“Alright,” Leah says, setting the last plate down. “Time for sweet and sour.”
There’s a collective groan around the table. Not because we don’t want to do it, but because we’ve done iteveryyear we’ve all been together, and the tradition is now just self-inflicted pain with a side of whipped cream.
“For the newbie,” she adds, nodding to Mason, “we do this every Christmas. Everyone shares one sweet thing from the day, and one sour. Helps keep us honest.”
Tamara nods as Eli wraps an arm around her. “It started the year Mom and Dad died,” she explains. “When everything felt like shit, and Leah insisted we find one good thing anyway.”
My chest pinches, but I nod, remembering that very first Christmas years ago.
Rory’s eyes land on mine, and she smiles shrewdly. “Sour: Lulu and Logan won the snowball fight by cheating. Sweet: Leah’s pie.”
Logan lifts a hand. “Sweet: Lulu.”
“Aww,” Lulu coos, clutching his arm.
“In every, single, way.”
“For fuck sake, Miller!”
“What? Your sisteristhe sweetest.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “And you’re the sour.”
“And you’re an—”
"Elijah!"
“I’m not done,” Logan continues, taunting Eli for being scolded. “Sweetrunner up:the look on your face when that snowball hit your ear. I should’ve filmed it.”
“You’re one sentence away from being smothered in your sleep.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Lulu says, snuggling into Logan. “Mom just bought new sheets.”
Laughter bubbles up around the table, so light and easy. For a moment, I let it wrap around me, softening the ache that always finds me at this time of year.
Tamara takes a breath. “Sour’s obvious. Mom and Dad not being here. It doesn’t get easier, it’s just… different. But my sweet? This. All of you. Being in a house full of laughter again.”
She looks toward me. “And my baby sister coming to join us, just like old times.”
Everyone turns to me, and I blink hard, pushing past the lump.
“Same sour,” I manage to say. “Always will be. But the sweet’s being back here, seeing you all. Laughing and feeling like I belong somewhere again.”
“You’ll always belong with us, Franks,” murmurs Leah, her eyes glassy. “Tom and Catherine are here too, in spirit.”
Tamara squeezes my hand under the table at the mention of our parent’s names, and I squeeze back, letting it anchor me.
“Guess I’m up,” Mason says, clearing his throat. “Sweet’s dessert. I mean—” he gestures at the plate, “—this pie might change my life.”
Laughter ripples again, but it dies quickly when his smile falls. “Sour’s similar, especially this time of year. My dad used to do a roast every Christmas. The whole deal, with stuffing, crackling, homemade rolls he’d always burn.”
He gives a short laugh. “He died a few years ago, and I guess… working holidays just became easier. Being at the station meant I didn’t have to think about it too much.”
The room quiets, and for once, I don’t want to fill the silence. Because yeah, I feel that.
It doesn’t fix anything, not the way my chest still tightens when I think of my parents, or the way the air still feels thinner around this table during sweet ’n sour.
But it shifts something, just a little. Enough to remind me that maybe grief doesn’t make you special—just human.
When I glance up, he’s looking at me, but not with heat or flirtation or the crackling kind of pull that’s been making my knees weak.
