Page 55 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
Snow turns Saint Pierce into a postcard again, the good kind—the one with glitter that doesn’t shed and a sky the color of a promise. Our window is a frame for twinkle lights and neighbor laughter, and in here it smells like cinnamon, lemon peel, and the new, warm note of baby.
Everett—Ev for short—sleeps on my chest in reindeer pajamas, one tiny fist curled at my collar like he’s keeping me. Lucas pads through the apartment in thick socks and a T-shirt, tucking the throw tighter around us, checking the wedge with a nudge of his foot because traditions matter.
Our tree hums on its timer. Front and center hangs a clear glass lemon ornament, and beside it a new one we bought that says Baby’s First Christmas:Everett Leoin my crooked gold paint. The sticky notes are still on the fridge—Ask, don’t assume. Let him help.Today we added a third, written in Lucas’s tidy print:Build here.
“This,” I tell the sleeping burrito of a person I made, “is what happily ever after looks like. It’s not quiet; it’s not perfect; it’s… ours.”
From the kitchen, Lucas says, “Copy,” like he means it. He’s stirring cocoa and doing that thing where he narrates for the baby in a low voice. “Today’s weather: gentle flurries, barometer steady, high probability of snacks.”
It’s been a handful of bright, blurry days since the blizzard birth, and life has shifted without creaking. The men who haunted our edges turned out to be more smoke than fire. Mercer tried to cash out with his buyer and discovered what the boys call “a folder of boredom” waiting for him—process screenshots, public routes, and a watermark that led right back to the media shop’s LLC. Hale, our third shadow, lifted the decoy like a pro on a camera we owned, then ghosted west when it became clear the only story to sell waswe take care of ours.No tabloid exposés. No podcasts with dramatic minor chords. Just a tidy cease-and-desist, a quiet retraction from a gossip site that realized discovery would be ugly, and a string of emails from legal teams that read like snow shovels scraping a drive.
Duke and Gunner dropped cinnamon rolls and a wink the morning it wrapped. “No fireworks,” Duke said, stealing a glance at Ev as if he might assign him a call sign. “Just lights that stay on.”
I tuck that line away because it feels like the point of everything.
Lucas made his move, too. The transfer letter sits—framed, because we’re both saps—on the shelf above the books we picked out in that bookstore the day he pretended not to love first editions.Maddox Security, Saint Pierce Post — Alpha Team: L. Lawson(he says it still surprises him to see his namethere; it doesn’t surprise me at all). When he read it out loud to me, voice steady, Ev snuffled like he approved and I cried like a person who finally put down a bag she didn’t know was heavy.
“Hydration,” Lucas says now, handing me cocoa and sliding onto the couch so our knees touch. He brushes a knuckle over Ev’s cap, then my cheek, looking at us with that stunned gratitude that hasn’t worn off for either of us.
“Captain Safety,” I say, and he grins, softer than the first time he wore the title.
There’s a knock at the door, and Lucas gets up to get it. Amelia breezes in with a tin of cookies and the kind of feral joy only an aunt can weaponize. Mom’s behind her with the roast she insists “evokes the spirit of Christmas” and a stack of Tupperware I will never return to her original satisfaction.
“Let me hold my grandchild,” Mom says, already reaching, and Lucas executes a textbook handoff, eyes tracking, hands sure. He checks the wedge without making it a production, and Mom pretends not to notice and then kisses his cheek for the fifth time this week. Amelia documents the moment for the group chat with the caption
Grandma steals the small baby burrito; Captain Safety assesses the situation; all is well.
“Any more Mercer?” Amelia asks, peeking in the tin and grabbing a gingerbread man cookie.
“Wrapped,” Lucas says, taking a cookie like he earned it and he did. “Hale’s moved on. Their buyer backed off with a legal apology that said everything without saying anything. Dean’s happy, Gunner’s smug, Asher wants us to adopt a dog.”
“Dog?” I echo, delight fizzing. Our adoption list has grown by three this week because my followers will adopt anything that looks at them with pleading eyes and a festive bandana.
Lucas shrugs in his gentle way. “Major still needs a home,” he says with a shrug.
I smile even wider.
I should be more tired than I am. Maybe joy metabolizes like caffeine. Or maybe it’s Lucas, moving through our small world like he was built to keep lights warm and edges soft. He’s been up for the 2 a.m. and 5 a.m. feeds like a priest at vespers, quiet and reverent, narrating diaper changes as if they’re a play-by-play. When he burps Ev, he whispers, “Clear airspace,” and I fall in love again with a man who can make competence sound like poetry.
We FaceTime Charlotte and Asher from Denver—Charlotte’s holding a lab mix in reindeer antlers for Melanie’s Rescue Reels, Asher’s pretending he’s not smitten with a twelve-pound foster named Fig. “Congratulations, Mama,” Charlotte beams. “We’re driving down after New Year’s. I have tiny socks and zero chill.”
“Bring cinnamon rolls,” Amelia yells from the kitchen.
“And bring Major. We want him too.”
Lucas smiles at me like I’ve said the right thing.
After dinner, when the apartment is full of the kind of quiet that happens only after laughing and roast and the baby’s new-human squeaks, Mom and Amelia head out into the glittering cold, promising to be back tomorrow with cranberry bread and opinions about pediatricians. The door closes. The wedge settles. The three of us return to our nest.
Lucas reaches for the lemon ornament and turns it, thoughtful.
“What?” I ask, smiling into my cocoa.
“Nothing,” he says, which is Lucas forsomething I rehearsed but am scared to break by saying out loud.He stands, disappears down the hall, and comes back with his palm closed around a small satin ribbon.
“Ask, don’t assume,” he says, meeting my eyes where it’s warmest. “I’ve got a question.”
My heart does a stupid, thrilling thing. He crouches in front of me so we’re level, so he can see everything and I can see everything back. He opens his hand. Nestled in the curve is a simple gold ring and a tiny round tag engraved withAsk, don’t assume. Let him help. Build here.The tag catches the tree light and winks like it’s been listening all along.
