The weight of the holiday season presses down on me like wet snow—beautiful from a distance but suffocating up close. Eliot's been decorating the penthouse for weeks now, turning our space into a winter wonderland with twinkling lights and tasteful ornaments. It's beautiful, really. He's even hand-sewn a stocking for Dessy, our golden retriever mix who currently snores softly at my feet.

But beauty doesn't always banish the darkness. For the past few days, I've felt it creeping back—the numbness, the exhaustion, the quiet voice that whispers I'm not enough.

Eliot notices, of course he does. He always does."I feel like I should tell you," I say, breaking the comfortable silence as he works on some portal theory notes at the foot of our bed. "Holidays haven't exactly been the best time for me."

He immediately abandons his work, crawling up beside me with that concerned look that makes my heart ache with both love and guilt."Hi there," he says softly, reaching for my hand.

"Hi," I reply, rolling my eyes but closing my book, giving him my full attention.

We talk about his complicated relationship with the holidays, about my father, about the teenage version of me who just wanted to run away from everything. And then, before I can second-guess myself, I blurt it out:"I think I might try to get together with my mom. If she's around and wants that."

Eliot studies me, his expression unreadable."Are you sure that's a good idea?" he asks carefully.

I want to lash out, to defend my impulse to connect with the only family I have left. But instead, I just sigh."Maybe not. But she's my mom."

There's a long pause before he asks quietly:"Would you come with me?"

I hold his gaze, searching for any hesitation."If she agrees," I say, trying to sound noncommittal.

"Of course I'll go with you," he says without hesitation, squeezing my hand.

Now, days later, sitting in the passenger seat as Eliot drives us to New Jersey for dinner with Mom and Molly, I feel that familiar panic rising in my chest. The car smells like pine from the air freshener Eliot insisted on buying. Christmas music plays softly on the radio.

"You okay?" Eliot asks, glancing over at me.

I realize I've been staring fixedly at my hands for who knows how long."Yeah," I lie."Just... nervous."

He reaches over and places his hand on my thigh, warm and solid through the fabric of my pants."We don't have to do this if you don't want to," he says, his voice calm and steady."We can turn around right now."

The offer is tempting. So tempting. But I've already come this far.