December arrives like a gift.
After the disaster of November—the dinner, the silent treatment, the almost-breakup—December feels like proof that maybe we can actually do this. That maybe love and determination are enough.
We're careful with each other now. More honest. When something bothers me, I say it instead of letting it fester. When he feels pulled between me and his family, he tells me instead of pretending everything's fine.
It's not perfect. But it's ours.
***
First week of December, Aurelio takes me ice skating at Boston Common.
I've never been ice skating. Never had the money for it, never had anyone to go with. He doesn't know this until we're lacing up our rental skates and my hands are shaking.
"You okay?" he asks.
"I've never done this before."
His eyes widen. Then soften. "Then we'll learn together."
"You know how to skate."
"I'll pretend I don't."
On the ice, I'm a disaster. My ankles wobble. I grab the wall every three seconds. Fall twice in the first five minutes. But Aurelio stays next to me, hand in mine, patient and steady.
"You're doing great," he lies.
"I'm terrible."
"You're brave. That's better."
By the end of the hour, I can make it halfway around the rink without falling. When I complete a full lap, he cheers so loud people stare.
After, we get hot chocolate from a vendor. Sit on a bench watching other couples glide past us with ease.
"Thank you," I say.
"For what?"
"For not making me feel stupid. For staying with me even though I slowed you down."
He looks at me like I've said something profound instead of obvious. "Cassia. Being with you isn't slowing down. It's the first time I've felt like I'm moving at all."
***
Second week, I meet his friends.
We're at a party in Cambridge—someone's parents are out of town, the house is full of Riverside Academy students, and I'm overdressed in jeans while everyone else wears designer everything.
Aurelio keeps his hand in mine the whole time. Introduces me to everyone. Makes it clear I'm not just some girl he's dating—I'm *his* girl.
His best friend Marcus Chen pulls him aside at one point. I can't hear the conversation, but I see Marcus glance at me, then back at Aurelio, then nod slowly.
Later, Aurelio tells me: "Marcus asked if I was serious about you. I said yes. He said good, because you seem real. Not like the other girls."
"What other girls?"
"The ones who dated me for my last name."
I think about Sterling. About all the girls who probably lined up for a chance with Aurelio Santoro, legacy boy, future Harvard graduate, heir to the North End empire.
"Is that why you like me?" I ask. "Because I don't care about your money?"
"I like you because when you smile—really smile, not the polite one you give my mother—your whole face changes. Because you steal pens from people's desks when you think no one's watching. Because you count steps when you're anxious. Because you're brave enough to be scared and do things anyway."
My throat gets tight. "You notice everything."
"Only about you."
***
Third week, he gives me a key.
Not to his house—God, not to the brownstone where his mother lives. But to his apartment.
"You have an apartment?"
We're in his BMW, parked outside my building after a movie. It's late, almost midnight, and I should go inside but neither of us wants the night to end.
"My parents bought it for when I turn eighteen. So I can have independence before college. I've been staying there most nights since—" He stops. Since the fight with his mother about me. "Anyway. I want you to have a key."
"Aurelio, that's huge."
"I know. But I want you to have a place where you can go. Where you feel safe. Where you belong."
I take the key. It's small and silver and impossibly significant.
"This doesn't mean we're—I'm not expecting—" He's flustered now, which is adorable. "I just want you to know you're welcome. Anytime."
I lean across the console. Kiss him slowly, carefully, trying to pour everything I feel into it.
When we break apart, he's smiling. "So that's a yes?"
"That's a yes."
***
Fourth week, everything falls apart.
It's three days before Christmas. I'm at the library—the school one, our poetry section—finishing an essay when my phone rings.
Unknown number. I almost don't answer.
"Is this Cassia Monroe?" A woman's voice. Official. Serious.
"Yes?"
"This is Boston Medical Center. Your grandmother Rosa Monroe was brought in by ambulance an hour ago. She's stable, but you should come."
The world tilts sideways.
