CHAPTER 12
Clark
Christmas Eve at the tree farm was always a little chaotic. Final tree sales, last-minute customers, the mostly organized chaos of people trying to get their perfect tree before the holiday. But this year felt different.
This year, I had help.
Mav moved through the rows of trees like he'd been doing this his whole life, chatting easily with families, helping kids pick out the "just right" tree, his camera hanging around his neck as he snapped photos of happy customers.
I watched him lift a small Fraser fir onto his shoulder for an elderly couple, his smile bright and genuine.
He caught me staring and grinned. "What?"
"Nothing." I shook my head, unable to stop my own smile. "Just... you're good at this."
"I have a good teacher." He secured the tree to the couple's car roof, waved as they drove away, then jogged back to me. "That's the Michaelsons. They said to tell you Merry Christmas and they'll see us at the New Year's party."
Us. Like we were a unit. Like it was already assumed we'd go together.
I pulled him close despite the handful of customers still browsing, pressed a kiss to his temple. "You cold?"
"A little. But it's good." He leaned into me. "How many more trees you think we'll sell today?"
"Maybe four or five. Most people already have theirs." I looked around at the remaining inventory. "We'll close up after these last few sales. Spend Christmas Eve just us."
"Just us," he repeated softly. "I like the sound of that."
***
By four o'clock, we'd sold the last tree and closed the gate. Mav helped me lock up while Bear bounded through the snow, delighted by the suddenly quiet farm.
"So what happens now?" Mav asked as we walked back to the house. "What's your Christmas Eve tradition?"
I thought about the last five years. Coming home to an empty house, heating up something simple for dinner, maybe watching a movie I'd seen a dozen times. Going to bed early because there was nothing to stay up for.
"I don't really have one," I admitted. "Used to, with Mitch. But after..."
"After," Mav finished quietly. He squeezed my hand. "Well, what did you used to do? With Mitch?"
The question didn't hurt the way it might have a month ago. "We'd make cookies together. Make a nice dinner. Exchange one gift on Christmas Eve, save the rest for morning." I glanced at him. "Why?"
"Because I think we should do that." His eyes were bright. "Not to replace what you had. But to make something that's ours. If you want."
Something warm unfurled in my chest. "Yeah. I'd like that."
***
We spent the afternoon baking Christmas cookies. I pulled out Mitch's old recipe box from the cabinet—hadn't touched it in five years—and Mav helped me carry ingredients to the counter, didn't push when I had to pause at certain handwritten cards.
"These are beautiful," he said softly, holding up a recipe card with faded ink and flour stains. "Sugar cookies. Did you and Mitch make these every year?"
"Every Christmas Eve. That one was his grandmother's recipe." I took it from him, ran my thumb over the familiar handwriting. "He'd make dozens. Give them to neighbors, friends, anyone who stopped by the farm."
"He sounds like he made everything special." Mav smiled. "Just like you do."
"You fishing for compliments?"
"Maybe." He pressed a kiss to my jaw. "Is it working?"
"Get the mixing bowls, you brat."
He laughed and obeyed, and we fell into an easy rhythm. I measured ingredients while he tried to help and mostly made a mess. Flour ended up on his nose, his shirt, and somehow in his hair.
"How are you getting flour everywhere?" I asked, watching him fumble with the bag. "We haven't even started mixing yet."
"I'm helping!"
"You're a disaster."
"A cute disaster." He grinned at me, completely unrepentant with flour streaked across his cheek.
I couldn't help but step close and kiss him, tasting sugar on his lips. "A very cute disaster."
We mixed the dough together, his hands over mine as I showed him how to fold it properly. He took photos of everything—the recipe cards, the dough coming together, my hands covered in flour, Bear hoping for scraps under the table.
"Can I roll it out?" Mav asked after we'd chilled the dough.
"You want to?"
"I want to do everything with you." He said it so simply, like it was obvious. "Even the boring stuff. Especially the boring stuff."
I handed him the rolling pin and watched him work, correcting his technique when he rolled it too thin, praising him when he got it right. The domesticity of it—teaching him, working together in my kitchen, flour on both our hands—made something warm settle in my chest.
"Cookie cutters are in that drawer," I said, pointing.
He pulled out the collection—stars, trees, bells, candy canes—and held up a slightly crooked star. "Did you make these?"
"Mitch did. Woodworking project one winter." I took it from him, remembering him at the lathe, completely focused. "He was so proud of them."
