She lifts a brow. “Jake.”
“Rules are rules, Nat.”
She rolls her eyes but stands, crossing the room. “This is ridiculous.”
“Completely ridiculous,” I agree.
And then I kiss her. It’s supposed to be quick. Playful. Just enough to make her smile before her big week, but the moment our mouths meet, everything tilts. Her hands slide to my chest, my fingers find her jaw, and there’s nothing playful about the way she kisses me back. It’s warm and slow and threaded with an effort of making up for all the days we haven’t been able to kisseach other.
We break apart, both of us catching our breath.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.”
“I missed you.”
She swallows. “I missed you too.”
Those four words hit something deep.
I pull the small wrapped box from my pocket. “I also…got her something.”
“Jake, you didn’t have to?—”
“I wanted to.” I place it in her hands. “Open it.”
She peels the paper carefully, and when she lifts the lid, her eyes soften instantly. Inside is a delicate glass ornament etched in silver:Baby’s First Christmas.
“Oh,” she whispers. “It’s…beautiful.”
She runs her thumb over the script like she’s memorizing it.
“You’re kind of amazing,” she says.
“I try.”
She laughs quietly, shaking her head. “Thank you. This is perfect.”
“Want to hang it?”
She nods, and we move toward the tree together. The next hour is warm and easy. I string the lights while she argues about spacing. She hangs ornaments with quiet intention, making sure each one is placed exactly where she wants it.
When I plug in the lights, the room glows from the soft gold lights, the baby’s ornament hanging front and center catching the light. For a second, it feels like a snapshot of a life we could have. The kind with matching stockingsand holiday cards and late-night wrapping-paper disasters. The kind that looks suspiciously like a family.
“Oh,” I say lightly, “I read something about talking to the baby. About how she can hear us now.”
Natalie’s gaze snaps to mine. “You did?”
“Can I…?” I gesture to her stomach.
“You want to talk to her?”
“If that’s okay.”
Her voice warms. “Yeah. Of course.”
I kneel, level with her bump. Up close, it’s small but undeniable, the gentle curve that holds everything that changed my life.
