“I checked,” she says proudly, tugging at the blanket. “Santa came and there’s presents and Scooter already sniffed them and there’s bows and?—”
“Okay,” Cast says, rubbing at his face. “Pause. Breathe. Words in order.”
Penny bounces in after her siblings, dragging her blanket behind her like a cape. Scooter, tail thumping, follows right at her heels.
The room erupts. Rose and Theo are trying to climb onto the bed. Elise is already in my lap. Penny’s babbling about cookies and stockings and the “big sparkly box.” Scooter is barking like an alarm clock with fur.
“Santa came,” Theo insists, tugging on Cast’s arm. “You have to come see, now!”
“Give us two minutes,” Cast says, half-groaning, half-laughing. His voice is muffled by the pillow he drags over his face. “Go. Go downstairs. We’ll be right there.”
Theo doesn’t move. “You promise?”
“On my life.”
Damien props himself on one elbow, eyes squinting through the tangle of hair and blanket. “That’s a dangerous promise, brother.”
“Then you’d better get up with me,” Cast mutters.
Vincent finally sits up, running a hand through his hair, eyes still bleary. “Everyone out,” he says, voice low but firm. “Go, give us five minutes.”
Rose folds her arms. “You said two.”
Vincent gives her a look. “Five is the adult version of two.”
That earns a laugh from Damien, who leans forward to kiss my shoulder before swinging his legs off the bed. “I’ll make coffee.”
“Bless you,” I mumble.
He pats my leg and disappears into the hallway, trailed by the sound of the kids arguing over who gets to go down the stairs first.
Cast waits until the last footstep fades before dropping the pillow and looking around at the wreck of blankets. “I think we just got ambushed.”
“You think?” Vincent mutters.
Scooter lingers in the doorway, tail wagging, clearly torn between obeying Cast’s order and following the scent of cinnamon from the kitchen.
“Go,” I tell him softly. “Protect the presents.”
He barks once—apparently in agreement—and trots off.
The three of us are still half tangled in the blankets, the sheets warm, the air soft with the scent of pine and the last trace of last night’s candle.
I look around and can’t help the small, tired smile that pulls at me. Vincent’s hair is a wreck, sticking up in every direction. Cast’s shirt is inside-out, his sleeve rolled halfway to the elbow like he gave up trying. The nightstand between them is cluttered with the ghosts of yesterday—a glass of water, Vincent’s watch, a half-melted candle.
We look like a disaster. A happy one.
Cast catches my gaze, one eyebrow lifting in sleepy suspicion. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “Just… this.”
“This?” Vincent murmurs, voice still rough from sleep.
“This,” I repeat, motioning weakly at the bed, the mess, the comfort of it all. “It’s nice.”
Cast shifts closer before I can look away. The mattress dips, the sheets rustling as his knee brushes mine. “Nice,” he repeats quietly, like he’s testing the word on his tongue.
“Mm.” My voice catches somewhere between sleepy and content. “It feels real.”
