“In…there,” I repeat intelligently.
He nods once and suddenly becomes very interested in organizing ornament hooks.
I take a step. Then another. My fingers rest on cool brass that has marked years of private use. The door swings inward as I touch it.
Warm light spills over the room.
I don’t breathe for a second.
It looks like a small Christmas wonderland decided to rent a single-bedroom apartment in Havenwood and never move out. Fairy lights string along the ceiling. A long, reclaimed wood worktable runs beneath the window, edges nicked and paint-smudged, paper cutters lined up along the back. Pegboard walls hold scissors, tape dispensers, spools of baker’s twine and velvet ribbon, bags of jingle bells, and three very serious-looking hole punches.
On the far wall, a corkboard overflows—a collage of kid-drawn snowmen, Polaroids from the square, printed lists with checkmarks in Reece’s tidy hand. One note sits crooked in the corner, written on the backside of a feed-store receipt in thick black marker: No one deserves to spend the holidays alone.
My throat tightens.
Shelves ring the room, each with labeled plastic bins: Town Square Families • Preschool Kiddos • Carriage Ride Tips • Repairs. Two slightly battered bikes lean against the baseboard with shiny new chains and carefully patched seats. A tin pail holds candy canes. Another jar—a mason glass with a slot cut in the lid—wears a taped-on label: Elf Fund.
And there, tied around the jar like a sash, is my green bow.
My fingers find it without thinking, the satin worn where he must have thumbed it when he couldn’t sleep, or when the housefelt too quiet, or when the list felt too long and the night too short.
“What do you think?” Reece asks softly.
I glance back. He fills the doorway—faded Henley, sawdust at the edge of his jeans, the kind of gentle that makes every hard thing in me unclench.
My voice wobbles around a smile. “You’ve been Santa this whole time.”
He huffs out the kind of laugh that tries not to be a confession. “I just…help where I can.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes sliding over the room like he’s seeing it the way I am for the first time. “Started with one toy horse for a friend’s grandson. Then Jett mentioned someone needed a winter coat. Then one of your kids wanted puzzles like the big-kid class had. You know how word gets around.”
“Fast,” I whisper.
“Yeah.” His mouth tips, edges soft. “Faster at Christmas.”
I cross over to him, stopping when my toes touch his boots. “There are whole bins for my preschoolers,” I say, because we both know how the year started for me and the way it punched a hole in something I loved.
He shrugs, and it’s not dismissive—it’s steady and sure. “They’re your kids, Blue. Maybe not the same kids you had last year, but you’ll be back to teaching little guys before you know it. Seemed like a good place to start.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“Didn’t know how.” He looks past me to the corkboard again. “Some things felt…better quiet. Like if I talked about it, I’d jinx it. Besides, it’s hard to maintain my reputation as a tough guy if you find out I color-code ribbon.”
“You used three shades of red,” I say, mock-horrified.
“Functionally necessary.”
“You alphabetized the gift tags,” I say as I thumb through the small container.
“Only by first letter.”
My laugh cracks, and the sound feels like relief. I reach up, sliding my hands over his chest until his heart beats under my palm, solid and mine. “This is the mostyouthing I’ve ever seen,” I tell him. “You kept giving the town magic and forgot you were making it.”
He looks down at me then, really looks, and any teasing blurs at the edges.
“I love Christmas,” he admits, husky as if it’s weird for him to admit out loud. “I love the way folks look at each other when they remember they’re not alone. It doesn’t fix everything, but it’s something.” His thumb skims the bow at my wrist where I’m still holding it. “And it gave me something to hold on to while I waited on…other things to make sense.”
“Other things,” I echo, and the way he’s watching me says he means every stolen kiss, every peppermint-laced morning, every time he reached for my hand without asking if he could.
A quiet comfort settles between us.
