Tayla smirked. “You only agree because you’re lazy and don’t want to change them.”
“Efficiency,” I corrected.
They ignored me. Griff found an old radio station and turned it up—Country Christmas, tinny but cheerful. The dogs sprawled by the hearth, noses twitching toward the shortbread cooling on the counter. Someone opened another bottle of wine. The whole house smelled like sugar and wood smoke.
Kristin moved between people easily now, sleeves rolled, cheeks flushed. She refilled mugs, scribbled on the lists, leaned over Fallon’s shoulder to double-check measurements. The more she worked, the less haunted she looked.
When she caught me watching, she tilted her head. “You’re staring again.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Of what?”
“Working with my wife.” I smiled, wiggling my eyebrows at her. Kristin blushed as she shook her head.
Nora raised her glass. “Alright, team. To the nineteenth annual Flying Diamond Christmas Rodeo, and to the idiots brave enough to host it.”
Kipp clinked his mug against hers. “To poor life choices.”
Fred lifted his cup. “To community. To doing something that matters.”
Mugs clinked all around the table. The sound felt like a promise.
Fred stayed by the door, the shotgun still leaning beside him, but his eyes were softer now. “You all did good tonight,” he said. “Town’s going to show up in droves.”
“They better,” Fallon said. “I’m not baking two hundred cookies for nothing.”
Tayla gasped. “You’re baking? Willingly?”
“Don’t start.”
Nash chuckled. “Set up tomorrow?”
“Morning,” I said. “If the weather holds, we’ll get the pens and lights done before noon. Griff, east section. Kipp and Nash, power.”
Griff looked up. “And what are you doing?”
“Supervising.”
Kristin tossed a napkin at me. “You’re working like everyone else.”
“Fine,” I said, smiling. “But only because you asked nicely.”
The laughter that followed carried into every corner of the room.
The night lingered. Lists grew longer, mugs emptied, and refilled. Someone turned the lights low, leaving only the fire and the small string of bulbs along the mantle. The radio played softer now, the hum of conversation falling into a rhythm that felt like family.
Fallon peeled oranges for another pot of cider. Tayla washed dishes, humming under her breath. Fred wrote down supply lists in his tight, script-like handwriting. Outside, the wind pushed against the windows, but inside, it was all warmth and movement.
Kristin leaned against the counter beside me. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
“For what?”
“For this.” She nodded toward the room. “For not letting me stay stuck.”
I brushed my knuckles against hers. “Wouldn’t let you if I tried.”
“I know,” she said, voice soft. “Still, thank you.”
