Archive of Our Own

Kleya finished unloading another box of books onto her newly assembled—and oddly satisfying Ikea build—bookshelf. The last box of books, containing her own published works that had once occupied the top shelf in Luthen’s study, sat open on the floor next to the shelf. In the box was Luthen’s favorite photo of the two of them. He’d shown up for a book signing at their neighbourhood bookshop and waited in line for 30 minutes, like he hadn’t raised the author of the latest historical fiction bestseller since she was a small child.

Kleya had guffawed when Luthen appeared at the front of the queue wearing a ridiculous “I <3 Kleya Marki” shirt he’d had printed by some tosser on Etsy. She signed his book, “For my idiot not-father,” while Luthen asked the woman in line to snap a photo of them on his camera. Kleya could hardly believe the size of the smile stretched across her face as she looked up at Luthen. But then, her smile was matched by the one across Luthen’s face. 

Kleya held up the framed photo, thumbing the frame for a moment before deciding to set it on the bookshelf in a place of honour next to her collection of Tolkien’s works. She had four full sets of The Lord of the Rings, two rare editions of The Hobbit, and, her personal favourite, copies of the second revised editions of Fellowship and Return of the King from the 1980s print run. Tolkien had been her and Luthen’s shared favourite. She hoped the frame would be nestled enough that her cat, Chopper, wouldn’t be able to finagle himself in and knock it off the shelf. 

His top interest in life was knocking things over, Chopper. She couldn’t have loved him more if she tried. She looked around the room for the orange tabby, wondering where he’d gone off to. Best-case scenario, he had found one of the many open moving boxes to nap in. Worst case, he was turning one of said open moving boxes into his personal scratch pad. 

Kleya stood up and surveyed her new home, the chaos of the boxes causing her a small degree of panic. Causing a small degree of satisfaction was the fact that the furniture from her flat back in Bristol actually fit rather well in the quaint new flat in Lyme Regis.

This all had been rather unlike her. Doing something without a plan. On a whim. “Always know your way out,” Luthen had taught her. He was talking about plot holes and writing yourself into a corner, but it was good advice all the same. 

She’d ignored his advice completely, this time, but she couldn’t keep living in the flat, the city, the home, all of which were haunted by the ghost of him. 

She hadn’t been able to write in her study or in her usual coffee shops because she just kept looking up and expecting to see Luthen, sipping his tea—always English Breakfast, always a little more lukewarm than Kleya found to be acceptable—sitting across the table from her. She hadn’t been able to look over her shoulder from her favourite writing desk without expecting to see him sitting at the kitchen table, penning angry letters to members of Parliament. Hadn’t been able to walk past the hospital where she’d sat and watch the life drain from his face.  

In the four months he’d been gone, she’d only managed to write four words. She was infuriated with herself for being such a cliché of a sad writer—she writes silly little historical fiction mysteries for god’s sake—but she needed a change of scenery, and she needed it to be near water. The sea had always calmed her in a way that she couldn’t explain. 

She fired up Google, searched “rentals with a water view,” and signed a lease—sight unseen in a town she’d even never been to—all within the span of an hour. 

And here she was. 

She hadn’t even checked if the place was pet-friendly. She hoped her landlord liked evil cats as much as she did. 

Which reminded her, where the devil is that cat? 

“Chop?” She called for him as she padded across the cold hardwood floor, her socks not doing enough to combat the winter chill. She made her way into the spare bedroom, which she was instead using as her office since it boasted a beautiful sea view just over the peaks of the small village’s main street. She repeated, “Chop, are you in here, baby?” 

Chopper was, indeed, in there. He was curled up in a tight ball, snoozing on her desk, right where her lamp should be. Instead, it lay on the floor, lamp shade askew. She’d long figured out which lamps could survive biweekly trips off the desk without shattering. 

She leaned against the door frame and smiled at the sight. 

Everything in her life might be changing, but some things never would. 

❄️❄️❄️

Kleya stuffed her hands in her pockets grumpily. Moving to a seaside village in December was not her finest idea. The wind off the water whipped her face as she made her way through the quaint town centre. The cobblestone streets were quiet. Not surprising for midday on a Tuesday, but she was grateful nonetheless. Her cursory Google of the town told her that tourists descended in droves on the weekends, especially as the days ticked closer and closer to Christmas. 

She’d also seen that she lived just a block away from a small bookshop called Bix’s Books & Vel’s Volumes. She’d read on Reddit that the small store has a surprisingly robust rare book collection. Something she simply couldn’t resist checking out on her first day in town. 

The shop was alight with Christmas lights—the gaudy old-timey looking colorful ones with large bulbs. Kleya considered herself to be a white Christmas lights person, but she thought the lights added to the small town shop aesthetic in a way that she found strangely endearing. There was even a mistletoe hanging above the door, ready to ensnare its next victim. 

The front window display also featured a large Christmas tree with eclectic, mismatched ornaments and more colorful string lights. 

It was December 1st, for christ’s sake. Impressive? Or maybe insane. She wasn’t sure which. 

Kleya pulled open the door, and a bell chimed to announce her presence. She didn’t immediately see anyone in the shop—her ideal bookshop experience—so she started to browse. The display around the front window was holiday-themed to match the tree it surrounded. It offered an odd mix of books that rather delighted her. She thumbed over a book titled An Anthropological Deep Dive into Christmas, which was nestled between an over-the-top holiday romance novel and a pretty edition of The Christmas Carol. 

She continued on her hunt for the rare books section, which drew her back to the best-sellers table prominently displayed in the middle of the shop, just in front of the checkout counter, which conspicuously still sat unmanned. 

There sat her latest book, Fauld Fallout. She hated the cover of this one, but she’d lost the fight with her publisher over it. It looked like a silly romance novel with the minimalist cartoonish figures in Boompop colors. It was a story about a brutal murder masked by one of the largest non-nuclear explosions in human history, and sure, the main character got a good fuck in between her investigative work. But sure, slap a Canva cartoon on the cover and call it a romance. 

“I know, Marki, I know. But these illustrated covers are selling like hotcakes. Yes, I know it’s not overtly a romance, but it helps to show the two protagonists like this. Trust me,” Davits, her annoying old publisher, had told her. He had a habit of annoying her the most when he was right. It was selling like hot cakes. It was also the worst thing she’d ever written. 

Her first book, a rather cheeky whodunnit with a murder hidden by the storm that sank the Edmund Fitzgerald, had been a surprise international hit. Americans have a weird obsession with the sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald. So did she, but that was neither here nor there. 

For the past decade, she’s been knocking out a novel every 18 months like clockwork. To varying degrees of success and even more varying degrees of enjoyment from her. Trials, to her chagrin, had leaned more into the romance between the protagonist, a spy in the French Resistance, and her childhood best friend who’d been captured by the Nazis. Kleya had spent three months in France researching the women of the resistance, only to have the chapters she’d devoted to them cut down and sometimes cut out. 

She sighed as she ran a finger over the cover wistfully. She must have been too caught in her ruminations to hear the door to the back of the shop open. 

“Sorry, nipped away for a moment to let the dog out. Welcome in, can I help you find anything?” 

Kleya turned to look at the source of the new voice and was shocked to see the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen looking back at her. All sharp lines and striking eyes, her auburn hair just poked out from the beanie she wore. She had a Christmas jumper patterned with what looked to be AT-ATs from Star Wars. 

The woman must have said something else because she was looking at Kleya rather expectantly.  Pull yourself together, Marki. 

“I’m sorry?” Kleya asked, shaking away the haze of attraction that had apparently disengaged her frontal lobe. 

“Do you like Marki’s books?” The woman repeated, gesturing at the book—her own book—that Kleya’s hand rested upon. 

Kleya looked down at her book in confusion, “Marki’s books? They’re hit or miss for me,” she answered honestly. 

The woman laughed, “She’s got some great ones. I only just started the new one.” 

“Oh? How are you liking it so far?” 

“It’s good, a little slow off the jump, but the premise is interesting. I’m a sucker for WWII historical fiction.” 

“Me too,” Kleya answered, still unsure if this was a game or if this woman genuinely didn’t recognize that she was the author of said historical fiction. 

“Do you like nonfiction?” The woman asked, approaching the opposite side of the table that Kleya had been perusing before she stumbled upon her book. 

“I do.” 

“Well, my favorite of hers is this one. It’s a deep dive into the queer liberation movement in the 1980s. It has a brilliant analysis of the AIDs crisis and how Thatcher’s government let it ravage the community. It’s got her same punchy writing style as the whodunnits, which is really hard to do in nonfiction.” 

Kleya had nearly a decade of media training under her belt now, and even still, it took conscious effort to keep her face from reacting to the hottest girl she’d ever seen seemingly unknowingly complimenting the work she was most proud of. 

“Oh, that sounds interesting,” was the best Kleya could come up with, “I’ll have to give that a whirl.” 

The woman handed Kleya the book—her own fucking book—with a warm smile on her face. Breathe, Kleya reminded herself, breathe, as the mystery woman asked, “Anything else I can help you find?” 

Oh. She had come here for a reason. 

“Can you point me to the rare books? I heard it through the grapevine you’ve got a solid collection here.” 

“The grapevine would be right, then. We do indeed — it’s right in the back next to the poetry section,” the woman said, gesturing to the back of the shop. “Just give me a shout if you need me. I’ll be at the register.” 

“Thank you,” Kleya said and made her way to where she’d been pointed. She was grateful for a moment to gather herself, and maybe to look for the thing she came for. 

