“I know,” he says, tucking me against his chest as the wind lifts and swirls around us. “But I still like hearing you say it.” He gestures toward the box. “There’s more.”
Inside the box is another carved ornament. Two figures, but this time the woman's belly is gently rounded.
My breath stops. "Jax…"
"A question, not a hint." His hand covers mine. "Kids. Family. I know your childhood—"
"I don’t know if I want them yet, but if I do, I want them with you. Everything with you."
His expression cracks open. "Yeah?"
"If we decide it’s right for us, I want to give them the Christmases I never had. The family you lost." I trace the carved belly. "Whenever we're ready, if that’s where we end up."
His kiss tastes like a promise. "Merry Christmas, wife."
It’s Christmas afternoon at home.
The fire has burned down to glowing embers, and the whole cabin smells like cinnamon, browned butter, and maple icing.
I’m barefoot on the kitchen floor, one of Jax’s flannel shirts swallowing my frame, sleeves pushed to my elbows. There’s icing on my wrist. Probably some on my neck, and definitely some on my thigh. I gave up trying to keep clean after the first tray of cinnamon rolls came out of the oven and he caught me tasting the glaze straight from the spoon.
I drag my fingertip slowly through the glaze, lifting it to my mouth, letting the sweetness melt on my tongue. His hungry gaze follows every movement. The heat in his eyes makes my pulse skip. I dip again, slower this time, tasting with the tip of my tongue. A low sound rumbles in his chest.
“Careful,” he says, voice low and amused. “I’ve only got so much restraint.”
“You said the same thing last night,” I tease, wrapping my hands around the warm mug he offers.
“Yeah,” he says, and leans in to kiss the corner of my mouth. “And look how that turned out.”
I laugh into the ceramic rim of the mug and wander toward the living room, where the tree glows against the window, each branch heavy with ornaments. Some are carved, some glass, some sentimental and uneven. Near the top, front and center, hangs the camera-shaped ornament I left behind last year.
He found it. Kept it. Hung it where he knew I’d see it.
I curl into the arm of the couch and tuck my feet beneath the blanket we keep draped across the back. Jax follows, barefoot too, wearing gray sweatpants. His skin is warm from the oven heat. His hair is rumpled and his forearm is streaked with more icing than any respectable mountain man should allow.
“Your ornaments aren’t on the tree yet,” I remind him.
He grins and disappears into the bedroom, returning a moment later with the wrapped box from the holiday market. I set down my coffee as he opens it, pulling out the carved figures and carefully finding a spot among the pine boughs.
When he steps back, I can see the single ornament clearly. It’s us, hands intertwined. We’re standing still, together, in a world that once moved too fast for me to hold on to anything real.
His hand brushes mine again. It’s not possessive or coaxing, but steady, and certain, and mine.
“I was thinking,” he says, folding onto the couch beside me, the cushions dipping under his weight, “we should add a second shelf in the studio.”
I blink, surprised. “Why?”
“For the art supplies you keep leaving on the table.”
My heart tugs, and not just because he noticed. He’s still doing what he’s always done; making room for me without asking me to change.
I tuck my feet against his leg and rest my head on his chest, listening to the slow rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the worn cotton of his shirt.
“You’re the reason I stopped running,” I whisper. “You never made me feel like I had to earn this.”
He doesn't say anything right away. He kisses my hair and exhales as if I took the weight right off his ribs.
“You never had to earn a damn thing,” he says. “You just had to come home.”
