Chapter 19: The Exchange

The movie ends with Marcus wiping his eyes dramatically, though he insists it’s just “dry winter air,” and Margaret stands, clapping her hands together. “Alright, everyone,” she announces. “Before we all fall asleep on the couch, it’s time for gifts.”

Dean lets out a playful groan. “Mom, you always make it sound like a ceremony.”

“It is a ceremony,” she says, lifting a beautifully wrapped box from under the tree. “Now hush.”

Jasmine’s laughter dances through the air as she and Dean nestle onto the plush couch, the warm glow of the tree light twinkling around them. Marcus reclines in his well-worn armchair, a satisfied smile gracing his face as he observes the scene. The cozy atmosphere fills him with a deep contentment, a cherished moment shared among the family he loves so dearly. Margaret handed out the first rounds of gifts, small things, thoughtful things. A new tie for Marcus. A candle Jasmine mentioned liking weeks ago. A book that Dean had long admired from afar, its enticing cover and intriguing title capturing his imagination, but he never brought himself to purchase it for his own collection. After we talked for a bit while wrapping a few gifts, Dean spoke up, and everyone's attention was on him.

Then Dean clears his throat. “Okay…my turn.” He reaches behind the tree and pulls out a small, neatly wrapped box. Jasmine’s breath catches when he hands it to her.

“For you,” I say softly to her. She unwraps it carefully, lifting the lid to reveal a delicate silver bracelet. A tiny charm hangs from it, a small open book, its pages engraved with the faintest lines.

Jasmine's eyes light up. “Dean… It’s beautiful.”

“I wanted you to have something that felt like you,” I say. “Something that reminds you of your words. Your stories. Your strength.” She throws her arms around him, hugging him tightly. “Thank you.”

Margaret watches them with a soft smile, her eyes warm. Then Marcus clears his throat. “Well, I guess it’s my turn.”

He carefully places a small box wrapped in unadorned brown paper into Jasmine’s hands. The surface is smooth to the touch, with the faint scent of aged wood lingering around it. Inside the box, nestled on a bed of soft white tissue paper, lies a keychain. It’s made of brushed metal, cool and lightweight, with an elegant simplicity that draws the eyes. The surface is engraved with finely detailed words that shimmer subtly in the light, each letter a testament to careful craftsmanship, offering a message that speaks to the heart. The words read:

You’re safe here.

Jasmine’s breath catches. “Marcus…”

He shrugs, but his eyes are gentle. “Just wanted you to know.”

Jasmine nods, touched beyond words. The room fills with warmth not just from the fire, but from something deeper. Something like family. Later that night, after the wrapping paper has been gathered and the cocoa mugs rinsed, Margaret approaches Jasmine quietly.

“Can I show you something?” she asks.

Jasmine nods, following her down the hallway to Margaret’s sewing room, a space Jasmine hasn’t seen before. It’s smaller than the boutique, but just as full of life. Fabric swatches pinned to cork boards. Sketches taped to the walls. A dress form draped in half-finished lace. Margaret opens a drawer and pulls out a small, velvet pouch.

“I’ve been holding onto this for years,” she says, her voice softer than Jasmine has ever heard it. “I always thought I’d give it to the woman who truly loved my son. Someone who saw him for who he is, not what he has.” She placed the pouch in Jasmine’s hands. Jasmine opens it slowly and gasps. Inside is a delicate gold necklace with a tiny rose pendant. The petals are carved with impossible details, each one catching the light.

“It was my mother’s,” Margaret says quietly. “She gave it to me when I was about your age. She told me it was a reminder that love is something you nurture. Something you choose. Something you protect.”

Jasmine’s throat tightens. “Margaret…I can’t take this.”

“Yes,” Margaret says gently, placing a hand over hers. “You can. And I want you to.”

Jasmine blinks back tears. “Thank you. Truly.”

Margaret smiles softly, warmly, and genuinely. “You’re becoming part of this family, Jasmine. And I want you to feel that. Not just hear it.”

Jasmine nods, overwhelmed. “I do.”

