“Need a break?” I ask, smiling.
He nods. “And a kiss.”
I stretch up on my toes, careful with the baby in my arms, and press my lips to his.
It’s slow, sweet. The kind of kiss that says everything we’ve built is still strong.
Still burning.
“I love you,” I whisper against his mouth.
He leans his forehead against mine. “I love you too. Merry Christmas, Mrs. Pierce.”
Behind us, Will yells that the snowman is now a snow warrior, and Ben proudly waves two crooked sticks in the air.
I laugh. Rose stirs and sighs.
The snow keeps falling, soft and endless.
Christmas feels exactly like it should: loud, warm, messy, beautiful.
The house is quiet now.
The kind of quiet that only comes after bedtime stories, warm baths, and three kids finally giving in to sleep.
The fire crackles low, casting golden shadows across the cabin walls.
Ryder pulls the blanket higher over my legs as I curl up on the couch. It’s big, soft, and deep enough for all five of us to pile onto during movie nights.
He built it.
Of course he did.
I’d made an offhand comment one morning—something about how we needed a proper couch that could fit the whole family.
Two weeks later, this beauty showed up.
Handcrafted, and somehow even more comfortable than it looks.
He sits beside me now, one arm draped along the back, body turned toward mine, watching me like he still can’t quite believe this is real.
Like I’m the best gift under the tree.
“You’re staring,” I murmur.
“Just appreciating my wife,” he says, voice low and rough and all mine.
“You did a lot of appreciating earlier while building that snowman.”
“Did I?” he drawls. “I thought I was just trying not to get buried alive by our sons.”
I laugh softly and stretch, the hem of my oversized sweater riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of thigh.
His gaze drops.
Stays.
Lingers.
