but it's hard to do so, even with the scent of Nana's ginger cookie dough scent wafting through my nose.

We work in silence, rolling and pressing Christmas shaped cookie cutters into the dough.

"Star please," I say. He hands it to me as he silently places a Christmas tree shape onto the pan.

"There was chatter on the airwaves of you not being around, but I thought you were just taking a vacation somewhere tropical in one of your several mansions."

"I have one mansion. I'm selling it."

"Why?"

"It's not home." His monotone voice catches me off guard. "Done with the cookies?"

I nod and wipe down my hands. He lifts the tray and places it into the preheated oven. While they bake, we clean, but the tension remains, even as we make light conversation about his Nana's last Christmas when her cat James Dean broke every ornament on the tree.

As I do the dishes, he pulls out hot cocoa and begins to boil some water on the stove. We work side by side making sure everything is put away back the way it was. It's weird, hours ago I imagined that if we bumped into each other, I would have chewed him out, but now being here, I can't seem to bring myself to do so. There's a cloud of darkness hanging over his head, and now I'm determined to find out what it is.

With the Christmas cookies done we sit at the table and sip on our cocoa. Out the window a heavy snow falls. When we finish, we realize the snow isn't stopping and from the looks of it the roads are completely iced over now.

We head down to the basement through the small door under the main stairs leading to the bedrooms on the second floor.

When he turns on the light, it's nothing like the top floor. Everything is exactly how I remembered. Even the old couch ugly orange, gray, swirly design couch is there.

"It's like I've been transported back in time."

He chuckles. "I won't let them touch this room."

It's a large open space, but in the back is a small soundproof room, a booth his parents used to record their earlier music, and his as well. Not only had the house held memories but the booth too. I switch on the old dull light and take in the small makeshift studio. The microphone still sits in the center of it as well as a small sound board.

I take a seat in a small brown chair in the corner of the booth. Beside it on the table are a stack of discs. Being nosy I browse through them. They are his old recordings.

"You kept these?"

I glance up, his face flushes, even across the room it's obvious. What's his deal? And why is he suddenly here making me feel things again? He doesn't answer, but nods. I flip to the next CD and choke on absolutely nothing. The other discs tumble from my grasp. Leaving just one.

Chlo & West; Christmas Sock Jingle.

I don't notice him crossing the room until he's kneeling like he's planning on picking up the discs I dropped. Down on one knee he ignores the discs and lifts the right leg of my jeans, his eyes lingering on the red and white socks with the words Jingle Bells wrapped in loops around the sock.

He lifts his pant leg and points at the matching socks. "How did you know?" He asks, his voice rough and deep.

Glancing down, blinking away the tears, I shrug, then press my trembling hand over my heart.

"You still have it, don't you?"

Just like him I've got a black leather chain around my neck, only mine isn't a guitar pic. He reaches up, his own hands shaking. His fingertips graze the skin along my collarbone, and I shiver at his touch. A stray tear falls from the corner of my eye, slipping down to my lips. His dark eyes brighten at the sight of the engagement ring he gave me a week before he left.

Releasing a trembling breath, he lifts his gaze to meet my eyes. His other hand combs through the strands of my long auburn hair. I lean into his touch.

He left on New Year's Day and proposed in front of our families on Christmas day. They had all known, and he'd wrapped it and left it under the tree. The box was empty, but when I turned to question him, he was behind me on one knee in front of the roaring fire of his family's home.

His hand grazes my cheek, while he hums a familiar melody. His song, our song, the one on the Christmas Sock Jingle album.

"Why?" he asks. "After everything..."

Tears cascade in a waterfall, even with his thumb graciously wiping them away.

"You never gave up, did you?"

Reaching up I unclasp the necklace and press the ring into his warm hand. I swallow hard.

"Nothing you read in the papers is true."

"And I'm just supposed to believe you?" I ask.

He lowers his other knee, and grabs my hands in his, the ring pressing against the palm of my hand.

"It was all fake. For show. They said if I dated Ashlee, it would look good. Go back and look at all the images, I never once kissed her on the lips. She hated me. She acts all great, but behind the scenes she's a diva. She gives punk-rock a bad name."

"But the rumors?"

"Her manager started them when I refused to put a ring on it."

It's hard not to believe him when his eyes never leave mine. He doesn't even blink as they glaze over, shining in the soft lighting of the studio.

"You never said goodbye."

He looks down, but never let's go of my hands. His lids flutter, and a few random tears fall down his scruffy face. He meets my gaze again. "Because it wasn't goodbye. Goodbyes are too final."

"Did you not think that I'd support you?"

"If I said see you later, I never would have left. I don't regret touring or making music that people loved. What I regret most is hurting you. You would have told me to go with a smile, but deep down it would tear you apart."

