M.
J.
We didn’t agree to labels out loud, but we still ended up with ones above the fireplace.
We sit on the couch, the same couch he slept half-sitting on the first night, now more broken in, more ours. He drops down with a soft grunt, setting the plate of rolls on the coffee table. I curl up next to him, tucking my feet under his thigh.
“You remember last year?” I ask.
He snorts. “Pretty sure I’m not forgetting that Christmas anytime soon.”
“You remember you refused the bed?”
“I remember you tried to make me take it,” he says.
“I remember waking up and finding you half-sitting, half-turning into stone like some tragic gargoyle,” I counter. “Neck at a ninety-degree angle, blanket barely working…”
“Gargoyles protect things,” he says smugly. “So that tracks.”
I elbow him lightly. “You protect things better when you’re actually horizontal.”
He grins and leans back, resting his arm along the back of the couch. I use that as an invitation and tuck myself into his side, head resting against his chest. His hand automatically curls around my shoulder, fingers idly stroking my arm.
His heartbeat, slow and steady under my ear, is my favorite kind of background noise.
“I didn’t think we’d end up here,” I admit quietly.
“In a cabin in the woods?” he asks. “Riding a bike named Marla with my chaos baker girlfriend?”
I smile. “You love Marla.”
He sighs. “I tolerate Marla’s jealous streak. She does not like sharing my attention.”
“You’re deflecting,” I say. “You didn’t think we’d end up with… this.” I gesture at the tree, the rolls, the whole scene.
He’s quiet for a long moment.
“Honestly?” he says. “No. I thought best case, I’d get out, get a job, and keep my head down. Maybe meet you for coffee every now and then if you still wanted to see me. I didn’t exactly put ‘ride off into a relatively stable life’ on my bingo card.”
I huff a tiny laugh. “Relatively stable,” I echo.
“Hey, we’re still us,” he points out. “I had a panic attack at Target last month because the Christmas aisle was too crowded, and you cried at an advert where a cat found his way home. We’re not exactly poster children for serenity.”
“Excuse you, that cat had ajourney,” I say, poking his chest. “And your panic attack lasted two minutes, and you talked yourself down, and I was very proud of you.”
His arm tightens around me. “You sat on the floor with me between the seasonal chocolates and the discount candles and made up a story about a cinnamon roll uprising,” he says. “I was proud of you, too.”
I grin. “It was a solid story.”
“Terrifying,” he says. “I think about it every time you bake now. I’m mildly concerned they’re plotting against me.”
“They’re definitely plotting against your arteries,” I say.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head. We sit like that for a while, the kind of silence that feels full instead of empty. My gaze drifts to the small wooden box under the tree. It’s tucked in the back, half-hidden behind a wrapped present. He doesn’t know I saw him slip it there earlier. I pretend I didn’t. I like surprises, but I also like watching them form.
“Hey,” I say abruptly, pushing up slightly so I can look at him. “Do you ever miss it?”
“Christmas rolls without icing?” he asks. “No.”
