The Spoon town square was a miracle of light.
The ice storm had melted from the roads, but the magnolia tree in the center of the park was still coated in a thin, glittering sheen. Thousands of white Christmas lights were wrapped around its trunk and boughs, refracting through the lingering ice and turning the cool Georgia air into something magical.
The entire town was there. Kids were running around with sparklers. A choir was singing carols on the bandstand.
Wes and Jake walked from Tucker’s Tavern, their breath misting in the air. Wes shoved his hands in his pockets. He felt exposed. He had lived here his whole life, but he had never walked through a town event beside a man he loved.
“Relax,” Jake whispered, bumping his shoulder against Wes’s. “Nobody is looking at us. They’re looking at the nativity.”
They stopped in front of the First Methodist Church, which anchored the north side of the square.
There, arranged on the lawn, was a nativity scene. It was massive—life-size figures carved from rough-hewn oak and cedar. Mary, Joseph, the shepherds, the animals. They weren’t delicate or painted; they were rugged, textured, and brimming with raw emotion.
“Beautiful,” Jake whispered. “The craftsmanship and love you poured into this.”
“It was a big job.” Wes shrugged, though his ears burned red. “Paid for the new roof on the barn.”
“It’s more than ajob, Wes. Look at Joseph’s face.”
Wes looked. He had carved Joseph not looking at the baby, but looking at Mary. With worry. With protection. With love.
“Wes! Jake!”
They turned. Titus Shepherd was walking toward them, wearing a wool coat that looked expensive and a scarf that was definitely cashmere. He looked regal, the Papa Bear of Spoon, holding a hot cider.
“Mayor,” Wes nodded.
“Glad to see you boys weathered the storm,” Titus said, his voice booming and warm. He extended a hand to Jake. “And I hear we have a new resident? Brody tells me he has a tenant.”
“News travels fast,” Jake smiled, shaking Titus’s hand. “Yes, sir. I’m staying.”
“Wonderful,” Titus said. He turned to Wes, gripping Wes’s hand in both of his. “Spoon is better with you in it—with your gifts, your heart.” He nodded toward the carved figures. “Thisis your calling, though. Stop grinding yourself down, Wes. Happiness looks damn good on you.”
Titus winked, then moved on to shake hands with the choir director.
The validation settled over Wes like a warm blanket.
From the bandstand, the music changed. The choir took a break, and Cal’s jukebox feed took over the speakers. The opening notes of Boyz II Men’sI’ll Be Home For Christmasdrifted over the crowd—smooth, 90s R&B nostalgia that was quintessential Spoon.
“I love this song,” Jake grinned.
“It’s got a whole new meaning now,” Wes said.
They stood under the branches of the magnolia tree. The lights twinkled above them, reflected in the puddles of melted ice on the sidewalk.
Wes looked at Jake. He looked at the man who had fixed his farm, charmed his father, walked through a winter storm, and chosen a dusty loft over a city highrise—all for him.
He took his hand out of his pocket, reached out for Jake’s gloved hand, and laced their fingers together.
It was a small gesture. But in the middle of the town square, in front of God, the churchgoers, and everyone else, it felt like a shout.
Jake squeezed his hand tight.
“Merry Christmas, Wes,” Jake said, leaning in.
“Merry Christmas, Jake.”
Wes didn’t hesitate. He leaned down and kissed him.
