He crouches low, eyes narrowing as he stacks snow like he’s constructing a barricade before battle.
Eli joins him for a bit, then betrays him with a sneak attack, pelting him on the side of the head.
Dean and Grant are both laughing, chasing Eli around the yard as he squeals, snow flying in every direction.
I sit on the front steps just to watch them.
For a while, it’s just laughter and shrill squeaks and the sound of boots crunching against snow.
The world feels small and bright and right.
When we finally head back inside, our cheeks are red and noses running.
The smell of cocoa fills the air, rich and sweet, after Dean makes us a large pot on the stove.
I busy myself in the kitchen with him, pouring the drink into mugs and dropping marshmallows in each.
Eli’s sitting cross-legged on the floor when I come back into the living room, still flushed and beaming and telling Grant how he won the snowball fight.
My fingers brush against Callum’s when I hand it to him. It’s just a fleeting touch, skin against skin, but the spark that shoots through me steals my breath.
I move to Grant next and when our hands graze, he looks up at me with soft eyes.
Dean ushers me down onto the couch soon after, taking the tray from me and replacing it with a mug of my own.
I try to steady my pulse, try to convince myself that this warmth, this flicker of heat that I’ve missed so much, doesn’t mean anything.
But as I watch Eli laugh between them, milk foam on his lip and pure joy in his eyes, I can’t help but think that maybe just for this one day it’s okay to pretend otherwise.
Eli crashes right after dinner, the day finally catching up to him.
Between the snowball fights, the sugar rush from cocoa and cookies, and the endless laughter, he can barely keep his eyes open by the time I carry him upstairs.
His head lolls against my shoulder, his hair frizzy and wild from air drying the snow that had melted into it earlier.
His room is warm and dim, the faint glow of the nightlight painting soft shapes across the walls.
I pull the blanket up to his chin when I tuck him in, smoothing it over him as his little hand curls instinctively around my wrist.
His lashes flutter, fighting sleep.
“Mama?” he murmurs, his voice already slurred with exhaustion.
“Hmm?” I brush my thumb gently over his cheek.
“Can we all play again tomorrow?”
My throat tightens, but I force a smile. “We’ll see, sweetheart. Get some sleep first, okay?”
He hums, half-asleep already. “Love you, Mama.”
“I love you too, baby,” I whisper, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead.
When I turn toward the door, I freeze.
I’m not expecting to see Dean, Grant, and Callum crowding the doorway. The hallway light frames them in soft gold.
For a moment, no one speaks.