❄️❄️❄️

Vel took off her beanie and brushed her hair back in frustration before haphazardly pulling it back over her head. 

God, what had made her ramble like that? The woman barely indicated she liked Kleya Marki’s work before she’d rattled on about a book she wasn’t even looking at. She’d been stopped in her tracks by the sight of flowing brown curls and nearly fell over when the woman looked up with big brown eyes to match. It turned out that one-two punch loosened her lips as effectively as a pint. 

Where the hell was Bix? Vel could really use a wingwoman right now.

 Or a lobotomy. 

She half hoped for the evening rush to start early so she’d have something to do with her hands while she waited for the woman to finish browsing. A fully stocked sticker display at the checkout counter was getting a restock. She was knuckle-deep in the box of “Happy HoliGAYS” stickers when the woman walked up to the check-out counter and placed two books on the counter.  

Vel cleared her throat and steeled herself. “All set?” 

“Yes, for now,” the woman said with a small grin, “The rare section is as good as the grapevine said. I think I might be back for more.” 

Vel scanned the first book, a used but not all that valuable edition of Joan Didion’s “The White Album,” and answered, “Oh yeah? Anything catch your eye?” 

“Oh, all of it. I’m a sucker for used books. There’s something sort of magical about holding a book and knowing that others have read the same pages and derived their own meaning from them.” 

“What a lovely thought,” Vel said as she regarded the brunette, “Very poetic. You should write that down.” 

The woman laughed and tucked a curl behind her ear. “Will do.” 

Vel finished ringing up the second book with a smile. She had taken Vel’s recommendation and was buying Marki’s nonfiction. Vel burned with a strange sense of pride and a hint of a blush at the thought of this woman reading the book she’d recommended. 

“I hope you end up liking this one.” Vel wasn’t sure where the courage came from, but she decided to be a little brave. “What brings you to Lyme Regis? Just here for the week?” 

“I just moved here, actually. I arrived this morning,” she said as she handed Vel a pile of bills. 

Vel’s breath caught, but she did her best to play it cool, “Oh, wow. Welcome!” 

Vel usually loved it when people paid in cash, but she couldn’t believe this gorgeous woman was going to make her do maths and continue stringing words together in a semi-coherent manner. She deposited the cash in the register—an ancient thing that simply loved to jam whenever there was a queue developing—and handed the woman her change. She could only hope she hadn’t made any grave errors. 

“Thank you. Any recommendations on where to get a good coffee?” 

“I do in fact! Ferrix Brews. It’s just down the avenue and hang a left before you hit the Indian restaurant on the corner. It’s run by an old town stalwart, Maarva, and her son, Cassian, who is, unfortunately, my best friend.” 

“How small town of you,” the woman laughed, eyes alight. 

“Oh, that’s not even the half of it. Cassian’s married to Bix, my business partner of Bix’s Book’s fame,” Vel thumb pointing over her shoulder at the shop sign behind her head, “This town is a walking cliche. Everyone knows everyone, and all that.” 

Vel wasn’t sure where the charm was coming from. It’s been a while since she had flirted like this, but all she knew was that she wanted to keep making this woman smile. Vel continued, “No pressure, of course, but, you know, if you wanted to, meet some of the locals, we play cards at Marva’s every Wednesday night around 20:00. Feel free to swing by. If you wanted.” 

Well. There went the charm. 

“Thank you,” the woman smiled, and Vel couldn’t make heads or tails of what the smile meant. “I’ll think about it. And thank you again for the recommendation.” The woman took her bag and turned to leave. 

“I’m Vel, by the way,” she called as the woman’s hand reached the door, “I didn’t catch your name?” 

The woman’s face broke out into a cheeky grin, somehow visibly full of secrets, before saying, “Kleya.” She winked before adding, “I’ll see you around, Vel,” and disappeared into the cold. Kleya… 

Kleya?

Kleya. 

Oh. Oh. 

❄️❄️❄️

Kleya turned the key to her new flat and made her way past the chaos of boxes and packing paper. She wondered momentarily which box Chopper had made home in before she felt him rub against her calf. 

“Hello, lovely,” she greeted her beloved war criminal. “Having fun with all the boxes I got for you, handsome?” 

His sassy meow back told her he indeed had been. He darted off and made himself comfortable in an overturned box. 

Kleya toed off her Docs and shimmied out of her peacoat, tossing it over a box near the door that she knew would be serving as a coat rack for at least a week. She tugged the sleeves of her oversized sweater over her cold fingers and walked to her bookshelf. Out of the bag, she pulled out her new Didion and slid it into the “D” section of her shelf. People who sorted their books by anything other than alphabetical order of the author's last names needed to seek help. 

The top shelf of her favourites didn’t count. And the throw-away box of her own works was, of course, the proper way for an author to display her own books. She held up the copy of The Old Queens of Bristol: The Early Queer Liberation Movement and How Thatcher Tried to Kill It she’d just bought—how could she not buy it when Vel had recommended it so earnestly? This is the only of her books she’d even consider putting on her shelf. 

She put her foot down with Draven on the cover. It displayed an old photo of Saw leading a protest that had shut down a main thoroughfare in Bristol for two whole days before the Tories shut it down. Luthen was just out of frame, the pant leg of his signature tall frame just peeking into the corner. They were a horrible pattern that only a gay man in the 80s could have pulled off. She thumbed them as she ruminated. 

Luthen and Saw had met at university. As Luthen told it, political revolution is the perfect place to fall in love. All high stakes and low places. They moved to Bristol together after school and made a home with others like them. 

But, like so many families back then, theirs was destroyed by the HIV epidemic.

Luthen had 15 years with Saw before he lost him. 

He’d had six months without Saw before he got Kleya.

They’d been trying to adopt for years. He got the call six months to the day from burying Saw. And suddenly, he had the child they never got to raise together. 

He never told her much about his time with Saw. He’d start with a smile and finish with a look of agony in his eyes that no person should have. So she’d stopped asking. 

She wondered if Luthen had ever been mad at Saw for dying, the way she was so angry with Luthen. For leaving her to face the world without the only other person she’d ever felt at home with.  

She’d never asked. And now she never would. 

She tossed the book into the box of her other shitty books and kicked it into the corner of the room. 

❄️❄️❄️

 “You’re joking.” 

“I’m not!” 

“Kleya Marki was in our shop yesterday. And you didn’t recognize her?” 

“I had no idea what she looked like!” Vel exclaimed. 

Bix, unimpressed, ignored her, “And you invited her to cards. Tonight.” 

“Good job, mate,” Wilmon rapped Vel on the back after he set down four pints on the table and took a seat across from Vel. 

Vel ignored him and said, “She just moved here this week, so I figured, ya know, she might want to make some friends. And it’s the holidays!” 

“You mean you figured she might want to make out with you?” Cassian, with a smirk over his beer. He set his drink down and, from his bag, pulled out two well-loved decks of cards. He slid one across the table to Vel. She took it from his wordlessly and started shuffling, half hoping the sound of the bridge would put an end to the teasing. She wasn’t so lucky. 

“Tis the damn season, innit?” Wil snickered. 

“Jesus,” Vel muttered and hid her blush by taking a swig of her drink. 

This was going to be a long night. 

❄️❄️❄️

Kleya hated being late. 

It wasn’t about disappointing people. She didn’t much care about that. No, it was about self-discipline. If Kleya made a plan, she followed that plan. 

She supposed she was in generally uncharted territory, given that she’d upended her life and moved to a town she’d never been to on a whim without any sort of plan, but that was neither here nor there. 

Vel had said “around” 20:00. It was 20:08. 

Kleya hustled down the cobblestone street and was silently thankful the first snow hadn’t graced the town yet. She couldn’t imagine her boots had the proper tread to navigate icy roads that were older than most countries. 

She reached Ferix Brews at 10 past. 

“If you’re 10 minutes early, you’re already 5 minutes late,” she heard Luthen’s voice in the back of her head. He’d be overjoyed to learn that particular line was haunting her from beyond the grave. She grumbled to herself under her breath. 

Kleya wiped her shoes off at the doormat and looked around for the particular shade of red hair that she hadn’t been able to wipe from her mind’s eye. 

She spotted her sitting with her back to Kleya at a large booth with three others. The woman sitting caught her eye and seemed to recognize her. Kleya tried not to blush as the woman—also insanely attractive, what was in the water in this town??—pointed Vel in Kleya's direction. 

Kleya busied herself with taking off her hat and scarf and shoving them into her bag, an ancient leather thing that had been her mother's, as Vel got up from her booth and met Kleya at the door. 

“Kleya! You came!” Vel said excitedly as she reached her. 

Kleya smiled and said, simply, “You asked. Figured it wouldn’t be the worst thing to win a few rounds of cards while I’m at it. 

“Careful. Those are fighting words around here.” 

“Sign me up for the cause then,” Kleya replied smartly. 

Vel chuckled, and Kleya already knew she wanted to make Vel make that same face, that same sound, as many times as she could tonight.

“Come on then, let’s introduce you to Lyme Regis’s worst. ” 

Vel pointed her chin at the table she’d come from, where the three other occupants, caught, made quick attempts to busy themselves and hide the staring they’d just been doing. Kleya smiled and followed after her. 

❄️❄️❄️

Kleya slid into the booth seat after Vel and said, “Hello there.” 

“Kleya Marki,” the woman said in a distinctly American accent and charming grin, “It’s nice to meet you. I’m thrilled to hear you stopped by our shop the other day. And that you put one over on Vel while you were at it.” 

