My bare feet make no sound against the tile floor as I pad across to his oversized stainless steel fridge and swing it open like I own the place.
Which maybe I do now?
That thought alone is enough to make my knees weak.
But right now, I’m on a mission.
Hot cocoa.
With extra marshmallows and maybe a pinch of sea salt—Eb’s pantry is stacked like a gourmet grocery, so I’m not holding back.
I find the cocoa mix in a brand new tin with a Badger on it and a note from his mother—how freaking cute is the fact his mom sends care packages—and I smile as I get to work heating milk on the stove.
There’s still a storm happening outside, the snow swirling past the big bay window like we’re living in a real-life snow globe, and I can’t help feeling like the world has paused just for us.
I finish stirring the milk and take a deep breath, reaching for the whipped cream when it hits me—not the milk. A vision.
Strong and clear and so warm it brings tears to my eyes.
It’s a future Christmas.
Next year or the one after that? I’m not sure.
Time is difficult to tell in visions.
I see the same big cookie tree twinkling in the background, the same glittering ornaments now joined by new ones—little iced hearts and snowflakes with names piped on them.
Eb is in the kitchen, arms wrapped around me from behind, and I’m—oh wow—I’m pregnant.
Very pregnant.
His big hand rests over both of mine atop my baby bump, while the other lifts a steaming mug to my lips.
I’m smiling. He’s smiling. And in the distance, I hear laughter.
More children?
A family.
Ours.
The vision fades like melting sugar, and when I blink, I realize I’m crying softly into my cocoa.
“You okay, Honey?” Eb’s voice rumbles behind me, gravelly with sleep and sin, and I turn.
He’s leaning in the doorway shirtless, hair tousled, pajama pants riding dangerously low.
His eyes widen when he sees my face.
“Marigold?”
I set the mug down and cross to him, throwing my arms around his neck.
“I saw it,” I whisper, voice thick with emotion. “Our life. A future Christmas. There’s a baby, Eb. More than one maybe. And the tree, the snow, even more ornaments. I think we’re gonna have kids—our kids. And a life together.”
“Of course we are, Honey. You’re my everything.”
He pulls me close, burying his face in my neck.
