Page 123 of Bleacher Report
I glance down at myself in his oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks. “Your hoodie looked more comfortable than mine.”
“I like it,” he says and then glances around the kitchen. “In fact, I think you look good in everything of mine.” As if meaning that I look good in his childhood home.
And that right there…that undoes me.
Hunter leans in, brushing a kiss to my temple. “Remind me to send you home with every hoodie I own.”
Carly clears her throat, clearly amused. “Save it for the mistletoe, you two. You’re making the waffles jealous.”
We all laugh, the kind of warm, genuine laughter that settles into your bones. I drizzle icing over the cinnamon rolls, and Carly flips waffles with ease, like she’s done this every year of her life. Hunter slides up beside me with two mugs of hot tea, offering me one.
“Peppermint. Drizzle of honey,” he says, almost shyly.
“You remembered?” I ask, taking it.
“You make things hard to forget,” he says simply.
Something flickers in my chest. I glance around—at the steaming food, the snow falling lightly through the kitchenwindow, the garland strung over the doorway—and realize I’ve never had a Christmas morning that feels quite like this in a really long time. Not since my dad passed.
Like for once, it doesn’t feel as hard to breathe without my dad here.
Carly sets a bowl of eggs on the table. “Okay, time to eat before the food gets cold. Hunter, don’t hover over the bacon tray this year.”
“Not my fault the bacon and I have unresolved tension,” he says, already grabbing a slice. “Don’t worry…it’s consensual.”
I snort into my tea. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”
Carly shakes her head and then looks over at me. “He’s always been like this. And I’m sorry to tell you honey, but I don’t see it improving anytime soon,” she teases.
“Good,” I say, plopping down at the kitchen table next to Hunter. “I like him just as he is.”
Carly giggles, and Hunter smiles over at me with a mouthful of bacon and then reaches over to squeeze my thigh in solidarity.
We all sit, plates loaded and conversation flowing easily. Carly tells stories about Hunter’s middle school years—his obsession with glitter glue in third grade…which brings new light to his previous gift—and his brief phase as a magician’s assistant in fifth.
“Wait, you were in a magic show?” I ask, nearly choking on a bite of waffle.
“He wore a velvet cape,” Carly says with a wink. “He was so cute.”
“A burgundy velvet cape,” Hunter mutters. “With gold trim. I’ll never live it down.”
“I’m going to need photo evidence,” I say, reaching for my phone.
“There are photos,” Carly confirms. “I’ll send them.”
“I’m taking back everyone’s presents. No Christmas this year,” Hunter grumbles, but his grin betrays him.
We eat until we’re stuffed, and then—finally, we carry our mugs into the living room. The tree is large, with only a handful of gifts beneath it—nothing extravagant, not with such short notice. But none of that matters. Because somehow, this all feels perfect. Warm, simple, real.
Hunter flops onto the couch beside me, still in sweatpants and a T-shirt, looking way too good for someone who woke up like that. I tuck my legs beneath me with my hot tea in hand.
“Open that one,” Carly says, pointing to a soft, fabric-wrapped package.
I pull the ribbon loose and let out a soft gasp. “Is this…handmade?”
“It’s a game-day blanket,” Carly beams. “Hawkeyes’ colors, and if you look close—”
“My number’s stitched all over it,” Hunter finishes, smiling proudly.
