I pull her closer, my hand sliding down her spine to the curve of her hip. She’s wearing one of my T-shirts and nothing else. Three months of marriage haven’t dulled how much I want her. If anything, it’s worse. Now I know exactly what she sounds like when she falls apart. Know the spot behind her ear that makes her gasp. Know the way she says my name when she’s close, when she clenches around me as she comes.
“Never too early.” I press my mouth to her throat. “Never too late.”
She shivers. Tilts her head to give me better access. “Miss Maggie’s making pancakes. I can smell cinnamon and nutmeg.”
“Miss Maggie can wait.”
“Daniel.” But she’s not pushing me away. Her fingers slide into my hair, nails scraping my scalp.
I graze my teeth along her pulse point. Feel it jump. “Five more minutes.”
“Five minutes isn’t enough time for what you’re starting.”
“Then we’ll be late for breakfast.”
She laughs—that real laugh, the one I had to earn—and pushes at my chest. Not hard enough to mean it. “It’s Christmas Eve. The whole family’s coming, remember? Presents. Stockings. Henry will lose his mind if we miss Max’s first Santa outfit.”
I remember. I also remember that she’s warm and half-naked and making those little sounds that drive me out of my mind.
But she’s right. The ranch is waking up around us. Major Pecker’s crow cuts through the quiet—that damn rooster announcing dawn like he’s personally responsible for the sun rising on Christmas Eve. Cattle lowing in the distance. The creak of the house settling into another day.
“Tonight,” I say against her skin. A promise.
“Tonight.” She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. Traces her thumb along my jaw. “Now let me up before Miss Maggie comes looking with Lucille.”
I steal one more kiss—deep and slow, the kind that makes her melt against me—before I let her go.
She’s halfway to the bathroom when she looks back over her shoulder. Catches me watching.
“Stop staring at my ass.”
“Stop having an ass worth staring at.”
Her laugh follows her into the bathroom.
The kitchen is controlled Christmas chaos.
A small tree glows in the corner, mismatched ornaments hanging from every branch—paper stars, wooden horses, a crooked angel Gabriel made years ago. Stockings line the mantle in the living room, overstuffed already. Someone’s put Bing Crosby on low, and Miss Maggie hums along as she presides over the griddle, white braid pinned up, sequined cardigan flashing like a warning.
Pancakes stack on a platter. Bacon sizzles in cast iron. Coffee’s already made—the good stuff, not the motor oil I brew when I’m up before everyone else.
Henry’s at the table with Shay tucked into his side, their three-month-old son cradled against his chest in a ridiculous little Santa onesie. Max sleeps through the noise like he was born into it—which, I guess, he was. Shay leans against him, protective and soft, and he keeps glancing down at his wife and baby like he can’t quite believe they’re real.
Angus leans against the counter with Luna, one arm wrapped around her waist, murmuring something low that makes hersmile and shake her head. She elbows him lightly when he reaches for bacon too early. He grins anyway.
Jacob sits at the head of the table. His usual spot, but something’s different about the way he holds himself. Less rigid. Less like he’s bracing for impact. Ben sits a few chairs down—not opposite him, not beside him either. Close enough to talk. Far enough to keep old habits intact. They exchange a look over the coffeepot, something quiet passing between them. No explanations. No rehashing. Just… presence.
Ethan’s beside Jacob, dark circles under his eyes from another late night chasing digital ghosts. Gabriel’s at the far end, quieter than the rest, but here. Engaged. That alone feels like progress.
Tom and Kitty blow in from the mudroom, stomping snow off their boots, cheeks pink from the morning air.
“Sunday pancakes!” Kitty announces, unwinding her scarf. “I’ve been dreaming about these all week.”
“You say that every week,” Delaney teases, already crossing the kitchen to hug her sister.
I watch them. The way Delaney’s whole face changes when Kitty’s around—lighter, easier, like she can finally set down the weight she carried for ten years. They’re not guardian and charge anymore. They’re just sisters.
Tom drops into the chair next to mine, immediately stealing a strip of bacon off the platter before Miss Maggie can swat his hand.
