“No buts.” He closes the distance and kisses the tip of my nose. He smells like cinnamon and sugar. “You married me to save this place. I can put on an old suit for Phoebe.”
“You and I both know that’s not just an old suit.”
He tilts his head, weighing my words.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze drifts past me, somewhere over my shoulder, like he’s looking into a version of his life that doesn’t exist anymore.
“I know what it is,” he says finally, his voice low. “And I know what it costs.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he shakes his head once, slow.
“I’ve spent a long time pretending it was easier not to touch it.” His jaw tightens. “Turns out that didn’t make it hurt less, either.”
We both know the weight that suit carries, but it’s his decision. It has to be. Maybe he needs to wear it to step into memories he’s kept locked away.
Either way, it’s a little bittersweet to realize that he’s taking this step forward on his own.
“This is a big deal, Aiden,” I say softly. “You really don’t have to do this.”
“That’s why I want to do it. Phoebe deserves Santa, and you deserve traditions.” He gives me a quiet smile. “Besides, you can’t live here and bring in strangers. You’re married to a third-generation Santa. When should we do it?”
The suit isn’t just fabric. It’s memory. It’s grief. It’s the version of him he locked away when his dad died.
And he hasn’t worn it since.
I glance at my watch and picture the light across the farm. “Could we aim for four? I know that’s not much notice, but?—”
“Just before sunset, your favorite time of day. Got it.”
Words fail me, so I just nod.
“Just before sunset,” he repeats.
He doesn’t smile this time.
He brushes his thumb along my jaw, grounding himself as much as me, then turns toward the hallway.
Halfway there, he pauses, and I wonder if he’s going to say “never mind, it’s too much”. I’d understand. He’s taken on a lot quickly, and this feels fast.
But he doesn’t look back. He takes a deep breath and holds it for a few seconds, steadying himself. Then he keeps walking.
He calls me his warrior wife, but I think that’s also true for him. He works so hard for us, for this farm—but he’s put in double that on himself.
I smile to myself, humbled he’d put it on for Phoebe. Maybe Mom’s right. Love is choosing, especially in the hard. I think this qualifies.
A draft knifes through the kitchen a split second before Evelyn rounds the corner, as if the house itself knows to brace. Her gaze is winter-clear, sharp enough to cut ribbon.
“I have a bone to pick with you.”
Startled, I glance up to find Evelyn standing a few feet away, chin lifted, and shoulders squared. She almost looks like she wants to pick a fight, but she also looks worn.
Like the holiday season has asked too much of her.
“Good afternoon to you, too, Evelyn.”
I swipe my hand across the counter, gathering the crumbs Aiden left behind into my palm. The small, ordinary motion steadies me.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” she says. “I’ve been against this whole marriage thing from the start.”
