Chapter 18: Bonding Time

A couple of days later, Jasmine was at Dean’s parents' house, and she found Dean’s father, Marcus, in the backyard tending to the grill even though it was far too cold for anyone else to be outside. He looks up when he hears the sliding door open, offering her a warm, easy smile - the kind that makes him instantly approachable.

“Hey there, Jasmine,” he says, flipping a burger with practiced ease. “Come keep an old man company.”

I laugh softly and step outside, pulling her coat tighter around her. “You’re not old.”

“Well, don’t tell my knees that,” he jokes, tapping one with the spatula. She smiles, settling onto the patio chair beside him. For a moment, they just enjoy the quiet-the smell of charcoal, the crisp winter air, the faint hum of holiday music drifting from inside.

“I heard you went to the boutique with Margaret,” Marcus says, glancing at her. “How’d that go?”

I nod, a small smile forming on my face. “It went really well. Better than I expected.”

“I’m glad,” he says sincerely. “She’s…intense sometimes. But she means well. And she’s been trying to grow. I’m proud of her for that.”

I look at him, surprised by his openness. “She told me a lot about her early years before and after you got married. About how hard she worked.”

Marcus chuckles. “Hard is an understatement. That woman built her business with sheer willpower and caffeine. I’ve never seen anyone fight for their dreams the way she did.”

I nod at his statement. “I can see that.”

Marcus turns off the grill and sits beside her, his expression softening. “I want you to know something, Jasmine. From the moment Dean brought you home, I liked you. Not because of anything you did or said…but because of the way he looked at you.”

My breath catches.

“He’s calmer with you,” Marcus continues. “More grounded. More himself. And that’s all a parent really wants to see their child with someone who brings out the best in them.”

I was touched. “Thank you. That means a lot.” I watch as Marcus strides confidently toward me, the late afternoon sunlight casting a warm glow on his features. His kind, genuine smile lights up his face, making his deep brown eyes sparkle with a warmth that draws me in. The slight breeze tousles his dark hair, but he doesn’t seem to notice, completely focused on the moment as he approaches.

He pats my hand gently. “You’re part of this family, whether you realize it yet or not. And I’m glad you’re here.”

I feel warmth bloom in my chest - steady, reassuring, real.

“Me too,” I say softly.

Later that night, Jasmine sits cross-legged on Dean’s bed, her journal resting in her lap. Dean lies beside her, propped up on one elbow, watching her quiet curiosity.

“You don’t have to show me,” he says gently. “Only if you want to.”

Jasmine hesitates, fingers brushing the edge of the page. “I want to. I just…don’t be upset, okay.”

Dean nods, understanding. “I won’t be upset.”

She takes a breath, then turns the journal towards him. “This is from the night after your mom apologized.”

Dean reads silently, eyes moving slowly across her handwriting. As he reads, his expression shifts - softening, tightening, softening again. When he finishes, he closes the journal carefully, like it’s something fragile.

“Jasmine…” he murmurs, voice thick. “I didn’t know you felt all of that.”

I didn’t know either,” she admits. “Not until I wrote it down.”

He cups her cheek, thumb brushing her skin. “I’m sorry you carried so much alone.”

“I’m not alone anymore,” she whispers.

He leans in, pressing his forehead to hers. “You never will be.”

She closes her eyes, letting the moment settle into her bones. When he pulls back, he smiles softly.

“Thank you for trusting me with that,” he says. “It means more than you know.”

Jasmine smiles back. “Thank you for being someone I can trust.”

They sit together in the quiet, the journal resting between them like a bridge - one she finally feels safe crossing. It's been a few days since then, and now, on the heels of Christmas Eve, Jasmine is at Dean’s parents' place. The living room glows with a soft amber warmth, the fire crackling steadily as snow continues to drift outside. Jasmine settles deeper into the couch, Dean’s arms wrapped securely around her shoulders. The blanket covering them is thick and plush, smelling faintly of pine and laundry soap.

Margaret enters with a tray of hot cocoa, handing mugs to everyone. When she reaches Jasmine, she pauses, offering a gentle smile. “Extra marshmallows,” she says. “I remembered.”

Jasmine’s heart warms. “Thank you.”

Marcus settles into his armchair, turning on a holiday playlist that fills the room with soft, nostalgic music. Then Margaret returned from the kitchen with a plate of freshly baked sugar cookies, still warm, the icing slightly melted. She set the plate on the coffee table with a proud little flourish.

“Don’t judge the shapes,” she warns. “The snowflake cutter broke, so everything is abstract.”

Marcus snorts. “They taste the same no matter what shape they are.”

Dean reaches forward and grabs one, taking a dramatic bite. “Mom, these are perfect.”

Margaret beams, then glances at Jasmine. “Try one. I used a new recipe.”

Jasmine picks up a cookie, the warmth seeping into her fingers. She takes a bite, and her eyes widen. “Oh wow…this is really good.”

Margaret’s smile softens into something more meaningful. “I’m glad you like it.”

Marcus leans back in his chair, stretching his legs towards the fire. “Alright, who’s ready for the tradition?”

Dean groans. “Dad, please don’t-”

“Oh, I’m doing it,” Marcus says, already reaching for the remote. “It’s not Christmas without it.”

Jasmine looks between them, amused. “What tradition?”

Margaret sighs dramatically. “Marcus insists on watching the same holiday movie every year. The same one. Word for word. He can quote the entire thing.”

Marcus grins proudly. “And I will.”

Dean leans in to whisper to Jasmine, “It’s Home Alone. He thinks he’s Kevin.”

“I was Kevin,” Marcus insists. “Traps and all.”

Margaret rolls her eyes. “You put a bucket of flour over your brother’s door. That’s not the same thing.”

Jasmine laughs, her melodic voice mingling with the gentle crackle of the fire, each pop and hiss echoing the warmth that envelops her. The flickering flames cast a soft, golden glow over her features, illuminating her joy. She nestles deeper into the cozy blanket draped around her shoulders, feeling not only the heat of the fire but also the warmth of friendship surrounding her. In this moment, she feels a profound sense of safety, a sanctuary where laughter thrives, and everyone belongs. The scent of burning wood and a hint of marshmallow linger in the air, adding to the magic of the evening. As the movie starts, Marcus settles into his chair with the excitement of a child, mouthing the lines before they happen. Margaret curls up on the other end of the couch beside him, resting her head on the pillow. Dean pulls Jasmine closer, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles on her soft, bare arm, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips. The gentle motion is both soothing and intimate, as he studies the way her eyes flutter slightly, betraying her shyness. The lingering scent of jasmine blossoms hangs in the air, mingling with the faint, comforting warmth of the evening breeze, creating a moment that feels suspended in time.

Halfway through the movie, Jasmine glances around the room. Margaret’s soft laughter. Marcus’s booming commentary and Dean’s steady warmth beside her. The glow of the tree and the snow outside. The quiet peace she hasn’t felt in years. She realizes something quietly, deeply true: She’s not just visiting this family anymore. She’s becoming part of it. Dean notices her watching and leans down to whisper, “You okay?”

Jasmine nods, her voice barely above a breath. “Yeah. I really am.”

He kisses her temple, lingering there. “Good.”

The movie continues, the room filled with warmth and laughter. And for the first time in a long time, Jasmine feels like she’s exactly where she’s meant to be.