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And just like that, I’m unmoored.

No one says anything. Not Fletch. Not Reese. Not Thorin. Not even Eli, who just coos softly in the background like he knows we’re standing in the eye of a storm that’s finally passed.

I nod once, because it’s all I can do.

And maybe, just maybe, for the first time in a long time, I believe her.

The warmth of the kitchen is a strange contrast to the cold war that used to live between me and my mother. And maybe it still does. But for now, it’s quiet—like the kind of silence that comes after a storm, when everything’s damp and tentative and waiting to see what breaks first.

I’m still standing there, shell-shocked and tangled in a thousand old emotions, when Reese gently threads her fingers through mine and tugs me down the hall like she’s leading a ghost back to the land of the living.

We step into the mudroom, the only place in the house not smelling like cinnamon, roast chicken, or pine. Here it just smells like winter—wood, wool, and the faintest whiff of horse. Reese closes the door behind us, eyes soft, mouth tilted in that nervous smile she only ever uses when she’s about to say something risky. Or potentially stupid.

“I wanted to surprise you,” she says carefully. “I didn’t know if it was the right call, but your dad’s been texting with me since Thanksgiving, and when he said they’d both be in town…” She shrugs, suddenly unsure. “It just felt like maybe it was time.”

I stare at her. My mind still catching up with the image of Maria hugging me like we weren’t made of barbed wire and bruised history.

“You okay?” she asks gently. “Because if it’s not—I can make something up. Say they need to leave early or⁠—”

“No,” I interrupt, voice hoarse and heart hammering. “No, it’s… a little weird with my mom, yeah. But—” My voice dips, emotion thick behind my ribs. “I’m grateful. To have them here. Especially today.”

Reese’s shoulders drop like she’s been holding her breath. “Okay. Good. Because your mom brought tamales. And if you think I’m letting her leave before I get the recipe, you’re sorely mistaken.”

I huff out a laugh and hug her tightly, burying my face into the only safe harbor I’ve ever had in this town.

And that’s when the door slams open.

“It’s beginning to look a lot like chaos,” Benji sings in falsetto, marching in with a paper bag in one hand and Carson’s arm hooked in the other.

“Did someone order a pair of dysfunctional Christmas elves?” Carson asks, grinning like he’s just stepped off the cover of a GQ holiday edition. He’s wearing a red scarf, a reindeer sweater, and way too much cologne.

The hallway erupts in motion. Voices. Footsteps. The low buzz of music kicks on in the background—Frank Sinatra crooning from the kitchen speakers. It’s like the whole ranch takes a deep inhale and then lets it out in color and noise.

Thorin greets the guys with a bear hug and a loud, “You’re late. And don’t lie—we already know you stopped for lattes.”

“Guilty,” Benji replies, offering up a tray of peppermint mochas like a peace treaty. “One for every morally unbalanced adult in the room.”

Carson’s already clapping his hands. “All right, Chef Decker. Let’s see if you can make a turkey that doesn’t taste like last year’s playoff loss.”

“Funny,” Thorin mutters, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder as he hands Benji an apron.

The kitchen turns into a dance floor of culinary chaos. Pots clinking. Timers beeping. Benji swearing in Spanish. Eli squealing with delight as my dad lifts him high into the air, then bounces him on one knee with all the clumsy joy of a man who still remembers how to play pretend.

Even my mother, usually a spectator to anything messy, is on the floor with him now, holding out a wooden spoon for him to bang on a pot like it’s a snare drum.

And me?

I’m standing in the middle of it all, half-terrified it’ll shatter and half-afraid it won’t.

Fletch’s hand finds mine. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t speak. Just laces our fingers together and tugs me close until my shoulder’s tucked against his chest.

I tilt my head, looking up at him, and he smiles. Soft. Crooked. The kind of smile that doesn’t need mistletoe or metaphors to mean something.

“You okay?” he asks.

My chest tightens with something that feels suspiciously like peace.

“Yeah,” I murmur, eyes flicking to the stove where Benji’s attempting to flambé mashed potatoes, “I think I am.”