"Ever prepared," I say, turning in his arms to face him. "Like someone else I know."
He brushes flour from my cheek with his thumb, wedding band catching the firelight. "I prefer 'strategic.'"
"You would." I stretch up to kiss him briefly, savoring the familiar taste of coffee and cinnamon. "Did you check the weather report yet?"
"Three inches expected by morning. Nothing we can't handle." His hand finds my belly again, a habit he's developed over the past few months. "Though if anyone suggests we need more firewood, I'm sending them out to chop it themselves."
"Even the Chief?"
"Especiallythe Chief."
I laugh, picturing Paul Hawkins's gruff indignation at being assigned manual labor at a dinner he's been invited to.
Two years, and the man still pretends he's only coming for the food, not the company. But I've seen him sneak dog treats to our retriever when he thought no one was looking.
The cabin fills with the rich scent of roasting turkey and the pine boughs I arranged along the mantel this morning. Bradley'sold unit patch hangs framed beside our wedding photo, the past honored but no longer defining him. Beneath it sits the radio he keeps maintained out of habit, its soft static a comfort rather than a call to action.
I return to my pie, crimping the edges with careful fingers while Bradley checks the turkey.
We move around each other with the ease of long practice, anticipating steps, passing utensils without asking, filling the spaces the other leaves. In the background, the fire pops and hisses, casting dancing shadows across the wide-plank floor.
"Nathan's bringing that green bean thing again," Bradley warns, setting the timer. "The one with the canned onions."
"I set aside a space for it far from the mashed potatoes. Strategic, as you'd say." I slide the pie into the second oven, another perk of the cabin renovation we completed last spring. "And I told Logan the pie is forafterdinner this year."
Bradley grins, remembering last year's debacle when Logan somehow managed to sample half a pumpkin pie before the turkey even hit the table. "Good luck with that."
"I have leverage now." I pat my stomach. "Pregnant lady privileges."
"Playing dirty, Communications Coordinator Cole-Wood."
"Learned from the best, Engineer Wood."
He crosses to check the dining table, where I've already arranged plates and silverware around a centerpiece of pinecones and candles.
His hand brushes over each setting, adjusting a fork here, straightening a napkin there. I watch him, this man who onceseemed so contained, so restrained, now moving through our home with easy ownership of his happiness.
"What?" he asks, catching my gaze.
"Just thinking about that storm," I answer honestly.
"Some things are inevitable," he says, echoing his words from that first kiss in the bay. "Like you said that night, you were exactly where you were supposed to be."
The memory warms me more than the fire. I cross to him, wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing my cheek against his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath my ear, the same calm rhythm that's anchored me through two years of changes.
"Should we go check the road?" he suggests, one hand running up and down my spine. "Make sure the turn's visible with the snow coming down?"
It's unnecessary. Bradley shoveled and salted the drive this morning, and the snow is hardly more than a dusting, but I recognize the restlessness in him. The need to secure, to prepare, to make safe.
Some instincts never fade completely.
"Sure," I agree, reaching for my coat. "Baby's first snow, anyway. We should document the moment."
Outside, the air holds that special hush that comes only with snowfall, a soft blanket thrown over the world, muffling everything but the essential. Our breath clouds between us as we walk hand in hand down the porch steps.
The snow catches in Bradley's dark hair and beard, tiny crystals that glint in the porch light.
We stand at the edge of our property, where the gravel drive meets the old logging road that winds down toward town. Below us, Whitetail Falls glows in the gathering darkness, warm lights against the blue-white snow. The river cuts through it all, black and sleek between frosted banks.
