“Of course,” I say, carefully cutting a simple star shape from the cardboard.
“We’ll write your name and the year, and you can decorate it however you want.”
Ethan watches as I help Axel write his name and the year in block letters.
“My own ornament,” Axel whispers, adding silver glitter.
“And every year,” Ethan says quietly, “you can make a new one to go with it. So you can look back and see how you’ve grown.”
The way Axel’s face lights up at the word makes me yearn for possibilities. The promise of continuity, of family, of belonging.
The next hour is devoted to perfecting Axel’s star. His small fingers work carefully but enthusiastically, his tongue poking out between his lips in concentration as he dabs paint and sprinkles more glitter. Ethan holds the star steady for him, his large hands gentle as they guide Axel’s movements.
Throughout it all, I feel Ethan’s gaze flickering to me. Each time our eyes accidentally meet, I quickly look away, focusing instead on helping Axel with reaching for more supplies.
When Axel finishes, his star gleams in the firelight, imperfect but beautiful. The pride on his face when he holds up his creation makes my throat seize.
I thread a ribbon through the top point. “Where should we hang it?” I ask.
Axel surveys the tree with the seriousness of an artist placing a masterpiece. “There,” he says, pointing to a prominent branchat his eye level. “So I can see it every day.” In his excitement, a shower of tinsel flies from his hair.
I laugh and reach over to help him. “Hold still, you’ve got Christmas decorations all over you,” I tell him, carefully removing the strands. “You look like a Christmas ornament yourself.”
When I glance up, Ethan is watching me. The desire I find on his face makes my core flutter with both anticipation and nerves.
This is going to be a very long weekend.
Our Axel, Her Axel
Ethan
The sight of them together stops me in the doorway. My muscles ache pleasantly from an hour of shoveling snow, but the warmth spreading through my chest has nothing to do with physical exertion.
Cassidy is on her knees beside the Christmas tree, carefully hanging a delicate glass ornament while Axel holds the box steady. When she laughs at something he says, the sound goes straight through me.
“A little higher,” she’s telling him as he reaches up with a silver bell. “Perfect. You have a good eye for this.”
Axel beams at the praise. The scene before me outshines every dream I once cherished. Those fantasies—vivid as they were—never captured the fleck of glitter catching light on Cassidy’s cheek, or the alchemy in her hands as she transforms simple materials into moments of wonder. The reality of her being here now with a child fills spaces in my chest I’d convinced myself would stay hollow forever.
Except this isn’t our child. This is a living reminder of the worst Christmas of my life, and somehow it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Watching Axel’s face light up as Cassidy shows him how to drape tinsel properly, I realize I don’t see Britney’s betrayal when I look at him.
I see a future I never imagined. One I never thought I’d want again.
“Mr. Ethan!” Axel spots me and waves me over. “Come see what we did!”
I set down the coffee mugs I’d been carrying and move closer, trying to ignore how her breath hitches and her gaze darts away when our eyes meet. She’s still wearing that oversized sweater from earlier, and it keeps sliding off one shoulder in a way that’s driving me slowly insane.
“This looks incredible,” I say, and I mean it.
In the span of a few hours, they’ve transformed this rundown living room into something that actually feels like Christmas. The tree is covered in a mixture of vintage ornaments and silver tinsel, with warm white lights that make everything glow softly.
“Ms. Cassidy said we need to make Christmas special,” Axel explains while hanging another ornament. “Even if we’re stuck here.”
“What do you think goes on top?” Cassidy asks, holding up a gold star and a ceramic angel with a chipped wing.
“The angel,” Axel and I say at the same time, then look at each other in surprise.
Cassidy’s eyes dart between us, and there’s something soft and almost wondering in her expression. “Angel, it is.”