Then Margaret pulled Jasmine into a hug, and Jasmine hugged her back, and for the first time, she truly believed that this relationship would last forever. Margaret told Jasmine that she could spend the night in the guest room, and Jasmine agreed. The next morning, the world outside is blanketed in fresh snow-soft, untouched, sparkling under the pale winter sun. Marcus is the first to suggest it.

“Come on,” he says, pulling on his boots. “Let’s take a walk before the neighborhood kids turn everything into a battlefield.”

Dean laughs. “He means snowball fight.”

Margaret rolls her eyes but grabs her scarf. “Fine. But I’m not running.”

Jasmine bundles up, slipping the rose necklace under her sweater, feeling its warmth against her skin. They step outside together, the cold air crisp under their boots as they walk down the quiet street. Dean takes Jasmine’s hand, their fingers warm inside their gloves. Marcus walks ahead, pointing out icicles and making jokes. Margaret trails beside Jasmine, occasionally linking arms with her. At one point, Marcus bends down, scoops up a handful of snow, and tosses it gently at Dean.

Dean sputters. “Dad!”

Jasmine bursts into laughter, her cheerful voice ringing through the crisp winter air. Just as she catches her breath, a flurry of snowflakes suddenly pelts her, and she yelps in surprise as Dean playfully retaliates. A mischievous grin spreads across his face.

Margaret shakes her head. “Boys.” But then she crouches down low, her gloved hands expertly gathering the powdery snow into a tight, spherical shape. With a mischievous grin, she takes careful aim and, in a swift motion, hurls the snowball at Marcus, striking him squarely in the back. The cold, soft impact sends a chill through him, and a cloud of white flakes bursts into the air as he turns around, surprise etched across his face.

Marcus spins around, shocked. “Margaret!”

Marcus stood frozen in the crisp winter air, his breath forming small clouds as he stared incredulously at his wife. Her laughter echoed in the snowy landscape, bubbling over the sound of crunching snow beneath their boots. He could feel the cold remnants of the snowball still dripping down his cheek, a stark reminder of her playful assault. He searched her face, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mischief that sparked the playful attack, waiting for her to reveal what had inspired such a spontaneous moment of fun.

She smirks. “What? I’m not running. I never said I wouldn’t throw.”

Jasmine laughed so hard she nearly fell into the snowbank. The four of them end in a playful, chaotic snowball fight - nothing serious, nothing competitive, just pure joy. Laughter echoes across the yard, warm enough to melt the frost. When they finally collapse onto the porch steps, breathless and rosy-cheeked, Jasmine looks around at them: Dean leaning against her shoulder, Marcus wiping snow from his beard, Margaret adjusting her hat with a grin. And she realizes something quietly, deeply true: This is what family feels like. Warmth in the cold. Laughter in the quiet. Belonging in the unexpected places, and she’s a part of it now.

By the time they all tumble back inside, cheeks flushed and boots dripping melted snow, the house feels even warmer than before. Marcus and Margaret head toward the kitchen, laughing about who “technically won” the snowball fight, leaving Dean and Jasmine lingering near the entryway. Jasmine bends down to unlace her boots, but her fingers are stiff from the cold. Dean notices immediately.

“Hey,” he murmurs, crouching in front of her. “Let me.”

She starts to protest, but he’s already gently brushing her hands aside. His fingers work slowly, carefully, warming hers just by touching them. Jasmine watches him, her heart softening at the simple tenderness of it.

“You don’t have to do that,” she says quietly.

“I know,” I reply, looking up at her with a small smile. “I want to.”

When he finished, he stood and helped her out of her coat, hanging it beside his. The house is quiet now, just the faint hum of the heater and the muffled voices of his parents in the kitchen. Dean steps closer, brushing a stray snowflake from her hair.

“You look beautiful,” he says softly.

Jasmine laughs under her breath. “I look like a snow-soaked mess.”

“No,” he murmurs, tucking a curl behind her ear. “You look like someone I’m falling for more every day.”

Her breath catches. “Dean…”

He takes her hands, rubbing warmth back into them. “Today… seeing you with my parents, laughing with them, being part of everything, it meant a lot to me. More than I can explain.”

Jasmine steps closer, her voice barely above a whisper. “It meant a lot to me, too.”

