He smirked.
“Lead the way, my beauty.”
That night,after the twins were asleep and the house was quiet except for the crackle of the fire, Ben wrapped his arms around me from behind and rested his chin on my shoulder.
“Merry Christmas, wife.”
“Merry Christmas, husband.”
He kissed my neck, slow and warm.
“You know,” he murmured, “next year they’ll be toddling.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And the year after that, talking.”
“Yep.”
“And the year after that, climbing furniture, causing chaos, breaking priceless heirlooms?—”
“Ben.”
“Hm?”
“You married a mediator. Not a miracle worker.”
He laughed against my skin.
“Not true. You’ve definitely worked miracles in my life, angel.”
And just like that, my life felt full.
Full of love. Full of safety. Full of messy, imperfect, beautiful chaos.
This was the kind of life I never thought I’d get, but it was exactly the one I wanted.
The fire glowed. A rare coastal Alabama snow fell outside the window. Ben’s arms tightened around me.
And somewhere across town, at Bayview, Granny slept peacefully, knowing her girl was finally home.
Ben
Christmas Morning
I woke before dawn, the way I always did these days, not from nightmares now, but from the quiet certainty that something precious needed protecting. The master suite was dim, Christmas lights from the tree downstairs casting a soft glow through the cracked door. Chrissy slept beside me, her dark hair fanned across the pillow, one hand resting on her stomach out of habit, even though the twins were safely in their nursery down the hall.
Four months old. Connor and Alecia. Our miracles.
I slipped out of bed, scars pulling tight in the winter chill, and checked the baby monitor on the nightstand. Both were still asleep, tiny chests rising and falling in sync on the screen. Good. That gave me time.
Downstairs, the house smelled like pine and cinnamon — Lucia’s doing, no doubt. She and Henry had insisted on staying over last night, sharing the big guest suite in the staff quarters so they could be close if the babies stirred.
“We’re family now,” Lucia had said, her eyes misty as she kissed the twins goodnight. Henry had just nodded, gruff as ever, but I’d caught him humming an old lullaby to Connor earlier. They’d become the grandparents we never expected, filling Ashgrove with life in ways I’d forgotten were possible.
I started the coffee, strong and black, and poked at the embers in the fireplace until flames crackled back to life. The tree loomedin the corner of the great room, decked with ornaments from my mother’s collection — fragile glass baubles I’d pulled from storage — and new ones Chrissy had picked out: tiny handprints from the twins, pressed into clay and painted gold. Stockings hung from the mantel, stuffed with little things: a rattle for Alecia, a soft teething toy for Connor, and for Chrissy, a locket with photos of all four of us.
Footsteps creaked on the back stairs. Henry appeared first, hair rumpled, wearing flannel pajamas that looked suspiciously like a gift from Lucia. He grunted a greeting and headed straight for the coffee pot.
