"Exactly like that." Alex offered a genuine smile. "You're going to be amazing."
I shouldered my toolbox. "Need a ride when we're finished here?"
Alex glanced up, that warm smile still on his face. "Actually, I'll catch a rideshare. I need about an hour to prep before you arrive."
"Should I be worried about that four-hour sauce?"
"It's legendary. My grandmother's love is the most important ingredient."
"Sounds serious."
"Serious-ly delicious." He moved closer, voice dropping. "Good thing I have steady hands for the preparation."
A flush crept up my neck. "I'm certain those hands have other talents too."
"If you two are quite finished," Holly said, standing with her hands on her hips, "some of us need to lock up before this turns into a different kind of show entirely."
Alex jumped like he'd forgotten we weren't alone. I bit back a laugh at his flustered expression.
I waited a full hour after rehearsal before driving the few blocks to his grandmother's house. The front steps creaked beneath my boots—quarter-sawn oak that had weathered decades of winter storms. My fingers automatically traced the corbels supporting the porch roof, recognizing the delicate scrollwork as original craftsmanship.
Through the leaded glass panels flanking the door, warm light spilled onto the snow.
Alex opened the door, and the smells hit me immediately—seasoned wood, fresh herbs, and something richly savory that made my mouth water. The foyer opened into a central hall where honey-colored wainscoting caught the light. I ran my hand along it, feeling the subtle ripples in the grain that spoke of hand-planing rather than machine work.
"My grandmother would love that you appreciate the details," Alex said softly. "She used to say the house had personality in every corner."
Family photos lined the hall in frames ranging from ornate Victorian gilt to simple handcrafted wood. Beyond lay the kitchen, where Alex's grandmother's influence shone. She'd modernized thoughtfully—the commercial-grade stove somehow appeared perfectly at home amid original beadboard and gleaming copper pots. A handmade knife block sat on the island, hewn by a local craftsman more than half a century ago.
"This is a four-generation recipe," Alex told me. "The secret is in the layering technique. Each component needs to be perfectly balanced."
I watched his hands as he worked. "How many times have you made this?"
"Countless times with my grandmother." He paused, checking the sauce with a wooden spoon that looked as old as the house. "But this is the first time on my own. That means it has to be perfect."
When he handed me a knife for the garlic bread, his fingers lingered on mine. "The slices need to be exactly three-quarters of an inch thick. Gram insisted the thickness affected how the butter and herbs absorbed."
The knife's well-worn handle fit naturally in my grip as Alex demonstrated, his body pressed against my back. "Like this," he murmured near my ear, guiding my hands. "See how the grain of the bread determines the angle?"
I angled the knife's point. "So the bread is telling me what it wants to be?"
His laugh vibrated through both our bodies. "Focus on the blade, Blitzen."
"About that..." I set the knife down. "Holly wasn't entirely making things up. My family does have some unusual Christmas traditions."
Alex squeezed my shoulders lightly. "Involving reindeer?"
"Among other things." I turned to face him. "Would it be too weird if I said some of those old stories might have truth in them?"
His expression softened. "Ben, I'm playing Santa Claus in a town that seems to run on Christmas magic the way other towns use electricity. Weird is relative."
Alex's perfectionism showed in how he assembled each layer of the lasagna, spreading sauce into the pan's corners, overlapping noodles just so, and distributing cheese in careful patterns.
"The proportions matter," he explained. "Too much ricotta overwhelms the sauce, too little and you lose the creamy texture that makes it comfort food."
When he slid the pan into the oven, his shoulders relaxed. "Now we wait. Thirty-two minutes exactly. Gram tested it extensively."
The baking lasagna filled the kitchen with aromas of garlic, tomatoes, and basil. Alex turned and wrapped his arms around me, his hands sliding under my flannel shirt.
