Bea sank back into her pillows, staring up at the ceiling. What had she expected? He was working. He’d see it later.
She had insisted on coming home. She had told herself it was the right choice. But lying here now, she wanted so badly to take it back. To be where he was.
She turned onto her side, pulling the blankets up, and pressed her cheek against the pillow, eyes drifting shut. The dream still clung to her, vivid and lingering.
But he was a world away.
Bea woke up the next morning and found his reply waiting.
1:02 a.m.
GAGE: Want to tell me why you were thinking about me in the middle of the night?
Bea groaned a laugh, burying her face into her pillow.
BEA: I’m sure you know.
She smiled when she saw his immediate response.
GAGE: I’ll call you later. You can tell me in detail.
She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, heart already beating faster than it should.
BEA: It’s Christmas morning here. My whole family is here all day.
BEA: You want me to tell you in detail while my umma is yelling about garlic?
GAGE: I wouldn’t mind.
Ugh. Why was he so far away?
BEA: Go to bed, Gage.
GAGE: Not sleepy.
BEA: Then what are you doing?
GAGE: Thinking about what you dreamt about.
Heat curled through her stomach, slow and insistent.
BEA: You’ll just have to wait.
GAGE: You’re lucky I’m patient.
She grinned, shoved her phone under her pillow, and rolled onto her side. Outside her door, the house was already humming. Her umma and papa would need her help.
As for Gage…he’d have to wait his turn.
The scent of roasted meat, cinnamon, and something buttery and warm clung to the air, thick and comforting. It seeped into the walls and refused to leave, and made everything feel like home.
Bea stood at the edge of the kitchen, half in, half out, watching as the room spilled over with movement and noise. She’d only stepped away for half an hour to shower and change. In that space of time, the whole family had arrived.
Outside the kitchen window, she could see her papa with three of her uncles, surveying the snow, leaning on their shovels, holding beers.
Inside, the kitchen was packed to capacity. Every inch of counter space was covered in ingredients. The oven timer beeped. Someone swore. Her umma commanded the stove, a wooden spoon in one hand, flipping between languages as she barked instructions.
“Give me the salt—no, the small one, not the big one!”
