“Alright, my brave detectives! It is time for bed,” I say gently when the laughing finally winds down. “Before you turn back into pumpkins.”
“We never were pumpkins,” Theo protests.
“You were,” I assure him. “Round and orange and very opinionated.”
Cast’s hand finds my waist as the kids scatter toward the stairs, still arguing about bedtime rules and cookie crimes. His thumb tracing lazy circles through the thin cotton of Damien’sjersey. Leaning into him feels like letting out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
“You all right?” he whispers in my ear, under the clatter of the dog’s nails on the floor and Elise’s battle with the bathroom light switch.
“Now I am,” I say, and mean it.
“Good.” His mouth curves. “And your degenerate athlete?”
“In the pantry,” I say, smiling. “Trying to clean up the powdered sugar explosion from the elf’s setup before Vincent gets home. He didn’t want him walking into another Christmas war zone.”
“Damien cleaning?” Cast chuckles softly, his breath brushing my temple. “Miracles do happen.”
“Ha ha ha. Very funny,” Damien says, and bumps his shoulder as he passes, dish towel thrown over his shoulder, a smear of sugar across his jaw and zero shame about it.
Cast glances at him, amused. “You missed a spot.”
Damien wipes at his face, grinning. “Yeah, well, the elf fought back.”
“Pops!” Rose yells from her room, her voice echoing down the hall. “You promised story time!”
Damien groans softly, and we herd the kids up the stairs with the kind of martial efficiency that only exists when the kids are exhausted enough to not fight back more than normal. Rose negotiates the exact number of pages of her book to be read aloud. Theo insists toothbrushing is a constitutional violation and then brushes anyway with battlefield vigor. Penny asks three different questions about where elves come from. Elise goes boneless the moment her head hits the pillow, clutching a stuffed polar bear whose ear is held on by a thread and hope.
I kiss each of them softly, the way that tells my nervous system the world is fine. Rose’s hair smells like the peppermint shampoo she chose because it made her feel like a candycane. She whispers, “I saw you on the jumbotron. You’re very beautiful.”
“Flatterer,” I whisper back, and tuck her blanket tighter around her shoulders. Rose likes to feel contained and in charge simultaneously; the trick is corners tucked sharp and choices offered generously. “Tomorrow we will go buy a tree and all the ornaments you want.”
“Okay,” she agrees, and gives me a regal little nod that breaks into a grin the moment I stand.
Theo is already peeking at the poster of the solar system on his wall, mouth moving with calculations. I brush his hair back and touch the small constellation of freckles near his temple. He catches my hand, disguises the softness as a wrist-lock because that’s how he knows how to be tender when he’s feeling big. “When I grow up,” he says suddenly, eyes serious, “I’m going to be a goalie and a lawyer and a detective and a magician.”
“Perfect,” I say. “You’ll be terrifying and very in demand.”
Penny’s room is a greenhouse of paper snowflakes and taped-up drawings. She scoots over so I can sit on the edge of her bed and strokes the hem of Damien’s jersey with small, fascinated fingers. “I like you in Papa’s colors,” she says softly. “You look like a cheerleader.”
I swallow around that. “I feel like one. A good one.”
“Does the elf get to sleep?” she asks, worry creasing her brow. “Or does he have to stay handcuffed all night?”
“Mercy,” I remind her, and kiss her forehead. “We’ll parole him after the adults have made their coffee plans.”
She nods, satisfied. “Mercy,” she echoes, and snuggles down with a sigh like a content animal.
Elise is already gone, mouth open, hair spilled across her pillow like spun sugar. I watch her breathe for a long moment, because I can, because I have her and she has me and those sentences once felt like wishes written in steam on cold glass. Ipress a kiss to the warm round of her cheek and she makes a small sound, somewhere between a gulp and a laugh, that she will deny in the morning.
Cast leans in the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching me watch them. His face is something only I get to see—unmasked, a little undone, an expression that lives somewhere between reverence and grief for the boy he didn’t get to be. I slip my hand into his when I step into the hall and he laces our fingers without looking down, as if they were designed for this.
Downstairs, the house has gone velvet around the edges. Lights dimmed, string lights around the staircase blinking erratically, the kitchen island cleared of sugar except for the place where our lives always leave a mark—one small scatter of white I’ll find under my elbow tomorrow. The elf is leaning against the espresso machine with a look that might be smug if felt could smirk. The dog has taken up guard on the rug like a curled comma.
I pour hot water over a tea bag because coffee will turn my blood erratic tonight. Cast takes the mug when I almost set it down wrong and holds it out until I curl my hands around it properly. Damien disappears into the living room and sets the fire with the competence of a man who has learned to make warmth on purpose. When the flames catch, the room changes color; when he turns back, so do I.
The three of us fall into our gravity without needing to locate it. Damien’s shoulder brushes mine as he passes with a blanket; Cast’s palm slides up the back of my neck like checking a pulse. The couch takes us. I tuck my feet under me. Damien sits close enough I can feel the heat of his thigh along my calf. Cast leans on the armrest, half-facing me, one hand draped along the back of the couch like a promise placed, not pressed.
“You all right?” Cast asks again, softer, as if the answer might have changed since the upstairs version.