“Thank you. You must be Bix?” Kleya ventured. 

“I am indeed, and this is my husband, Cassian,” she pointed at the man on her left, “and this is Wilmon.” 

“What, no intro for me?” Wil protested. 

“Wilmon’s only here because he has a cool wife,” Vel cut in with a smile that made her look violently charming. 

Violently charming? Jesus, get a hold of yourself. 

Wil’s response pulled her out of her spiral before she could earnestly start it, “Hey! She’s not even here!” 

“Yes, about that. Where is she?” Bix asked, a sly smile on her face. 

Wil checked his watch, “She should be wrapped and on her way by now.”

Vel turned to Kleya after taking a swig of her beer, “Wil’s wife, Dreena, is the local radio host. She’s probably the coolest person in town.” 

“Okay, calm down. She’s just French.“ Wil grumbled. 

Cassian, who’d be silently smiling at the ribbing around him while he shuffled a deck of cards, reached over and nudged Wil’s shoulder, “I’m not sure you want to argue that your wife is not cool, my friend.” 

Kleya couldn’t hold back her laugh at that, and neither could the others at the table. Cassian just smiled and returned to shuffling his cards. Kleya was strangely endeared to him after just a few words. 

Wil, for his part, grumbled out, “Alright then, deal the damn cards,” but Kleya could tell it was all in good fun. In just a few minutes, she could see and feel that these friendships ran deep, and this was far from the first time that a conversation like this had passed between them. With that realisation, Kleya felt a storm of emotions. A pang of sadness that she’d never had anything like it. A flash of embarrassment that she was intruding upon it. And, unwittingly, a touch of hope that she might one day find it. 

Vel, whether on purpose or not, she didn’t know, pulled her from the place her anxiety wanted to take her. “So, Ms. Marki, have you ever played Liverpool Rummy?” 

Kleya put her hand on her chest in mock offense, “Of course I have. What kind of woman do you take me for?” 

Bix — who, if Kleya had looked her way, had a knowing smile playing out across her face — said, “I think we’re going to like this one.” 

❄️❄️❄️

Vel groaned as her phone alarm went off. Again. 

She smacked vaguely in the direction of her nightstand until she got lucky and shut the blasted thing off. Whether she snoozed it or turned it off, she was not sure. She liked to call this her alarm roulette. What’s life without small moments of unnecessary risk? 

She pulled the covers up to her chin and felt Artoo curl up tighter in the crook of her legs. 

Apparently, today the roulette wheel delivered her a bullet. 

“Vel. Wake. Up.” She heard — felt — as Bix shook her awake. 

Vel harumphed and rubbed at her eye dramatically. She glanced at the clock and found, to her shock, that her shift had started 27 minutes ago.  “Shit. Bix, I’m sorry, I overslept.” 

Bix kept a key to her flat, just above the shop, that had once been their flat before Cassian finally got his shit together and asked Bix to move. She wasn’t all that amused with Vel’s roulette approach to alarms. Vel wasn’t all that amused with Bix’s tendency to fill Vel’s fridge with Cassian’s cooking, even 7 years later. She might still be grieving, might always be grieving, but she didn’t need to be looked after like a child. 

“I know that, and it’s fine. I was in this morning anyway to handle the restock,” Bix said in a completely normal voice. In an absolutely insane voice, she continued, “Good morning, handsome. Did you sleep okay? You look like you got your beauty rest. Yes, my good boy. Good morning!” 

Artoo rolled onto his back — the little ham — and accepted the love from Bix with his tail wagging uncontrollably. 

“I’m happy to see you, too, Bix, but you don’t have to call me good boy this early in the morning,” Vel deadpanned as she sat up and slid her glasses on.

Bix leveled her an unimpressed look and said, “You might want to get up. She called.” 

“Who called?” 

“Kleya.” 

“What!” 

“She called. She asked if you were in, and I said you were.”

Vel did not want to process the smug look on Bix’s face as she shot out of bed and started frantically pulling clothes out from her wardrobe. 

“Oh my god. What should I wear?” 

“Got any lingerie?” 

“Bix.” 

“Fine. Wear the black jeans. No, not those, yeah, those,” Bix advised from her perch on Vel’s bed, still providing Artoo with belly rubs, as Vel held up various options, “And wear that maroon sweater. The fisherman knit. It makes your arms look good.”

Vel was hopping around, trying to get both feet in her trousers and stick an arm through said maroon sweater simultaneously. “How long ago did she call?” 

“Maybe five minutes ago.” Bix was positively beaming. 

“Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Fuck,” Vel muttered to herself as she sped into her bathroom to at least wash her face and brush her teeth before she saw Kleya again. It had been three days since Kleya met Vel and her friends out for cards at Maarva’s place. Vel hadn’t seen her since. She may or may not have been taking Artoo for more walks than usual in the neighborhood, on the off chance that she might run into Kleya on the street. Totally normal behavior. 

“Cmon, baby, do you want to go for a walk, handsome?” She heard Bix’s exaggerated dog voice from her bedroom, followed by the exciting tippy tappy of Artoo’s paws dancing along behind Bix. 

“I’m headed out with Artoo! And Vel?” Bix called from the door down to the shop. 

“Yeah?” Vel called back as she spat her toothpaste into the sink. 

“Keep the glasses!” 

“Arsehole,” Vel grumbled, but didn’t open her contact case on the counter. 

❄️❄️❄️

Vel descended the stairs, the familiarity of the creaking wood offering her an unexpected source of stability. She kicked open the door, revealing the store room stacked floor to ceiling with backstock, new deliveries in desperate need of sorting, and, to her dismay, her takeaway container from last night. She’d be hearing from Bix about that one, surely.

Vel strode out of the storage room, shutting behind her the old wooden door that read, “This room is haunted. Do not enter.” Cinta had gottenit for her when they were in uni. Back then, it was to deter people from walking in on them. Now, it was to deter people from walking in on Vel and her ghosts. 

Well. And her takeaway containers. Maybe she should let Bix cook for her more. 

A few people were browsing the shop; thankfully, no one was waiting at the checkout queue. 

In his usual section, Brasso was browsing the cookbooks. He rarely bought anything. Vel pretended not to notice when he snapped a photo of a particularly interesting recipe. He pretended not to notice when Cassian knocked Vel’s bar tab down whenever she closed out for the night at Maarva’s. 

Syril Karn was browsing the politics section. He’d gotten divorced earlier this year from one of the worst fascists Vel had ever come across in her life — Dedra had hosted a fundraiser specifically to raise funds for a Tory candidate to challenge Mon just last week. Part of Syril’s divorce era included hating Dedra and exploring the political left just to spite her. He’d bought a copy of Mon’s book last week. Vel found it hilarious. 

Standing with her back to Vel was an already-familiar head of chestnut hair, this time tied up in a loose bun. She was browsing the rare books collection that they kept behind a wall of glass. For the first few years they opened the place, the rare books rarely moved. Only when the perfect tourist happened to walk in would they make a sale. Somewhere along the way, they’d developed a reputation for their used and rare books collection, and now tourists from neighboring seaside towns would travel to Lyme Regis just for this. There was something about Yelp reviews or whatever the fuck people were using to quantify the enjoyment of their life experiences.  

Kleya caught Vel’s eye in the reflection on the glass and turned to face her. 

“Hi,” Vel said as she did her best to remember how to breathe as she met Kleya’s big brown eyes, which were glinting with what Vel could only call mischief. 

“Hi. No Christmas sweater today?” Kleya ventured with a quirked brow as her eyes surveyed Vel’s arms. Bix 1, Vel 0. “Where’s the Christmas spirit?” 

Vel held up a finger as if to say, “Wait,” and turned back to their storage closet. She returned wearing a Santa hat. “Better?” 

“Much. And I like the glasses.” Kleya said. Bix 2, Vel 0. 

“Thanks,” Vel deflected, hoping her heated cheeks weren’t giving away the gambit. “What brings you in this morning? Bix said you called?” 

“Oh yes. I have a return to make.” 

“Oh?” Vel felt her face fall at first, but Kleya held her coy smile. 

“Looks like you have some customers to attend to. I’m in no rush. Leave me with these beauties,” Kleya gestured at the cabinet behind her and lifted her chin towards the checkout counter, which indeed featured Syril absolutely staring at them, waiting for Vel. 

“Thanks, come up whenever you’re ready.” 

❄️❄️❄️

Kleya appeared at the counter after Syril finally left. Of all times for him to want to discuss the political philosophy of the 20th century with her, it had to be when Kleya Marki was reading a book quietly in one of the armchairs near the fireplace. 

Exasperated, Vel said, “Hi. Sorry about that. He’s a regular, and he loves to talk.” 

“It’s alright. I certainly didn’t mind warming up by a fire for a bit. Especially when it’s this cold out.” 

“Yeah, it’s the sea air. It gets colder, quicker here than in most places. Where are you from, by the way? And oh, you wanted to do a return, right? Let’s get that going for you.” Vel was babbling the more that Kleya held her eye contact. 

“Bristol. And yes, I do.” She produced the book — her book, it turned out — from a well-loved-looking leather bag. 

Vel laughed at the sight and ventured a joke, “Didn’t end up liking Marki’s writing so much, eh?” 

With a smile, Kleya placed the book on the counter and replied, “This is probably her best work, but I generally find her writing, especially since this book, to be unoriginal, overly descriptive to the point of boredom, and lacking the passion that her earlier works wove in between the lines.” 

