Sunlight streams through the windows,catching the glitter of the freshly fallen snow on the windowsill. It’s Christmas morning and my heart feels new.
I blink awake, momentarily disoriented until I feel Fletch’s arm draped protectively around my waist. We didn’t even bother with the pillow wall last night after returning from the pageant, both too exhausted and content to worry about boundaries. After all, we’re married.
He must sense me waking up because he murmurs into my hair, “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” I whisper back, turning to face him.
His eyes are still heavy with sleep, his hair adorably mussed. This is what mornings could be like forever, I realize with a flutter in my chest.
Bailey’s cold doggy nose nudges my arm, his tail thumping against the bed.
“Someone’s excited about his presents.” Fletch laughs, sitting up.
“Or bacon for breakfast.”
“And eggs,” he adds.
“Fresh pastries from the bakery.” My mouth waters.
“Come on, wife. Time for Christmas morning.”
The wordwifestill gives me pause, but in a good way now. No longer a technicality or a research opportunity, but a life I’m choosing.
Downstairs, the Christmas tree lights twinkle, casting colorful patterns across the packages scattered below. On the mantel hang three stockings—one red with hockey sticks embroidered around the edge for Fletch, one green with dog bones for Bailey, and a midnight blue one decorated with tiny silver stars and books for me.
“When did you get these?” I ask, touching the soft fabric of my stocking.
“When you were still being Miss Grinch.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Mrs. Turley,” I correct.
A smile lifts the corners of his mouth.
“You got a stocking for me so soon?”
“I wanted to spread the Christmas cheer and I was optimistic, I guess.”
My heart squeezes at the thought of him hoping, even before our ‘Encorn’ skit declarations, that I might stay. That we might become more than an outlandish agreement signed online.
Bailey prances around our feet as Fletch hands me a cup of coffee. “Stockings first, then presents. That’s the Turley tradition.”
I can just imagine the chaos at his family’s house … and I look forward to it in the future.
Fletch takes Bailey’s stocking down first, revealing treats, candy cane striped tennis balls, a new chew toy shaped like a gingerbread boy, a plush Christmas pickle that crinkles inside, and a tag for his collar engraved with his name and our address—the Victorian on Cornsilk Drive. The house where I grew up. I tuck my chin.
When he spots me looking at it in question, Fletch merely winks and takes his stocking next, upending it onto the coffee table like a little kid, well, like a child on Christmas morning.
Out tumble an assortment of chocolate hockey pucks, a new reading glasses case, and at the very bottom, a small velvet box wrapped and tied with ribbon. He looks up at me, eyes wide.
“Open it,” I whisper.
Inside rests a simple gold band. He lifts it, noticing the inscription inside. “‘Married at last,’” he reads aloud, voice thick with emotion.
Suddenly nervous, I say, “I hope it fits. I guessed the size.”
He slips it on his finger, a perfect fit. Pressing a kiss to my forehead, he says, “There’s only one thing that could make this more perfect.”
I tip my head to the side. “What’s that?”
