Abigail
It’soursecondSundaydinner together at the big house, and I already find myself wishing it’ll become a regular thing. For it to always be there, something warm and grounding that anchors the week. I smile to myself as I make my way across the driveway, rifling through the grocery bags in my hand to make sure I have everything.
Without looking I open the front door, having done it hundreds of times at this point, and before I even make it fully inside, the tree stops me.
It’s massive—brushed right up against the high ceiling of the living room, branches full and heavy and impossibly perfect, like it was pulled straight out of a Hallmark Christmas movie instead of the middle of rural Montana. White lights glow throughout it, and I have to press my lips together to keep from doing something embarrassing, like crying in the entryway.
I can’t remember the last time I saw a tree like this. Not even when Kat and I were kids. Ours were always a little lopsided, a little sparse, and short enough to fit into our apartments.Decorations collected over time, sure—but never anything like this. Never something that felt so intentionally done with love.
This one is covered in history. Hand-painted ornaments. A few clearly homemade ones—popsicle sticks and crooked lettering that make my chest ache at the sight of them. There are old glass baubles too, some chipped, some dulled with age, but each one clearly kept on purpose instead of replaced. Ranch brands etched into wood. Tiny horses. A bull rider frozen mid-kick. And woven through all of it—like someone made a quiet, collective decision—are small red bows tucked into the branches.
Four men live in this house.
And yet… they still took the time to do this.
As my eyes drift past the tree, I notice it isn’t just the living room. There’s a wreath on the front door, another on the door leading to the mudroom. Red ribbon tied neatly along the stair railing. White twinkle lights wrapped around every post on the porch, each fence rail outside dusted in a warm glow. Even the barn has a simple strand of lights along the eaves, shining faintly through the snow.
They didn’t go over the top.
They just… made it feel like Christmas.
They did this knowing it would only be up for a few days. That they still thought it was worth it. That somewhere in the middle of contracts and cattle and chaos, they chose the warmth of the holidays anyway.
And I find myself wishing that I’d seen it lit up like this for weeks.
I blink away the tears as I make my way inside, because I know if I let myself get lost in this moment, I’ll end up crying for hours over some lights and red bows. And that’s not what I want this night to be.
Tonight, instead of being relegated to the sidelines with beers while someone else cooks, I’ve decided Jasper and Lincoln are going to start learning how to fend for themselves.
Which is how I end up wedged between them at the stove, “Sweet Lady” by Dylan Gossett playing over the speakers in the house, a wooden spoon in my hand, and the scent of garlic and onion blooming in the pan in front of me. “Okay,” I say, glancing between them. “This is a simple pasta sauce.Simple.No reason for that face, Jas.”
“I’m not makin’ a face,” he mutters, squinting at the pan like it somehow personally offended him.
Lincoln snorts. “You absolutely are.”
Jasper reaches around me and smacks him on the back of his head, then Lincoln does the same. The two of them wind up in a full-fledged game of slapsies, jostling me between them so close that I’m briefly wrapped in heat and the faint, yet intoxicating, scents ofthem.
My breath stutters.
God. Get a grip, Abs.
“Boys!” I snap.
“Sorry…” they both mumble in unison.
Once they’ve finished acting like fifteen-year-olds, Jasper’s hand brushes my lower back as he reaches past me for the salt, fingers lingering like it’s an accident he doesn’t bother correcting. Lincoln’s knuckles graze my wrist when he takes the spoon from me, his thumb pressing just a little too firmly against my pulse.
Neither of them looks at me.
Both of them knowing good and well the effect it’s having on me without needing to see my face.
“Alright,” I say, clearing my throat. “You sauté until it’s soft, then add the tomatoes. Taste as you go. That means with a spoon, not your finger.”
Jasper grins. “You’re no fun.”
“And yet,” I reply sweetly, stepping back, “you’re both still listening.”
As I turn, Jas catches my wrist, slowing me long enough to lean in and press a quick, unapologetic kiss to my mouth. It’s rushed. Barely there. But full of heat and promise all the same.