Vel put both her hands on the counter and leveled Kleya a disgruntled look, “Hey, now. The descriptive prose is precisely what I like the most about her. It’s so beautiful that sometimes a line will knock me sideways and I’ll have to read it back 10 times before I can adequately move on.” 

After a long pause with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, Kleya parried, “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that one.” 

“I’ll get you to come around. By the way, do you know what Marki’s next work might be about?” 

Kleya leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “Word on the street is that she moved to some sleepy seaside town precisely to figure that out. Which, I suppose, I should be off to do.” She pushed off the counter and backed away towards the door.” 

“Wait, let me get you your refund!” Vel exclaimed. 

“I don’t need one. But you might want to double-check your inventory. This copy had some odd sort of writing on the inside sleeve,” Kleya said in a honeyed voice before turning and pushing the door open, disappearing, again, out into the windy December air. 

Vel thumbed open the title page and indeed found a scrawl of cursive writing inked across the page:  

00117 384835

Call me. 

- K 

❄️❄️❄️

Kleya sat in front of her computer, the blank page in front of her practically screaming at her. She’d moved venues twice already. Her desk felt too serious a place to start. Her balcony, though offering a gorgeous view of the crashing waves, was far too cold to type. Now, on her couch, cosied up with Chopper at her feet, she felt too comfortable. 

She’d never been like this. She used to write on a god damn Google Doc on her phone whenever the mood would strike, and she was away from her computer. Now she was some kind of Goldilocks? 

Draven had called her. Again. 

She was two weeks late on submitting a pitch for her next book, and he hadn’t let her forget it for five minutes. 

Her computer stared back at her like an enemy, sizing up her weaknesses before making the first strike. 

Luthen would have made her tea by now. Or would have forced her to take a walk. Or maybe would have told her to get over herself. 

She remembered the first time she realized she loved Luthen. That their relationship was more than a passing symbiotic one. Him keeping her fed and nurtured. Her keeping him alive. 

She was 14. She came home from school to find him asleep on the couch with a book she’d mentioned to him in passing, The Five People You Meet in Heaven, lying open on his chest. She’d read it for school and hadn’t expected it to move her so. That she’d already requested to renew it from the library to read it again and mull over the words. She didn’t really believe in god or heaven, but it was an interesting exploration of the meaning of life and the small ways in which we touch one another, sometimes, oftentimes really, unknowingly. 

She didn’t even know he had been paying attention when she mentioned it. And there he was. Reading a book that meant something to her. She had made him a fresh cup of tea to replace the cold one and made herself comfortable in the armchair across from him, and dug into her homework. 

The love between them had always been quiet like that. Shown in the small acts of devotion of knowing someone. Of seeing them. Of making them feel seen. 

She never truly forgave him. But she did love him. Fiercely.

Unbidden, she remembered the last time they spoke, that morning in the hospital. His voice was hoarse after a short but agonizing battle with cancer. “I love you, kid.” 

“I know,” was all she could say. 

“I’m sorry.” 

‘I know.” 

“Life shows us what we stand to lose,” he said with a sad smile as she gripped his hand, “And the scariest thing about all of this, is that I’m so afraid to lose you.” 

He passed later that morning. Seven minutes after noon, to be exact. She was relieved, at least, that it was quick. 

Kleya wiped away a tear that had escaped her eye, without permission, and then typed onto the blank page, “An exploration of loss.” 

An insistent buzzing from her pocket tore her from her stupor. No doubt Draven calling her, again, to give her an earful about protocol and how important it is to follow the publishing house’s rules. She didn’t recognize the number. He’s evolving, interesting. 

She clicked accept and put the phone up to her ear. “Yes??” 

“Oh, um. sorry, is this a bad time?” 

“Vel? No, sorry, I was expecting someone else, sorry.” Kleya put her head in her hands in frustration. 

“Do you give your number out in book signings a lot, then?” Kleya could hear the smile in Vel’s voice and felt a smidge of relief. 

“Oh, all the time.”

Vel’s warm laugh could be felt through the phone. 

“Listen, um, you like coffee, right?” 

Kleya considered, “Is the sky blue?” 

Vel chuckled again and said, “Touche. Well, I’m off for the afternoon here in about a quarter of an hour. I wanted to see if you were interested in trying the best coffee in Lyme Regis?” 

“Well, that’s an exciting proposition. What am I going to do, say no?” Kleya said with a smile and shut her blasted laptop. 

“Brilliant. Meet me at the shop.” 

❄️❄️❄️

Kleya’s hands were stuffed deep into her pockets, and yet the frigid sea-air still bit through, just a bit. The streets surrounding the town centre were bustling on a Friday afternoon. It was her second weekend in town, and already she was growing to resent the flood of tourists that would descend upon the shops and restaurants. She’d popped by Ferrix Brews last night for a nightcap, and perhaps for a chance at a run-in with a certain redhead, and had to wait for a seat at the bar. 

She’d gotten to sit close to Cassian as he worked the bar, which ended up being rather fun. He kept refilling her wine glass before it was empty, and her nightcap turned to three nightcaps before she had to wave him away with an exasperated smile. 

She navigated the crowded streets, maneuvering around a couple who were kissing under a mistletoe outside the neighbourhood kebab shop. How romantic.

Kleya spotted Vel leaning against the outside of her store, of all things, reading a book. She wasn’t even wearing a coat — just another cosy-looking holiday jumper, this time printed with Pokémon characters. 

“How are you not freezing your arse off?” Kleya said when she reached her in lieu of a greeting. 

Vel looked up from her book and closed it upon seeing the source of her heckler, “Well, hello to you too. I run hot. But, come on in, we’ll get you warmed up quick.” 

“I’m alright, we can just head straight there, unless you want to grab a jacket?” 

“We are headed straight there,” Vel looked back with a grin as she stepped into the store and held the door open for Kleya. “The best cup of coffee in town is brewed by yours truly.” 

Kleya could hardly believe the giggle she let out at that. 

“Don’t tell Cassian,” Vel added with a conspiratorial whisper. 

She followed Vel through the shop, this time filled with patrons browsing and holding stacks of books in their arms. Vel saluted at Bix, who was working the check-out counter, and nodded to a younger-looking girl who bore a name tag that read Beela. 

When they reached the back of the store, Kleya jibbed, “Uh oh, is this room really haunted?” 

Vel looked back at her, and Kleya caught a distinct flash of sadness in her blue eyes before she attempted to mask it with a smile. That smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, which stayed a touch glassy as Vel tried to joke back, “This room is most definitely haunted by the ghost of Christmas present, who loves to remind me that there’s no time like the present to sort through inventory.” 

Vel wrenched the door open and nearly collided with Wil, who had what looked to be 20 copies of a book precariously stacked in his arms. 

“Oh, sorry, didn’t see you there, boss,” Wil said. 

“Stop calling me that,” Vel said, stepping aside, “Got all that?” 

“Yep, I got it, just easier to get it all in one go, do you know what I mean? Oh, Hi Kleya!” Wil said when he spotted Kleya over the Great Wall of Books. 

“Hi Wil, nice to see you again. I didn’t realise you worked here too.” Kleya said with a smile. 

“I help out during the holiday rush. I’m a ship mechanic, and the harbour gets awful quite in the winter, anyway. A Christmas miracle all around.” Wil grinned as the Great Wall started to look a little like the Leaning Tower. “Well, I’d better get on with this. Good seeing you, Kleya! Cheers, boss!” 

Vel rolled her eyes and shook her head before holding open the door to the storage room for Kleya. 

Kleya, both confused and amused, followed Vel into what was apparently a closet. 

It was one of the most remarkable and also terrifying sights she’d ever laid her eyes on. 

The small space was crammed floor to ceiling with books. Some were still in the plastic wrap from the suppliers, and some looked ancient and well-worn. A desk was shoved up against one wall of the bookshelf, and a small couch was shoved against the other. In between was another wooden door, which Vel walked to and reached for the handle. 

Vel turned back, hand still on the door, and said, “I should have asked, do you like dogs?” 

“Sorry to be unoriginal, but just wondering if the sky is still blue?” Kleya answered. 

Vel smiled a megawatt smile at that. “Thank all the gods,” she said, and pushed the door open. 

Kleya followed Vel up a set of rickety stairs, each step announcing their presence, and then followed Vel through the door at the top of the stairs. 

Sitting waiting patiently just inside the door to the flat above the bookshop was the cutest dog Kleya had ever laid her eyes on. He looked to be some sort of miniature greyhound with enormous eyes and what looked to be a Christmas jumper on. 

“Hi buddy,” Vel greeted the dog as his tail wagged so hard his entire body was wiggling, “This is our new friend, Kleya.” 

Kleya knelt down and offered her hand for Artoo to sniff, an invitation he took immediately before licking her hand and sitting to accept pats. 

‘Hello, it is so nice to meet you, good sir,” Kleya said as the dog rolled onto his back and asked for belly rubs. 

“How formal,” Vel laughed, and she leaned against the doorjam and watched them. 

“I’ve only just met him,” Kleya said, “It’s only polite.” 

Artoo let out an adorable little whine, which Kleya chose to interpret as approval. 

Vel just shook her head and made her way through the room, calling back over her shoulder, “Let me get a fire going. Make yourself comfortable, and I’ll get to work on our coffee.” 

