Vincent steps up beside me, the scent of his cologne mingling with coffee and cinnamon. He slides a mug into my hand—the dark roast just the way I like it, a splash of cream, two sugars, and the faint steam curling up between us.
“Your timing is perfect,” I murmur, taking the first sip. The heat fills my chest, chasing away what’s left of the morning chill.
He brushes his thumb along my jaw, his eyes softer now. “You doubt me?”
“Constantly.” I grin into my cup, but his answering smile has that slow burn I’ll never get used to.
He leans down just enough that his breath brushes my ear. “You need me to pick out your outfit today, don’t you?”
I tilt my head toward him, smiling over the rim of my mug. “I was hoping you’d volunteer. You know how indecisive I get with sweaters.”
Vincent’s lips curve into something that looks dangerously close to smug. “Always,” he murmurs against my mouth, before placing a soft peck there.
A chorus of tiny voices erupts behind us.
“Ewww!”
Theo’s voice is the loudest, drawn out and scandalized, while Penny covers her eyes dramatically. Rose groans, muttering something about “public displays of parental affection,” and Elise giggles like it’s her favorite secret.
Vincent pulls back, laughter rumbling low in his chest. “We’ve offended the peanut gallery.”
“Tragic,” I say, pulling him in closer. “Should we apologize?”
“Never,” he says, still smiling, brushing a kiss against my lips.
Cast rolls his eyes and sets down his mug. “Alright, lovers—enough traumatizing the youth.”
Rose hops off her stool, clapping her hands for attention. “Everyone, follow Papa for showers and getting ready!” she declares, her voice full of bossy authority.
“Who elected you leader?” Theo challenges, already half-running for the stairs.
“I did!” she shouts, chasing after him.
Penny snickers, darting between them with Elise close behind, her curls bouncing as she yells, “I call the pink towel!”
“Not again,” Cast groans, already following the stampede, muttering under his breath about mutiny and missed coffee.
Damien just shakes his head, flipping another pancake with a smirk. “You’d think we were sending them to war, not to bathe.”
Vincent sets his cup down beside mine, eyes following the chaos as it disappears up the staircase. The laughter, the squeals, the running feet—it fills every inch of the house.
When the last footstep fades, the silence that follows is warm and familiar, like the space after a song ends but before the echo dies.
Vincent looks down at me, one hand brushing a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “You sure you want to deal with all that at the tree lot?”
I smile into my coffee. “It wouldn’t feel like Christmas without the chaos.”
By the time we reach the tree lot, the day has softened into that pale kind of winter sunlight that can’t quite decide whether to warm or vanish. The air smells like pine and frost and woodsmoke, and the kids scatter before the car’s doors are closed—laughing, shouting, darting between rows of evergreens dusted with snow.
Rose is bossing Theo, Penny is arguing about symmetry, Elise is humming to herself and dragging a twig like it’s a magic wand. Damien trails after them with mock patience, pretending to be the “tree inspector,” while Vincent handles the details—price tags, twine, logistics.
I stand back for a moment, gloved hands in my coat pockets, just watching. The scene is a kind of perfect that almost hurts: the kids darting in and out of light, the scent of pine sap sharp in the air, the faint sound of carols playing through tinny speakers somewhere near the cashier’s booth.
“Found it!” Theo yells, voice muffled by the scarf he refuses to wear properly. “This one’s perfect!”
Rose, ever the authority, circles it like a judge at a competition. “It’s lopsided.”
“No, it’sartistic,” Penny insists, brushing snow from one of the lower branches.
