08-30-2025, 12:03 AM
Jensen stood still, watching the sisters cling to one another. Rachel with her new lightness, Emily with tears of relief. It was as if the whole room had shifted, the heaviness chased out and replaced with something light and warm.
He backed up a step, then another, careful not to disturb the moment. His instinct was to slip quietly away, to let them have this victory as their own. He’d done what he came to do; better now to be gone before gratitude bound him too tightly here, but already the sound of Emily’s sobbing threatened to undo the careful composure he wore.
Inside, his heart swelled. He had done this. He had lifted a woman out of her waking nightmare. He’d been the vessel, the hand, the light. He told himself it was the Gift, that it was God’s will moving through him, but there was a private pride blossoming beneath the humility. A quiet voice whispering that he had achieved what no one else could.
When Rachel suddenly crossed the room and clasped his hands, he steadied under the weight of her gratitude. Her fingers trembled, her eyes shone, and her “Merry Christmas” landed with the weight of a benediction. He leaned easily into the contact, returning the squeeze without hesitation.
It wasn't often that someone touched him this way. Not with lust, not with power, but with simple, unguarded thankfulness. He realized how much he missed it. Back when he was preaching, whole congregations had looked at him like this after a prayer, after a word spoken into their lives. That look of hope. That look that said, because of you, I can breathe again. He’d thought he’d buried that part of himself, but tonight it stirred, warm and heady.
When she let go, Jensen inclined his head, a soft smile ghosting across his features. He took another step back, almost at the door now. “Merry Christmas,” he murmured, though the words were meant more for himself than anyone else. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and he had no family waiting, no tree lit, no laughter to return to. Just a quiet loft and his own company.
But he wouldn’t take that from them. Tonight was theirs. And he had given them back to each other. That was enough. At least, it should be.
He backed up a step, then another, careful not to disturb the moment. His instinct was to slip quietly away, to let them have this victory as their own. He’d done what he came to do; better now to be gone before gratitude bound him too tightly here, but already the sound of Emily’s sobbing threatened to undo the careful composure he wore.
Inside, his heart swelled. He had done this. He had lifted a woman out of her waking nightmare. He’d been the vessel, the hand, the light. He told himself it was the Gift, that it was God’s will moving through him, but there was a private pride blossoming beneath the humility. A quiet voice whispering that he had achieved what no one else could.
When Rachel suddenly crossed the room and clasped his hands, he steadied under the weight of her gratitude. Her fingers trembled, her eyes shone, and her “Merry Christmas” landed with the weight of a benediction. He leaned easily into the contact, returning the squeeze without hesitation.
It wasn't often that someone touched him this way. Not with lust, not with power, but with simple, unguarded thankfulness. He realized how much he missed it. Back when he was preaching, whole congregations had looked at him like this after a prayer, after a word spoken into their lives. That look of hope. That look that said, because of you, I can breathe again. He’d thought he’d buried that part of himself, but tonight it stirred, warm and heady.
When she let go, Jensen inclined his head, a soft smile ghosting across his features. He took another step back, almost at the door now. “Merry Christmas,” he murmured, though the words were meant more for himself than anyone else. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and he had no family waiting, no tree lit, no laughter to return to. Just a quiet loft and his own company.
But he wouldn’t take that from them. Tonight was theirs. And he had given them back to each other. That was enough. At least, it should be.