The church where they’d said their vows, steeple shining in satin stitch.
Square after square: the hiking trail where he’d proposed. The beach umbrella from their honeymoon. A tiny architectural plan in blue stitching—blueprints of the house he’d designed for the two of them.
And then, at the bottom, the blank row—three white fabric squares, bordered and basted, waiting. Space for what came next. Babies, maybe. Anniversaries. Christmases yet to come.
She had worked on it for months, sneaking time, careful to hide the mess upstairs. Tom never came into her craft room—the attic was her world, cluttered with ribbons, fabric scraps, and half-finished ideas. The quilt had blended right in, invisible and growing, like a secret garden she tended to.
She ran her hands across it again, feeling every seam. Every hour. Every heartbeat pressed into the cloth.
Tom built houses—solid, measured, architectural. He was an architect at his father’s firm, trained and precise. His lines were always straight. Hers never were. But when he unfolded this, he’d see the love she’d stitched into every seam. She knew he would.
This was marriage. Two people building something together, thread by thread, day by day.
He’d see their life, all the tiny pragmatic miracles of it, laid out for him.Look at us. Look what we’ve built.
Lauren pressed the quilt to her chest, closing her eyes and let herself imagine it. Christmas Day, the living room filled with wrapping paper and family chatter. Richard and Judith, as cold and stand-offish as ever. At least Jake and Mia would be there too, glowing with newlywed energy.
The quilt was the opposite of what his parents liked—too homemade, too sentimental, too much. But it wasn’t forthem. It was for him.
When Tom realized what she’d made for him, it would be worth every pricked finger, every unpicked seam, every moment she’d doubted herself.
Her pulse gave a little leap as she thought of the flat, square box that would be waiting for her under the tree.
Their gifts would meet in the middle—his and hers, two halves of one perfect Christmas.
She looked down at the quilt one last time and whispered, softly, “Perfect.”
Her office partywas winding down, a half empty champagne bottle sat among the remnants of catered sushi and those fancy little desserts that looked almost too pretty to eat.
"Lauren." Sage from photography appeared at her desk, holding up a small felt ornament—a tiny camera with "SAGE" embroidered across the lens in silver thread. "This is incredible. Like, genuinely incredible."
Lauren felt heat rise in her cheeks. The women at Muse Magazine were impossibly stylish, the sort of tastemakers who could mention an artist once and trigger a week-long waitlist. Their subscribers didn’t just read the magazine—they treated it like scripture.
Yet somehow her colleagues didn’t seem to care that their receptionist was a Christmas-obsessed dork. Today she was wearing her favorite Christmas cardigan—red with actual pom-poms sewn down the front. Pom-poms that she’d added herself.
Rina materialized on her other side, examining her own ornament—a miniature typewriter with her name “typed” in gold. "These are beautiful.”
Around the office, her colleagues were unwrapping their gifts—personalized ornaments Lauren had made for them all. Zoe's had a little laptop, Wren's featured a paintbrush, Vivian's showed a tiny coffee cup. Each one tailored specifically to the person receiving it.
"Lauren, this is gorgeous!” Wren told her, purple-streaked hair falling forward as she examined the delicate stitching on her ornament.
Lauren ducked her head. These women were the epitome of cool—statement jewelry, edgy haircuts, vintage finds. They inhabited a realm of effortless sophistication that Lauren could barely comprehend, let alone replicate.
And yet somehow, they made her feel like she belonged. As if she was just as cool as they were.
"I really like making things," Lauren admitted. "Especially for Christmas."
“And that,” Sage said, lifting the tiny camera ornament to her eye and clicking an imaginary shutter, “is exactly why you’re cool as hell.”
Lauren might be a dorky Christmas-obsessed receptionist, but to her colleagues she was—what had Rina called her last week? An elf queen.
“Speaking of making things,” Rina said, “have you finished Tom’s quilt? That husband of yours better be matching this energy.”
Lauren’s heart gave a happy skip. “I finished it last night. And Tom…”
The image of the little velvet jewelry box flashed through her mind—sharp, secret, thrilling. Heat flooded her face all over again. She could still hear her own heartbeat hammering as she snapped the lid closed and tucked it back exactly as she’d found it.
“He's matching the energy for sure,” she admitted, unable to stop her smile.
