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This has also become a problem. My wife sleeps twenty feet down the hall. I’m aware of this every night. Painfully aware.

I’ve taken more cold showers in the last three weeks than I did when I was sixteen.

I head toward the kitchen for water. The house is dark except for the tree. We leave the lights on at night now. Noelle says it’s depressing to turn off Christmas. I pointed out that Christmas is not sentient. She looked at me like I’d said something deeply offensive.

The lights stay on.

I don’t mind.

Tonight they throw soft patches of color across the great room. Red over the rug. Blue across the fireplace. Green against the windows, where snow has started coming down again.

I almost walk past.

Then I see her.

Noelle is sitting on the floor in front of the tree.

Her knees are pulled up beneath one of Shiloh’s blankets, and she’s holding something in her hand.

I stop.

She’s crying. Not loudly. Which somehow makes it worse. Her shoulders don’t shake. There’s barely a sound.

She’s just sitting there staring at the tree with tears sliding down her cheeks.

Every protective instinct I possess comes violently awake.

“Noelle.”

She jumps. Her hand flies to her face where she wipes frantically.

“Maverick.”

I cross the room. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m not.”

I stare at her.

She wipes both cheeks. “Okay, that’s not particularly convincing.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re crying.”

“I can be fine and cry at the same time.”

I consider that. “I don’t like it.”

That gets the smallest laugh out of her. “I’ll make a note.”

I crouch in front of her. “What happened?”