"So just leaving was better?"

The anger builds up inside, boiling my blood. Heat rises up my neck burning my cheeks.

"No. No it wasn't." He swallows hard. "I was never gonna be good enough for you if I stayed here giving music lessons."

"Good enough? That's what you were afraid of?"

"I wanted to give you a life you deserved. And living in one of our parents' basements while we figured out our lives was not giving you the world."

"I had the world. I had you," I say, pressing my hands against his face.

He shakes his head, but I hold my hands steady on his cheek.

"I came back because mom and dad were planning on selling this house. The house I swore up and down one day I'd fix up and make it our own. I imagined our children running around the backyard, fixing up this basement and making a larger studio. I had so many ideas for our future, and I couldn't do it with how we were living."

I tug on his face so that he'll look at me, instead of darting his eyes around. "West, any life with you would have been better than none at all. You broke my heart when you left. What was I supposed to think?"

"I told you I'd come back-"

"In a letter, West. You told me that in a letter. And I was just supposed to wait."

"You did though, didn't you? You kept the ring, you waited. You're wearing the socks," he chuckles lightly, and my lips twitch, because seeing him smile fuels warmth in my heart.

"I can give you the life I always wanted for us now."

"Yeah, but now we'll have strangers standing on our property looking for your next scandal. That's not the life I want."

His shoulders slump forward, and he buries his head in his hands. I'm surprised to see his shoulders shake with quiet sobs. I sigh. Seeing Weston vulnerable does something to me. I wrap my arms around him in an attempt to tug him up onto the chair with me. He doesn't budge. This stubborn man has both made me love him, and despise him, but tonight I'm feeling a cross between the two. His heart was in the right place, but his head tore him in the wrong direction. I hate that he thought he wasn't good enough, he was always good enough.

"Baby keep me warm. nestled by the fire, feet outstretched in matching Christmas gear." I haven't sung in a while, I'm rusty, my voice cracks from the dryness in my throat.

Attempting to pry his hands from his face proves to be challenging, so I continue to sing in hopes he'll join me. My necklace dangles from his fingers, and I run my fingers over the bumpy diamond ring.

"Slip your arm around me, sip the hot cocoa, sing a Christmas sock jingle while our feet move side by side."

I suck in a breath ready to continue to sing our cheesy Christmas song, when he lowers his hands. An unsure look on his hopeful wide-eyed face.

"Will you ever forgive me, Chloe?"

"Those aren't the lyrics," I tease, grinning through the tears.

A sparkle lights up his eyes. Smiling, he shakes his head. "Is that a yes?"

A yes. Is it? A maybe. I'll give him a maybe. But then what if he just ups and leaves again?

"I see the wheels turning, Chloe. We'll take it slow. I'm not leaving town, and I cancelled my spring tour, so I could work on the house. I'm going to record my next album from mom and dad's other studio, and plan on releasing in the fall. But I'm here, no plans on leaving anytime soon."

I'm speechless, no words come out.

He places the necklace with the ring back into my own hands and curls my fingers up around it. "You decide what you want to do with that. And if you'll have me, I'd love to spend Christmas with you," he says.

"Well, we're kind of stuck here with the snow-"

"I swear I didn't plan the snow."

I snort. Glancing down at the ring, I unlatch the clasp of the necklace and lift my arm behind me to put it back on. While I could just slip the ring off and place it back on my finger, I'm not ready for that yet.

"Is that a maybe?"

He catches me struggling and takes the spot beside me. As he closes the clasp and the necklace falls against my chest, I take the ring in my hand and hold onto it.

"It's a second chance. If you'll now wait for me, I'll put the ring on when I'm ready."

His rough hand makes its way back to my cheek as his thumb pads over my jawline, warming me to the core.

"I'll always wait for you," he whispers.

He leans forward, his eyes flickering from my lips then back up, as if asking for permission. I grab the back of his head and pull him into me. He gasps and a small moan leaves his lips as they touch mine.

Our phones beep with a hazardous weather warning.

"Guess we really are staying put for the night."

"I don't know how, but I know you had something to do with it," I say, pointing a playful finger at him.

"You're right, I made it snow just so I could get you to forgive me."

"Who said anything about forgiving, I'm just here for the cookies."

He latches onto me and holds on tight, his fingers tickling my side. His laughter blankets the room like the snow outside and I want to jump in and listen forever. While I don't know where this moment will take us, if I'll decide to put the ring back on my finger or let go, but tonight feels like it could be the start of something new. And for a while longer I'll hold on to the hope that Christmas miracles are real, and that my life with Weston Daniel's could be perfect. I'd be happy with writing ridiculous songs, making old-school mixtapes, while buying each other matching holiday socks for the rest of my life, even if I have to wait a lifetime to get there.

THE END