And I realised... We never got around to decorating. No tree. No lights. Nothing strung across the bannister or hanging in the windows. For a second, I felt a twinge of disappointment. Our first real Christmas together, and we'd missed all of that.
But then I glanced at Rowan – barefoot, still in his night clothes, laser-focused on arranging the eggs so they didn't singe. And the weight of that thought eased.
We had this. I had him. And we could enjoy our mornings now without Marcus lurking behind every shadow. No fear, no anxiety. Just breakfast and warmth and the quiet safety of being here together. The rest of it didn't matter.
I gave his waist a gentle squeeze and nuzzled into the crook of his neck. He flinched with a quiet laugh and curled in a little. His shoulder lifted like he was trying not to squirm.
"Ticklish?" I murmured.
He sent me a half-heartedly suspicious side eye. "What's up with you today?"
I kept my arms around him and let the idea form fully before I spoke. "What if we head out for a bit later? Grab a late lunch, walk through the Christmas markets after?"
He turned his head to look at me more directly. I saw a flicker of surprise there, and maybe a hint of hesitation. But underneath that, I also caught a quiet spark of excitement. "You sure? You don't have a deadline or – ?"
"Nothing urgent."
He paused for one more beat, then nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."
I pressed another kiss to his cheek, just because I could. "Then it's a date."
His face flushed almost immediately. God, he was fun to tease.
* **
The markets were in full swing by the time we made it over. The rowdy lunch crowd still echoed faintly in my head – loud laughs, clinking glasses, old inside jokes that barely made sense anymore. It had been good to see some familiar faces, but Rowan had gotten quieter the longer it went on. By the end of it, he was more focused on the condensation on his glass than the conversation.
Now, walking side by side through the cobbled streets, he was finally starting to unwind again.
Market stalls stretched out ahead of us, strung with lights that blinked softly against the grey atmosphere. Wooden posts sported garlands and a warm amber glow, and the scent of roasted chestnuts and cinnamon mixed with woodsmoke and the occasional burst of laughter from nearby kids.
Rowan kept close as we walked. His eyes tracked the stalls of little handmade ornaments, jars of honey wrapped in burlap, stacks of old books no one had opened in years. His shoulders started to relax, and his pace slowed as he took it all in.
I was glad he could enjoy this without any kind of fear hanging over him.
We passed a booth with carved wooden figurines and another selling old jazz vinyls. He finally reached for my hand, his fingers sliding against mine until they were laced together. His grip was light but solid.
I squeezed back as we kept walking.
We'd just passed a stall selling hand-painted ceramics when a voice called out, high and excited, from a few feet away.
"Mr. Hale!"
Rowan turned automatically toward the sound.
Finlay came bounding up to him through the crowd, cheeks red from the cold and his coat slightly crooked. He stopped in front of Rowan and smiled at him. "I didn't know you'd be here."
Rowan's face softened. "Hey, Fin. What kind of trouble are you stirring up today?"
Fin held up a small carved owl with tiny etched feathers and wide, exaggerated green eyes. "Mum let me pick out something, so I grabbed this."
"Nice choice."
"There's a stall a few rows down that's got loads of these. I saw one I think you'd like, too. Come on!"
Before Rowan could respond, the kid grabbed his arm and started tugging. He barely had time to glance back at me, mouthing,Be right back, with a look that was half apology and half amused disbelief.
I just grinned and waved him off.