❄️❄️❄️

Vel had promised her that she would warm up quickly, and she had been right. Vel had built her a fire that was now roaring in the fireplace, an ancient-looking brick hearth surrounded by a handsome wooden mantle that matched the bookshelves in the shop downstairs. Of course, two stockings hung from the mantle, one for Vel and one for Artoo. Both looked hand-knit, Vel’s with a smiling Father Christmas, while Artoo’s stocking was shaped like a dog bone with a Christmas bow on it. 

The holiday decor style in Vel’s flat matched that of the shop downstairs, leaving little doubt who was responsible. There was a sizable tree in the front of the window overlooking the street below, and by the Douglass Fir smell permeating the room, it seemed to be a real tree. Like the shop’s tree, it was decorated with the old-fashioned large colorful bulbs and littered with mismatched ornaments of movie characters, old colored glass balls, and the personalised ceramic ornaments that reminded her of the early 90s. 

Her parents used to get her and her little brother one of those for each year, customized with their names painted on it. 

But that was in a different time. A different life. A different her. 

Kleya got up from the cosy spot she had been occupying on the couch next to the fire and made her way over to the tree to inspect the ornaments more closely. The flat was small, but not too small. The wood floors creaked to life with each footstep as she tiptoed across the room. 

Kleya couldn’t help but smile at the eclectic selection of ornaments on Vel’s tree. One featured Spider-Man hanging upside down from a string of Christmas lights. One had Father Christmas in an Arsenal jumper holding a bag overflowing with footballs. Another was an iPod that had read “Vel 2002” in hand-painted lettering across the would-be screen. 

It all seemed so whimsical. 

Tucked just at eye level in the center of the tree was a little ceramic ornament of two gingerbread figures sticking out of a red and white striped mug that read, “Vel and Cinta: Christmas 2015.”

“What kind of milk do you prefer?” Vel shouted from the kitchen, “I’ve got semi-skimmed or oat.” 

“Oat would be great, thanks,” Kleya said, tearing her eyes from the curious ornament, and padding back to the warmth of the couch and the Christmas blanket thrown over the back of it. 

Vel’s living room was one of the cosiest she’d ever stepped foot in. There were books everywhere — on a tall set of shelves on both sides of the fireplace, tucked on the bottom shelf of the coffee table, and on the underside shelf of the two end tables. In the corner of the room was a record player on a stand, the bottom shelf filled to the brim with vinyl sleeves in varying states. A few half-used candles sat at the center of the coffee table, alongside a copy of “Pride and Prejudice,” that was left open on the page Vel must have left off on. 

As if summoned by her thoughts, Vel walked in with two steaming mugs in her hands and the tiny dog padding along at her feet. Vel set the mugs on the table on two awaiting coasters and then took her seat in the reading chair next to the couch. Kleya tried not to be sad that she’d chosen to sit there instead of next to her on the couch, but the wound was quickly soothed as Artoo jumped up on the couch and plopped herself directly onto Kleya’s lap. 

“Sorry, he’s quite a lapdog,” Vel grimaced, “Do you have a dog?” 

“No. I have a cat. He hates everyone and everything except me. I haven’t tried introducing him to another creature as of yet.” 

“Oh, now that sounds like a fun challenge,” Vel said as she picked up her mug and tipped her chin at Kleya’s for her to do the same, “Go on, try it.” 

“A fun challenge, mhmm?” Kleya said as she picked up her mug. It was, of course, decorated with Christmas trees. 

“I have a knack for getting black cat-types to like me.” 

“He’s orange.” 

Vel let out a surprised laugh, and Kleya hid her triumphant smile with her mug as she took a first sip. The moan she let out was as involuntary as breathing. 

The flat white Vel had made her was perfect. Nutty but not too sweet. Creamy, but not so that it took away from the espresso flavour. Hot but not so hot it burned her tongue. Kleya wrapped both hands happily around the mug and took another sip. 

Vel was positively beaming at her. “Family recipe,” was all she said. 

“It’s delicious. Compliments to the barista. Do your family live in Lyme Regis, too?” 

A flash of sadness passed through Vel’s eyes, clear to see in the light blue hue. All the same, Vel answered, “Just my cousin and her family. My parents and extendeds live back in London.” 

“Are you from London, then?” Kleya asked, not wanting to push too hard, but genuinely curious. 

“Yes. I moved here after… not long after uni. It’s a long and tragic backstory that I don’t need to bore you with.”

Later, Kleya would have no idea what made her say, “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours?” 

Vel smiled, a sort of sad smile that somehow came with a sparkle still in her eye. “Deal.” They both sort of just stared at one another for a beat before Vel laughed and added, “What do you know about Catholic Guilt?” 

❄️❄️❄️

“I grew up in a very religious family. Mass every Sunday. Sometimes Wednesdays. All-girls Catholic school. The whole nine yards. It never really bothered me until I got older and started to figure out who I was, and how exactly that fit into my faith,” Vel tried to start, but backtracked a bit “I dunno, I don’t need to go all the way back, I guess. I just. I met a girl at university.” 

Kleya was looking at her, waiting for her to continue. 

“I fell in love. And, I guess...I didn’t fall in love with how my family reacted.”

“Oh, Vel. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s alright. It was never screaming and fighting or disowning me or anything. I could just tell, just see in the way they treated me, treated us, treated her, that it wasn’t what they wanted, do you know what I mean? Especially when I had seen how ecstatic they all were to welcome my cousin’s husband into the family. It was sort of clear, the lack.” 

Artoo, always minutely attuned to her emotions, jumped over and curled up in Vel’s lap for comfort. Vel scratched behind his ears — happy to have something to do with her hands – and continued, “the holidays were especially hard, back then. A house decorated for the season, but never a home filled with the spirit of it.” 

Vel took a swig of her coffee, still fighting the good fight against lukewarmth. She considered where to go next. Kleya was watching her with rapt attention, but Vel couldn’t quite bring herself to meet Kleya’s eyes. 

“But none of it mattered, really, when I had her. Cinta. We finished school and got our own flat. We made it our own, for a time. Especially at Christmas, we did it all so big. The decorations, the ice skating, the baking. All of it. She made me feel like I was a kid again, inspired by the magic and wonder of the season.” 

She was staring at the Christmas tree, deep in memories, when Kleya’s voice asked, so softly, “What happened to her?” 

Vel took a deep breath and choked out the words that still didn’t come easily. “She died. It was an accident. A stupid kid thought the rules didn’t apply to him. Hewalked into traffic. A bus swerved to miss him. It didn’t miss her.” 

Kleya gasped quietly, “Oh, Vel, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

“Thank you,” Vel said, and wiped the tears from her cheek, “This will be my seventh Christmas without her.” 

“She sounded amazing. Thank you for telling me about her.” 

“Yeah. She was a miracle. Thanks for listening. Well, anyway,” Vel said, sort of desperate to stop talking about it, “I moved here. After. Bix was my old roommate from uni. We had always sort of joked about opening up a bookshop together. Cassian and Bix have lived here since they were kids, when their families immigrated here. This space opened up, we signed the lease, and opened the shop. And here I am.” 

“And here you are,” Kleya said, sadly. 

“I think, legally speaking, it’s your turn now,” Vel ventured at a joke as she took the final swig of her coffee. 

Kleya, for her part, did laugh and jibed back, “I know a little something about loss, too, I’m afraid.” 

“Tell me?” Vel asked. 

“Got anything stronger to drink?” Kleya asked with a sad smile. 

❄️❄️❄️

Vel handed her a glass, a wineglass with — oh for fuck’s sake — Christmas wreaths printed all over it. 

“You’re joking,” Kleya deadpanned.

“I don’t mess around when it comes to Christmas,” Vel said back cheekily, sitting back down with her own glass in hand. She held her glass up to Kleya’s and said, “Cheers to tragic backstories?” 

“Cheers, indeed,” Kleya said, clinking their glasses together and taking a large sip. “So. My not-father just passed away. A few months ago.” 

The shock registered on Vel’s face. She leaned forward and placed her hand on Kleya's knee in comfort, “I am so sorry for your loss. And I am going to need you to explain what exactly a not-father is.” 

Kleya laughed, the ghost of a tear gathering in the corner of her eye. She willed it not to fall. “He raised me since I was 12. After my family passed away in a car crash.”  

“Oh. I’m so sorry, Kleya. I thought, bloody hell, and you let me go on about my family, who are alive and perfectly nice to me and—“ 

“They don’t sound like they are perfectly nice to you,” Kleya interrupted, “And even if that were the entirety of ‘your tragic backstory,’ I still would have wanted to hear about it. And sorry, I didn’t mean to one-up your loss.” 

Vel barked out a surprised laugh. 

“Erm, sorry,” Kleya added with a blush. 

“It’s alright,” Vel said through her smile, “go on then, one-up me, as you say.” 

“His name was Luthen. He raised me since I was a child. He. Well,” Kleya had hardly ever spoken the full story aloud. She took a swig of her wine and considered Vel. Her cerulean blue eyes were tracking Kleya’s with captivated attention. Vel was swirling her wine nervously, but she held Kleya’s eye contact nonetheless. 

There was something about the earnestness she saw there that was loosening something in her. A long-tied knot tied deep somewhere between Kleya’s ribs. 

“I was in a car accident. When I was 12. Drunk driver. My parents and my brother…” Kleya looked down at her wine glass, Vel’s eyes suddenly too much, too intimate to hold, “Luthen just happened to be walking down the street when he saw the crash. I was trapped in the car. There was a fire. And he, Luthen, broke the window of the car open and pulled me free.” 

“Kleya. I’m so sorry. I’m so glad he was there.” 