***
I don't remember getting to the hospital. Don't remember the bus ride or the walk through the emergency room doors or giving my name at the desk.
I just remember sitting in a plastic chair in the waiting room, staring at nothing, while a doctor with kind eyes tells me Grandma Rosa had a stroke at work. That she collapsed in the middle of her shift. That they're running tests but it's too early to know the extent of the damage.
"Can I see her?" My voice sounds like it's coming from underwater.
"Soon. We'll come get you when she's settled."
Time moves wrong. Too fast and too slow simultaneously. Could be minutes. Could be hours.
Then someone sits next to me.
I look up. Aurelio.
"How did you—"
"Poet called me. I came as fast as I could."
He doesn't ask if I'm okay. Doesn't try to fix anything. Just sits next to me and takes my hand and stays.
When they finally let me see her, he walks with me to the door. Waits outside while I go in.
Grandma Rosa looks so small in the hospital bed. So fragile. This woman who raised me, who worked double shifts to keep a roof over our heads, who never complained even when she was exhausted—she looks breakable.
Her eyes open when I sit down. She tries to smile but one side of her face doesn't quite move right.
"Baby," she slurs. "Don't cry."
I'm crying. I didn't realize.
"You're going to be okay," I tell her, trying to convince us both.
"I know. I'm tough." She squeezes my hand with the one that still works properly. "That boy outside. He came?"
"Yeah."
"Good boy. You keep him."
"Grandma—"
"No, listen. I was wrong. About boys like him. About different worlds." Her words are slow, effortful. "That boy ran here to be with you. Didn't ask questions. Just came. That's not money talking. That's love."
Tears stream down my face. "I'm scared."
"I know, baby. But you got someone now. Someone who shows up. That's all that matters."
***
At two AM, the doctors say she's stable. They're keeping her for observation but the stroke was relatively minor. She'll need physical therapy, maybe six months of recovery, but she should be fine.
I nearly collapse with relief.
Aurelio drives me home. Walks me up to the apartment. Stands in the doorway like he's not sure if he should stay or go.
"Stay," I say. "Please."
We don't do anything. Don't talk much. Just lie on my bed—me in his arms, him holding me like I'm something precious—until the sun starts to rise.
"Thank you," I whisper into the grey dawn. "For coming. For staying. For everything."
"Where else would I be?"
It's the simplest answer. The truest one.
And in that moment, lying in his arms while Boston wakes up outside my window, I let myself believe what Grandma Rosa said.
Maybe different worlds don't matter.
Maybe all that matters is who shows up.
***
Christmas Eve, I spend the day at the hospital with Grandma Rosa. She's better—stronger, more herself. The physical therapy is already helping.
Aurelio shows up at five with Chinese takeout for all three of us. Sits in the uncomfortable hospital chair and makes Grandma Rosa laugh with stories about his mother's disastrous attempt to cook Thanksgiving dinner.
"She tried to deep fry a turkey," he says. "Nearly burned down the kitchen. My father banned her from cooking for life."
Grandma Rosa's laugh is lopsided but real. "I like this boy, Cassia."
"Me too, Grandma. Me too."
That night, Aurelio drives me back to his apartment. We're both exhausted. Both emotionally wrung out.
In his living room—minimalist and neat, so different from the brownstone's stuffy elegance—he hands me a small wrapped box.
"Merry Christmas," he says. "It's early, but I wanted you to have it."
Inside is a silver necklace. A small compass pendant.
"So you always know which way is home," he says quietly. "And Cassia? Home is wherever we are. Together."
I put it on with shaking hands. Let him fasten the clasp.
"I love you," I whisper.
It's the first time I've said it out loud.
His eyes go wide. Bright. "Say it again."
"I love you, Aurelio Santoro."
"I love you too. God, I love you so much."
We kiss in his living room while snow starts to fall outside. Kiss like we're sealing a promise. Like we're building something that can withstand anything.
We believe it.
We really, truly believe it.
The storm is coming.
But right now, in this moment, we're safe.