"They're perfect." Mav started cutting shapes, his tongue poking out in concentration. "Can I make one special? To leave out for him?"
My throat went tight. "Yeah, baby. That'd be nice."
He cut out a perfect Christmas tree and set it aside carefully. "We'll make that one extra special."
We baked batch after batch, the kitchen filling with the smell of vanilla and sugar. Mav ate more dough than he probably should have, and I kept swatting his hand away, both of us laughing.
"You're a terrible baker," I told him.
"You're a tyrannical teacher," he shot back.
"Tyrannical?"
"You wouldn't let me eat the dough!"
"Because it has raw eggs, you menace. And you did it anyway!"
He grinned, unrepentant, and stole another cookie from the cooling rack. I caught him around the waist and pulled him close, not caring about the flour covering both of us.
"You're impossible," I murmured against his temple.
"You love it."
I did. God help me, I really did.
When the cookies were done, Mav insisted on decorating the special tree cookie with extra care—green icing, silver sprinkles, a gold star on top. He set it on a small plate by Mitch's photo on the mantle.
"Merry Christmas, Mitch," he said quietly. "Thank you for taking such good care of Clark. For teaching him how to love like this."
I had to turn away for a moment, blinking hard.
"Hey." Mav's arms came around me from behind. "You okay?"
"Yeah." I turned in his arms, pulled him close. "He would have liked you, you know. Would have thought you were good for me."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. He always said I needed someone who could make me laugh. Someone who didn't let me get too far in my own head." I smiled. "He'd approve. Especially of the flour in your hair."
"There's flour in my hair?"
"There's flour everywhere. I don't know how you managed it."
He laughed, and I kissed him again, tasting sugar and vanilla.
When we finally finished cleaning up, the kitchen counter was covered with cookies—some perfectly shaped, some hilariously lopsided from Mav's attempts. We packed most into tins for neighbors but kept a plateful for ourselves.
"This is nice," Mav said quietly, looking around the warm kitchen, the cookies, the mess we'd made together. "Really nice."
"It is." I squeezed his hand. "You hungry? I should start dinner."
"Can I help?"
"You want to?"
"Always." He grinned. "Even if I'm a disaster at it."
"Especially because you're a disaster at it."
***
We made dinner together—nothing fancy, just roast chicken and vegetables, but it felt special anyway. Mav kept sneaking bites and I kept swatting his hand away, both of us laughing like idiots.
We ate by candlelight at the kitchen table, Bear under it hoping for scraps. It was easy conversation about nothing important—customers from the day, Mav's plans for his photography portfolio, whether we should get a puppy in the spring (Mav's idea that was surprisingly tempting).
After dinner, we moved to the living room. The fire crackled, the tree glowed, and everything felt almost impossibly perfect.
"Present time?" Mav asked hopefully.
I'd been planning to wait until morning, but his excitement over the tradition was infectious. "One present each. That's the rule."
"I can live with that."
I retrieved a wrapped box from my hiding spot in the hall closet while Mav grabbed something from his room. We settled on the couch and I felt unexpectedly nervous.
"You first," I said.
"Okay." He handed me a flat, wrapped package. "I hope you like it. I wasn't sure if you'd think it was too much or—"
"Mav. Breathe."
He nodded, watching anxiously as I unwrapped it.
It was a photo album. Leather-bound, clearly handmade. I opened it carefully.
The first page had a photo of us from his first morning here—I hadn't even known he'd taken it. Me at the stove making coffee, early light streaming through the window. The caption underneath read: Day one. Already home.
I turned the page. More photos, all captioned:
First breakfast together. Clark teaching me about trees. Bear running down the driveway. The farm in snow.
Each photo was a moment I remembered but seeing them through his eyes made them new. The last page had a photo from the tree lighting—I didn't know who'd taken it, but it showed us at the moment I'd kissed him, the lit tree behind us, his hands in my hair.
The caption said: This is home. Thank you for showing me what that means. -M
My vision blurred. "Mav."
"Do you like it?" His voice was small, uncertain.
"I love it." I set the album down carefully and pulled him into my lap. "Baby, I love it. Thank you."
"I just wanted you to see what I see. How beautiful this life is. How beautiful you made it."
I kissed him, slow and deep, trying to pour everything I felt into it. When I pulled back, we were both a little wrecked.
"Your turn," I managed.
I handed him the box I'd wrapped at least a week ago, before I was even sure he'd stay for Christmas. He tore into it with enthusiasm that made me smile.
His hands stilled when he saw what was inside.