I lean my forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet hallway. “I love moments like this,” I say. “Just us. No fear. No tension. Just you and me.” She gently closes her eyes, allowing the soothing warmth of his presence to seep into her bones, wrapping around her like a cozy blanket on a chilly night.

“Me too.”

He lifts her chin gently, giving her time to pull away if she wants to. She doesn’t. Their lips meet softly at first, slow, warm, unhurried. A kiss that feels like a promise rather than a question. Jasmine melts into him, her hands sliding up to his chest. Dean deepens the kiss just slightly, his thumb brushing her cheek, grounding her, holding her like she’s something precious. When they finally pull apart, Jasmine’s smile is soft and breathless.

“You’re warm now,” Dean teases.

She nudges me lightly. “Maybe a little.”

I wrap my arms around her, pulling her into my chest. “Come on,” I whisper into her hair. “Let’s go sit by the fire. Just us.”

She nods, letting me guide her towards the living room. And as they settle onto the couch, wrapped in a shared blanket, the glow of the fire flickering across their face, Jasmine realizes something quietly, deeply true: This isn’t just romance. It’s home. The fire has burned down to glowing embers by the time the house settles into silence. Marcus and Margaret have gone upstairs, leaving Jasmine and Dean curled together on the couch, wrapped in the same blanket they shared earlier. Jasmine rests her head on Dean’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His fingers trace slow circles along her arms, thoughtful, almost nervous. She notices.

“What’s on your mind?” she asks softly.

Dean hesitates - not because he doesn’t know what to say, but because he wants to say it right. He shifts slightly so he can look at her, his eyes warm in the dim light.

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” he begins. “About us. About everything we’ve been through. About where we’re going.”

Jasmine’s breath catches. “Yeah?”

I nod, brushing a curl from her cheek. “When I picture my future, you’re in every version of it. Not just as my girlfriend. Not just as someone I love. But as my partner. My home. My person.”

Her heart stutters, a soft ache blooming in her chest.

“Dean…”

I take her hands, holding them gently but with purpose. “I see us building a life together. Waking up in the same house. Arguing over who used the last of the coffee. You are writing your books in a sunlit office. Me sneaking in just to kiss you because I can’t help myself.”

She laughs softly, tears already gathering.

“I see holidays like today,” I continue, my voice thick with emotion. “But with our own traditions. Our own memories. Maybe even… kids someday. If you want that.”

Jasmine’s eyes widen, her breath trembling. “I…I do.”

I smile, relief washing over him. “Good. Because I want all of it. Every messy, beautiful, ordinary day with you.”

She squeezes his hands, overwhelmed. “Dean, I love you so much.”

I inhale deeply, as if steadying myself. Then I stand, gently pulling her up with me.

“Come here,” I whisper.

I lead her towards the Christmas tree, its lights still glowing softly in the dim room. The ornaments cast tiny reflections across the walls, making the whole space feel magical. Jasmine turns to him, confused but smiling. “What are you-”

But then she sees it. A small velvet box tucked beneath the lowest branch. Her breath stops. I kneel slowly, never breaking eye contact. My hands are steady now, sure, full of quiet certainty.

“Jasmine,” I say, voice low and full of love, “You walked into my life and changed everything. You made me better. You made me braver. You made me believe in a future I didn’t even know I wanted.”

Tears spill down her cheeks.

“You’re my best friend,” I continued. “My peace. My fire. My heart. And I want to spend the rest of my life loving you the way you deserve.”

I open the box. Inside is a simple, stunning ring, elegant, timeless, unmistakably chosen with her in mind.

“Will you marry me?”

Jasmine covered her mouth with her hands, a soft sob escaping.

“Dean…yes. Yes, of course I will.”

I rise, slipping the ring onto her trembling finger. She throws her arms around him, and he lifts her slightly off the ground, holding her like he never wants to let go. They kiss slowly, deeply, full of every promise they’ve ever made without words. When we finally pull apart, Jasmine whispers against his lips, “You’re my future too.”

I smile, forehead resting against hers. “Good. Because I can’t wait to start forever with you.”

And under the soft glow of the Christmas tree, wrapped in warmth and love, their future begins.