“I was screaming, begging for him to get my brother. The car was catching fire, but he pulled me first. I still don’t know. I still don’t know if my brother—the fire—“ Kleya couldn’t finish her sentence. She coughed to clear her throat and continued. “Anyway. He took me to A&E after the crash and stayed with me until the burns healed. The government ended up placing me with him, after a time. He and his partner, Saw, had been trying to adopt for years but were never chosen. Saw passed away before they got a chance to start a family. I guess he was in the system and his name was attached to my case file.” 

Vel, gently, featherlight, placed her hand on Kleya’s knee and lowered her head to catch Kleya’s eyes and said. “He saved you from dying that day, too. I know that must have been so hard. And I’m so sorry that you have been through so much. But I’m grateful to him that you’re sitting here with me, today.” 

Kleya cleared her throat and whispered, “Thank you.” 

The two of them just sat there for a moment. Two near strangers becoming less so by each passing heartbeat. 

“Anyway. He was diagnosed with cancer. Stage 4. He got diagnosed on a random Tuesday, and he was gone a few months later. It was fast, but I was there with him, in the end.” 

Kleya stared into the sparkling light of the Christmas tree and tried not to picture the moment that the light left his eyes. 

“What you did for him. That must have been hard.” 

“It had to be done,” Kleya said, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. As though a little bit of her hadn’t gone too when Luthen’s heart finally stopped beating. 

“It gets tiring saying that, doesn’t it?” 

And again, a few words from Vel had Kleya left without any of her own to say. Kleya drained the rest of her glass of wine. Vel mirrored her, throwing back the last dregs before reaching for the bottle on the coffee table, loosening the cork with a pop, and refilling their glasses wordlessly. 

“Will you tell me more about Cinta?” Kleya asked as she accepted the proffered glass from Vel. 

“Sure, if you tell me more about Luthen,” Vel replied. 

Kleya smiled, and she did. 

❄️❄️❄️

“You told her about your family?” Heert asked, the incredulity dripping from his voice. “I knew you for six years before you told me!” 

“I don’t know what’s come over me,” Kleya replied as she paced her flat. “I’ve gone mad, I think.” 

“Who are you and what have you done with my best friend. Have you even fucked her yet?” 

“Jesus, Alvin. No. She’s a widow! I don’t even know if she wants to date.” 

“You’re telling me that you gave her your number in the most charming way imaginable and then she called you and made you coffee in her flat… And you’re not sure if she wants to date you?” The disdain was absolutely dripping from his voice. 

“We haven’t talked about it.” 

“Why don’t you call her and see if she wants to come and bend you over the—“ he started. 

“Heert,” she interrupted, pressing her phone between her cheek and her shoulder, as she refolded her throw blanket over the back of her couch after Chopper clearly had gone to great lengths to knock from the couch, along with all of the pillows. 

“I don’t know what the problem is. Just talk to her about it and then have yourself a cute little fling with the small-town hunk.” 

“I’m supposed to be writing. Draven’s probably called since we’ve been on the phone.” 

“Who fucking cares what that tosser wants. Your latest book is still on the best-seller’s list, and Luthen’s just died.” 

“Thanks for reminding me. I had forgotten.” Kleya deadpanned as she made her way back to her desk, where her laptop waited for her. 

“You know what I mean. I just. You deserve to take a break. And I just think that should involve you getting railed by the hot book lady who loves your writing.” 

“Arlight, settle down. How are things with you?” 

“Getting on as best I can now that my best friend has up and moved away. Lonni’s asked me to meet him for a drink this weekend.”

“Heert. We’ve talked about this. He’s married. With a baby.” 

“I know, I know.” 

“Do you?” Kleya admonished, “You can’t be a landlord and be a wrecker. That’s too much evil.” 

“Oh come on, Kleya, it’s passive income!” 

“It’s immoral.” 

“Agree to disagree. And by the way,” he was deflecting, and she knew it, “When will you be coming back for Christmas? My mother was asking.” 

Heert, her gay best friend with kind inclinations but questionable morals, had invited her to Christmas Eve dinner at his mother’s house. It was an ongoing debate between the two of them about who hated his mother more, but it was nice of him, nonetheless, to invite her. Now that she was alone. 

She cleared her throat, “I’ll let you know. I’ll probably leave the morning of the 24th.” 

Kleya's phone vibrated in her hand, indicating she was getting another call. She glanced at the screen and, at the sight of the name, said to Heert, “I’ll have to call you back. Love you.  Don’t sleep with a married man.” And hung up before he could finish saying, “Tell your girl I say to get on with it—-“ 

“Hello?” 

“Hi. Are you busy?” 

Kleya glanced at her laptop. She’d written exactly 7 more words since her last go. Draven had called her 7 times.  And so she’d written him a 7-word email. “Leave me alone. I’m working on it.” 

“No, I’m not busy,” not exactly a lie. “What’s up?” 

“I’m at your door. Mind letting me in? It’s snowing.” 

Kleya laughed in surprise. “Alright.” 

❄️❄️❄️

Kleya opened her door to find Vel standing in the snow holding what looked to be piles of mismatched and knotted Christmas lights. 

Kleya leaned against the door frame and cocked her head, “Hello. Whatcha got there?” 

Vel had the decency to look sheepish as she readjusted the chaotic pile in her arms, “I was cleaning out my storage room and found a bunch of extra lights. And, well, you said you hadn’t moved here with any decorations. So, I thought, maybe you might want some lights? It sounds crazy now that I say it out loud. You know what? Nevermind, I’ll see you later. Bye!” Vel said in a jumble before indeed turning and making to leave. 

“Vel,” Kleya called, and Vel turned back to look at her with a blush, “That’s very sweet. I would love to hang some lights. Come on in.” 

The megawatt smile that lit Vel’s face would outshine any lights they strung, Kleya was sure of it. 

❄️❄️❄️

Vel finished wrapping a string of white lights around the frame of her front window as Kleya plugged in another string that draped over her bookshelf. 

She stepped back to admire her handiwork as she felt Vel take a place beside her. 

“Wow. That’s quite a Tolkien collection. I love the Folio Society ones. Which set is your favourite?” Vel asked as she knelt before the books and examined them closely. 

“The white ones there to the right,” Kleya pointed where Vel was about to reach, “They’re second revised editions from the 80s. They’re gorgeous.” 

“That’s incredible,” Vel said in genuine awe, “Where’d you find them?” 

“Luthen had the Fellowship edition just sitting on his bookshelf. I nearly screamed when I first stumbled upon it when I came home from uni one summer. I found the Return of the King in a rare bookshop on holiday in Ireland a few years ago.” 

“He just had this book sitting on his shelf?” Vel looked back at her incredulously. 

“Amazing, innit?” 

“No luck on The Two Towers yet?” Vel asked, turning back and examining Kleya’s book collection, “That one is my favorite, actually.” 

Kleya could only smile at that. “Is it really? I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say that.” 

“I have a thing for underloved sequels,” Vel said, as if that explained it. 

Before Kleya could question further, there was a loud hissing noise, followed by a flash of orange darting directly through Vel’s legs, followed by a loud crash. 

Vel nearly fell over with laughter,  “What the bloody hell was that?” 

Kleya, laughing harder than she had in recent memory, “That was Chopper. He must like you. The crashing nutmeg is one of his favourite greetings.” 

“Oh,” Vel said, getting to her feet and smiling cheekily back at her. “Brilliant.” 

❄️❄️❄️

Vel flipped the sign from “open” to “closed” with a heavy sigh. It had been nearly 45 minutes past closing time before they’d successfully cut off the checkout queue. 

It was the Saturday before Christmas, and, as was usual this time of year, the day nearly killed her. She hadn’t sat down since she took a lunch break to scarf down some cold leftover Chinese takeaway and let Artoo out. 

Bix plopped down onto the armchair by the fire. Vel was nearly sure Bix was pregnant, but hadn’t told her yet. Vel had been trying all day to get her to sit down and take a rest, but Bix was Bix. That just wasn’t in her nature. 

“I’ve got closing covered, Bix, why don’t you head home and get some dinner in you?” Vel ventured. 

Bix glared up at her, ready to retort, but Vel cut her off before she could, “Bix. I’ve already texted Cassian. He’s just started on your dinner. I can handle this. Let me take care of it.” 

Bix softened a bit, “Fine. But meet us at Maarva’s when you’re done?” 

“Of course.” 

Bix stood up and kissed Vel’s cheek before slipping into her coat and making for the exit. She wasn’t showing yet, but Vel could just tell. She was glowing. That, and, she’d returned from her—more frequent than usual—bathroom trips this morning looking decidedly green. Vel found her eyes to be shining with unshed tears, and she watched her best friend head for the door. When Bix’s hand landed on the knob, she looked back, and Vel had to quickly wipe dust from her eye as nonchalantly as possible. 

“And Vel?”

“Yeah?” 

“You get some rest, too, okay? Take that bleeding heart of yours and turn it on yourself.” 

Vel laughed, a melancholy wet thing that she would have been embarrassed if anyone but Bix heard. 

“Yeah, yeah. See you later,” She waved Bix goodbye, pulled out her phone and cranked up the Christmas music playing through the shop’s speakers, and got to work. 

❄️❄️❄️

Vel was doing her best Joe Pesci as Harry in Home Alone impression as she muttered angrily to herself. Why couldn’t people just put books back where they found them, or use the bloody designated book return shelf, instead of just placing a book wherever when they elected not to buy it? 

