He comes thundering up the stairs to the loft vibrating with excitement.
I surface from a dream where everything was sweet and quiet. Logan's arm had been warm around me, breath steadyon my neck. Now there's a three-year-old using our bed as a trampoline.
"Can we go open now?" Tyler's nose touches mine.
"The sun isn’t even up!" Logan groans, voice rough with sleep.
I check the clock. "Still nighttime, technically."
"But Santa already came!" Tyler yanks the duvet and rockets toward the stairs. "Come ON! You're so slow!"
Logan sits up, bare-chested, sleep lines creasing his cheek. He scrubs his face, looks at me with sleepy affection.
"I guess this is what we signed up for?"
"Yes." I whisper.
He kisses me, then stands, stretching. I watch because I'm allowed to now—the casual athleticism of him, the way morning light cuts across muscle. I pull on his old hoodie, some tights, and mismatched socks. I attempt to tame my hair, fail, and follow the chaos.
The tree glows in the corner. The apartment smells like coffee Logan pre-programmed. Thank god there’s coffee. Tyler is bouncing at the fireplace.
"Look! The cookies are gone!"
The empty plate, strategic crumb, half-eaten carrot. Logan's blocky handwriting on Santa's thank-you note.
"Santa left a note!" Tyler waves it at me. "Read it!"
"Tyler, you have been such a good boy this year. Thank you for the cookies! Make sure to share your new toys with Daddy and Reese. Merry Christmas! – Santa."
Tyler shrieks. "I TOLD YA HE’D LEAVE A NOTE!"
Logan comes back from the kitchen with coffee—three cups, Tyler's is milk with a splash of instant decaf. A tradition from Jessica's father, apparently.
Tyler circles the presents like a shark. I block him gently.
"Family photo first."
"Do we have to?" But he's already grinning.
Logan's arm comes around my waist. I angle the phone, catching us—Logan in his tight rumpled t-shirt and boxers, me in pajamas, Tyler glowing. I take a dozen.
"Now?" Tyler asks.
"Now."
Paper flies. His new dinosaur Hot Wheels get immediate test drives on the fireplace. Logan hands me a navy-wrapped box with expensive ribbon.
I can feel him watching me, nervous energy radiating off him as I open it slowly.
Inside, a flat jewelry box. My pulse jumps.
The necklace from the Michigan Avenue window. Thin silver chain, tiny diamond. The one I'd stared at, photographed, walked away from.
"How did you?—?"
"You stopped for too long. Then took a picture."
"That doesn't mean?—"