Their inventory management system indicated that they had two more copies of Heated Rivalry somewhere in this shop, but Vel had been hunting through the shelves for it for nearly 15 minutes. Unless they had two shoplifters today, they were here somewhere. 

Her phone rang from somewhere in her vest pocket, and she fished it out, anger dissipating quickly as she saw the photo that lit up her screen. She turned down the radio just in time to hear Dreena, in her posh French accent, say, “And that was Christmas Tree Farm from the one and only, Taylor Swift. Next up, we have a timeless classic, a Christmas Song from Nat King Cole.” 

“Hi Mon,” Vel said, pressing the phone to her ear as she continued to survey the shelves for the Hockey smut they couldn’t keep stocked. 

“Hi there, stranger. Survive another Saturday shift?” 

“Barely. Seems like each year there are more and more tourists and somehow less and less holiday spirit.” 

Mon chucked, the low laugh that made Vel’s heart warm. “Yes, well. About that. I’m calling because you haven’t submitted your RSVP to the Christmas Party.” 

Vel laughed back, “You actually wanted me to fill that out? Well, obviously I’ll be there! I haven’t missed a Mothma Christmas party in my life.” 

“I assumed as much. But that’s not what I meant.” 

Vel did not like the smirk that she could practically hear Mon making through the phone. Oh no. Oh. No. 

She quickly ran through her possible defences. She mused for a moment on how quickly she could flee the country before landing on ignorance. 

“What do you mean, then?” 

“Bix called me,” Mon said simply. 

That traitorous busybody. 

“That’s nice. How is she? I haven’t seen her in a whole hour.” Vel trucked on as she gave up on her smut-finding mission and plopped into the armchair, accepting her fate. 

Mon, in turn, ignored Vel entirely. “She told me there’s a girl.” 

Vel sighed dramatically and made one last desperate attempt at getting out of this. “There are a lot of girls in the world. Which one are you talking about?” 

“Oh, come off it, Vel. I love you, but you haven’t been on a date in what, a year? Are you telling me you have multiple ‘bombshell beautiful brunettes’—Bix’s words, not mine—making heart eyes at you?” 

“Maybe. I’m quite charming,” 

“Vel. Ask her to the party. I’ll see you on Christmas Eve. Love you!” Mon said before promptly hanging up on Vel. 

Vel groaned and threw her head back dramatically into the chair and muttered, “Happy Christmas to you, too. Bloody Hell.” 

❄️❄️❄️

Kleya took a sip of her flat white. It was delicious and warmed her down to the core, but unfortunately didn’t hold a candle to the one Vel had made her last week. 

“How’s that drink treating you?” Cassian asked as he bused the table next to hers at Ferrix Brews. 

“Absolutely the best,” she lied, then added a little truth, “The foam art is really impressive.” She glanced down at the mug and stuck another addendum, “Well. It was. I’m afraid I’ve ruined it.” 

It had once had a snowman depicted in foam art. Now it vaguely had a couple of overlapping circles. 

Cassian laughed, “That’s all Brasso. He’s got a knack for it. Can I get you anything else?” 

“No, I’m all set. Thank you,” She said, and meant it. 

“Good luck writing,” Cassian said with a wink before carrying an impressively full tray of dishes back to the counter. 

“Thanks, I’ll need it,” Kleya said. She placed her fingers back into position on her laptop’s keyboard. 

She was beginning to get a clearer picture of what she wanted to say, but was making no progress in how she wanted to say it. Everyone experiences grief. It’s as universal as breathing. And yet no one really knows the answer to the question of what to do when you lose the person who would have helped you figure out what to do. 

She wondered, not for the first time, when she might stop looking up and expecting Luthen to be sitting across from her. She supposed she still looked over her shoulder and expected her brother to be trailing behind her, as he always had. 

She thought about Vel, as was happening more and more by the day, and wondered how often the ghost of Cinta visited her waking dreams. 

Kleya closed her eyes, cracked her neck, and wrote, “There’s no scale to grief.” 

She couldn’t say for sure how long she’d been typing when she was pulled from her fugue state by a familiar voice. 

“Well, fancy seeing you here.” 

Kleya looked up from her computer to see Vel Sartha standing before her in yet another Christmas jumper, this one decidedly of the ugly vintage variety. It was covered in alternating patterns of Christmas trees, snowmen, and menorahs. 

“Hi indeed. Question. How many holiday jumpers do you own?” 

Vel’s face broke into a wide grin, and she answered, “There’s no way of knowing.” 

Kleya laughed and shook her head. “You off for the day?” 

“No, unfortunately, just popped out to get coffees for the team. The holiday rush is threatening our collective sanity,” Vel said, “But! Just a few more days!” 

“That’s the spirit,”

“Hey, um, speaking of spirit,” Vel started, and Kleya could see a nervous energy take over Vel’s sharp features, “My cousin, Mon, lives just outside of town and always throws this huge Christmas party with a band, and fancy little passed appetizers, and of course, an open bar. AndIwaswonderingifmaybeyoumightwanttogowithme.” 

Vel somehow managed to say the last sentence without uttering any spaces. Kleya asked, “I beg your pardon?” 

Vel blushed and took a deep breath, “I was wondering, maybe, if you wanted to go with me to Mon’s party? It’s on Christmas Eve.” 

Kleya thought for a moment about ditching Heert, but it had been rather kind of him to invite her to his family’s Christmas plans. She smiled sadly, said, “Thank you very much for inviting me, but I’m unfortunately headed back to Bristol to have dinner with my mate and his family.” 

Vel’s face fell for just a moment before she pulled a mask with such ease that Kleya knew she was well-practised in hiding her emotions. Her eyes, though, gave her away. The light hue of blue did little to shade the blinding sadness that emanated from behind them. 

“No worries. Totally makes sense that you’ll be headed back home with your friends. No problem at all. Well, anyway, good seeing you. Have a great rest of your day.” Vel spoke so quickly, turned, and excited Ferrix Brews even quicker. 

Without ordering the coffee she had come for. 

“Fuck,” Kleya said to no one in particular as she hung her head in her hands and scrubbed at her eyes. 

❄️❄️❄️

Kleya sat on the freezing sand and watched the waves crash onto the shore. The sunrise was just starting to peak over the horizon. She had long since lost feeling in her toes and fingers. She wished the numbing cold would reach her fractured, lonely heart. 

The beach was deserted, whether for the hour or the weather, she wasn’t sure, but she was happy to be alone. 

The silence was oddly soothing. She and Luthen had always been comfortable in the trust of silence between them. 

The sun made its move and crossed from beneath the sea into the waiting sky. 

“I’m not sure if you’d like it here. But it looks like a pretty place to see the sunrise?” She said to no one. To him. 

Luthen had once told her that he’d gone on holiday with Saw, somewhere by the sea. She didn’t know if this was it. Or if it were anywhere close. But she liked to think that it was. 

“I miss you. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know who to talk to about it if not you. I don’t know.” 

She kicked her numbed toes around in the sand with her booted foot. 

“There’s a girl. You would have liked her. I’ve only just met her, and it feels like she’s pulled me out of the shitstorm that I’ve been desperately trying to lose myself in. I’m feeling in a way that I haven’t since. Since. I dunno if I’ve ever. Gods. I can’t write and I can’t speak, and I can’t do this,” Kleya stood up and walked a few steps in frustration.

She turned and crossed her arms and fixed her eyes on the sunrise bursting across the sky. 

“Life has a way of showing you what you stand to lose.” He’d said to her while they gripped each other’s hands, that last day. 

Sometimes your life flashes before your eyes, not in moments of peril, but in moments of choice. 

She thought of her parents. Of her brother, whose face in the back of the car she couldn't shake. Of Saw, the man she’d never gotten to lay her eyes on. Of Luthen, that day, pulling her to safety. That morning, losing him to a steadily flattening line. 

Then she thought of Vel. Her beautiful blue eyes. The crease next to her eye made itself known when she laughed. The collection of blasted Christmas jumpers. The kindness and care that emanated from Vel’s very being. The hurt in her eyes when Kleya had said no. 

It was time to move. 

Decision made, she turned and made her way through the sand back to the car park. From her pocket, she pulled out her phone. 

It rang once, twice, three times before she heard him say, “Hello? Why the hell are you calling me this early on Christmas Ev–” 

“I’m not going to make it tonight. Tell your mother I hate her but thank you for the invitation.” 

Heert hooted and said, “Go get em tiger.”

❄️❄️❄️

Vel unleashed Artoo at the door and watched him run off excitedly to find Bee. 

“His food is in the bag here, and a little Christmas treat for him and Bee to have. And some of my homemade eggnog as a little Christmas treat for you to have. You sure you’ve got him?” Vel asked. 

“Of course I’ve got him. I’m too old for a party, but I’m not too old to sit my arse on the sofa and watch Christmas Vacation with two lazy dogs.” Maarva grumbled, “Go and have fun, Vel.”

“You’re not too old, Maarva–” 

“I am. But there’s nothing to be done about that. I’ve spent my days well, now go off and spend yours well,” Maarva said, as she shooed Vel towards the door.

Vel laughed and batted down Maarva’s arms playfully and instead tugged her into a hug. 

“Thanks, love. I’ll be by in the morning for Christmas brunch. Call me if you need anything.” 

“I will, now go,” Maarva said with a wry smile, this time successfully herding Vel to the door. 

“Thanks. Merry Christmas, Maarva.” 

❄️❄️❄️

Vel pushed open the door to Mon’s house, the front door hung with an extravagant-looking garland and lined with warm white fairy lights. The house was already filled with party-goers sipping specialty cocktails. Mon’s house was large and luxurious, but still felt lived-in and homey–something that Vel found to be a rather impressive feat. 

Vel shrugged off her coat and scanned the room for the familiar tall woman with red hair just a shade lighter than her own. It was filled with nearly everyone in town. Even Dedra fucking Meero was here. She’d have to give Mon shit for that later. That’s an olive branch too far, in Vel’s opinion. She spotted Cassian, Bix, Wil, and Dreena standing in a circle talking animatedly near the band by the bar. Leida was holding court with a circle of Mon’s colleagues seated on the sofas around the fireplace. 

Vel smiled, a bittersweet tonic of pride about the woman her niece was growing into mixed with melancholy about how fast she’d grown up. Leida met Vel’s eye across the room and shot her a wink before nodding at something over Vel’s shoulder. 

“You’re late,” a honeyed voice called from behind her. 

Vel spun and was shocked at what she found. 

There stood Kleya Marki. Looking absolutely radiant before her in a Christmas jumper, black jeans, and her signature Docs; holding two drinks in her hand. Vel had to remind herself to breathe. 

“Kleya,” Vel finally choked out once she remembered she had the ability to speak, “What are you doing here? I thought…Bristol?” 

Kleya took a step toward her, “I realised I had something much more important to attend to here. Merry Christmas, Vel.” 

“Merry Christmas,” Vel smiled, heart soaring.

“I know it doesn’t quite work when there’s an open bar, but can I ‘buy’ you a drink?” Kleya asked, “There’s some horrible Christmas cocktail on the menu that’s got your name written all over it.” 

“The Mistletoe Mule! You have to try it!” 

Kleya groaned in mock dismay, “For you, I will.” 

They turned and made their way to the bar, both missed Bix and Mon clinking their glasses in celebration. 

❄️❄️❄️

Later, when the party had thinned to those closest to the family and the band long-packed up, Mon’s record player spinning with soft orchestral renditions of Christmas classics, Kleya felt a sense of warmth that had nothing to do with the fire. 

Mon and Cassian were in a deep discussion about the Lionesses’ latest defeat at the hands of Germany and the merits of the 4-4-2. Bix, cuddled tightly up next to Cassian on  the sofa, was in turn chiming in both to the football debate as well as Wil, Dreena, and Vel’s animated conversation about which Home Alone film was superior. Kleya hadn’t chimed in — Vel was valiantly defending the obvious answer, Lost in New York, without need of backup. 

Washing over Kleya was a sense of belonging that she’s never felt before. 

Vel touched her knee and said lowly, for just Kleya to hear, “You okay?” 

“Yes. I’m happy. And I wish he were here.” 

Vel squeezed her knee and, to Kleya’s delight, left it resting there. 

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Vel said with a sad smile. “I miss her, too. And, despite it all, I miss my parents. They used to come to these parties every year. Until one year, they didn’t.” 

“Why did they stop?” 

“Dunno, really. I’m not really sure who stopped calling first. But somewhere along the way, the distance just grew so gaping that each started feeling so high stakes that it got harder and scarier each time to do it. And now we just talk a few times a year.” 

“I’m sorry, Vel” Kleya said, and meant it to her bones. 

“It’s alright. It’s— This is going to sound weird, but I’m not sure if it’s harder to grieve someone who’s well and truly gone, or to grieve someone who’s still here.”

She waited patiently for Vel to continue. 

“Grieving for the living,” Vel said, “is complicated. It’s guilt and sadness and anger and resentment. It’s remembering the happy memories we made and imagining the ones we could make, if things were different.” 

Kleya laid her hand on top of Vel’s, but before she could speak, Mon said, raising her drink, “To making happy memories with the family that we’ve chosen, and have chosen us in return.” 

Kleya looked up and registered that the room had all gone silent to listen to Vel speak. She glanced back to see Vel beaming at her cousin. They both raised their glasses, clinking them with the remaining partygoers, as Vel laced their fingers together. 

“Cheers, to chosen family,” Vel added, the clinking of glasses a judge's gavel sealing the promise. 

❄️❄️❄️

The snow fell around them, a white Christmas developing in earnest, as Vel walked Kleya up to her door. When they reached the stoop, Kleya turned back to Vel, who was rummaging in her bag. 

“Before you turn in, I got you something,” Vel said, pulling out what was clearly a book wrapped in wrapping paper patterned with dinosaurs in Santa hats and handing it over to Kleya. 

“Vel, oh my god, you didn’t have to. I didn’t –” 

“It’s alright, it’s not a big deal,” Vel said with a blush, “Go on, then, open it.” 

Kleya acquiesced with a smile and soft shake of her head and set about removing the paper. When she revealed the cover, Kleya gasped. 

“Vel,” Kleya said in awe, “Thank you. So much. How did you get this?” 

“I know a guy,” Vel said simply. 

Kleya marveled at the copy of The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, the 1980s second edition that was the missing piece to her favourite set. 

“Have you just been carrying this around all night?” Kleya asked, glancing up to meet Vel’s megawatt smile with her own. 

“I was going to leave it in your mailbox for when you get home tomorrow,” Vel answered with a blush, “And I maybe, just maybe, hoped I’d see you.” 

“Thank you, Vel. Honestly. This is too much. I–” Kleya started. 

“It’s not.” Vel started with a smug smile—and Kleya wanted to kiss it off her face—before continuing, “You deserve something special. This Christmas especially.” 

Kleya could only choke back the tears that threatened to fall, Vel’s earnest eye contact threatening Kleya with too many feelings, too many desires. Kleya thumbed the title of the book and whispered, “Thank you.” 

And then Vel did something that Kleya would remember for the rest of her life. 

She leaned in and kissed Kleya’s cheek, her lips soft yet electrifying, and whispered in Kleya’s ear, “Happy Christmas, Kleya.” 

Vel stepped back with a cheeky grin and added, “Goodnight,” before turning and heading back into the snow. 

Kleya was dumbstruck; her hand, seemingly of its own accord, reached up and felt along her own cheek in the place where Vel’s lips had touched. She was surely imagining it, but her cheek felt hot to the touch despite the freezing weather. 

Slowly, after she watched Vel disappear around the corner, Kleya got her wits about her. She walked into her flat and was quickly greeted by Chop bunting her legs. She chose to think he was showing affection and not trying to topple her as she toed out of her boots and shrugged off her coat. 

“Hi baby boy. Merry Christmas. I missed you,” she said as he did a figure eight around her feet with each step towards her bookshelf.

She knelt down and rearranged the shelf slightly—moving Tolstoy’s “War and Peace,” to the lower shelf—to make room to slide the missing piece of the puzzle into place. Kleya slid The Two Towers in between its predecessor and successor. The white was slightly more faded than Fellowship, but less than Return of the King. 

Sometimes the sets you find, piece by piece, in the course of your life fit together better than the ones you can buy brand new. 

She ran her hand down the spine of the book, amazed, overwhelmed, and undeniably in love, and made her decision. 

❄️❄️❄️

Kleya banged desperately on the shop door. The snow was piling up around her, and Vel Sartha was not coming to the door. Kleya was about to get her phone out and try ringing her when she heard Vel’s voice yell from within the shop, “We’re CLOSED! It’s almost midnight on Christmas Eve!” 

“Vel! Open up. It’s me.” Kleya shouted back. 

There was a pregnant, silent pause before she heard the lock click and the door opened to reveal Vel standing just inside the threshold, eyes wide in surprise. 

Kleya reached for Vel’s hand and tugged her slightly forward. She didn’t drop it as she pointed up with her other hand. “Mistletoe,” Kleya whispered. 

Vel looked up at the mistletoe hanging about the door of Bix’s Bookshop and Vel’s Volumes, then slowly looked back down to meet Kleya’s eyes. Kleya watched as Vel’s face broke in a smile and a brightness lit up her cerulean eyes. 

Vel slowly untangled their fingers, gently cupped Kleya's cheeks, and leaned in. 

Their lips met, soft at first. Kleya wrapped her arms around Vel’s neck, and in turn, Vel pulled her in even closer and deepened the kiss.

When they pulled away, Vel tipped their foreheads together as they both caught their breath. “Would you like to come in?” 

“Yes,” Kleya breathed. Vel smiled that dangerous, charming smile back at her and tugged her through the door before pushing Kleya by the hips against the closed door and reconnecting their lips. 

And through her fingers slipped the last vestige of self-control Kleya had. 

❄️❄️❄️

Later, they lay boneless, atop a pile of cushions and beneath a cocoon of blankets that Vel had laid down for them next to the fireplace. The fire was roaring handsomely as Vel gently ran her fingers along Kleya’s spine. 

Kleya placed a soft kiss on Vel’s neck and nuzzled her nose in further. Vel hummed in delight and continued her soft ministrations on Kleya’s spine. 

“You ought to put the fire out, or Santa will get charred coming down the chimney,” Kleya whispered conspiratorially. 

Vel laughed and added, “We'd better move or else he’ll step on us when he does.” 

Kleya hummed in agreement, too blissed out to even consider moving to bed yet, “Just a few more minutes here, first.” 

“Agreed.” 

They lay there in a comfortable silence, just two people making sense of the journey they’d just embarked on, together. Kleya wondered if she’d ever felt this warm, this happy. 

“Happy Christmas, Vel,” she whispered. 

Vel kissed her forehead and pulled Kleya ever so slightly closer. 

“Happy Christmas, Kleya.”