Chapter Thirty Seven
Melanie
One Year Later
If you’d told me a year ago I’d be teaching first graders about snowflakes over video chat while a man I loved hummed Christmas music off-key in the kitchen, I would’ve asked what you were drinking and poured myself a glass.
But here I was.
“Alright, my little elves,” I said into my headset, waving at the gallery of tiny faces on my laptop. “Remember, your snowflake projects are due tomorrow, but only if you promise not to eat the glue this time.”
Half of them giggled, one solemnly saluted, and another yelled, “Merry Christmas, Ms. M!” before logging off.
I shut the laptop and leaned back in my chair, smiling. Teaching first grade online had been chaos and joy in equal measure but mostly joy. My students had no idea how much they’d stitched me into this new life.
“Class dismissed?”
Drew’s voice drifted from the kitchen, totally lazy, warm, and absolutely drenched in confidence.
He was standing at the counter, wearing plaid pajama pants and an apron that said Kiss the Cook (He Might Bite), with flour dusting his jaw and his hair doing its usual morning rebellion. The man looked like a Christmas commercial and a warning label all at once.
I grinned. “You’ve been listening, haven’t you?”
“Maybe,” he said, leaning against the counter. “I like hearing you threaten children with craft glue.”
“I encourage them,” I corrected. “Positively.”
“Sure you do,” he said, handing me a mug of coffee just the way I liked it with too much cream. “You know, I think I liked the old you too. The one who said she’d never move to a small town or teach kids who think snow tastes like magic.”
“Mm.” I took a sip and raised a brow. “And yet, here we are. Magic snow and all.”
He stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from my face with his thumb.
“Yeah. Here we are.”
The fireplace crackled behind us. The tree lights blinked slow and lazy. Outside, snow dusted the porch like powdered sugar.
He glanced toward the living room. “You realize this is our first Christmas in this house.”
“I do,” I said, smiling. “Our first real one. No borrowed living rooms. No Lydia’s cookie explosions.”
“Speak for yourself,” he said, turning back to the counter. “I burned three batches trying to copy her recipe.”
I peeked over his shoulder. “Burned, or caramelized?”
“Charred,” he admitted. “The smoke alarm agrees.”
I laughed, leaning against him. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“Noted,” he said.
I shook my head, smiling as I sipped my coffee. The thing about Drew Benedict was that he could make an ordinary morning feel like something worth remembering. Every sarcastic comment, every stolen kiss…it all just fit.
He reached for the tray of not-quite-perfect cookies, set them on the table, and dropped into the chair next to me.
“You ever think about how different this year’s been?”
“All the time,” I said. “Sometimes I still feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“It won’t,” he said. “Unless it’s mine, and I’ll just pretend it’s part of my charm.”
I smiled, tracing the handle of my mug. “You know what I was thinking earlier?”
“That we need more cookies?”
“That you’re the best bad decision I ever made.”
He grinned. “You say the sweetest things.”
I rolled my eyes, but warmth bloomed behind my ribs. “You know what I mean.”
He reached for my hand, fingers warm against mine.
“I do,” he said quietly. “You were mine too.”
Before I could reply, the doorbell rang, followed immediately by the muffled sound of Lydia’s voice through the door.
“She’s here,” I said, standing. “Brace yourself for a baby parade.”
“Oh, I’m braced,” he said, wiping his hands. “Last time she brought enough blankets for a small army.”
When I opened the door, Lydia swept in wearing a coat the color of cranberries, cheeks pink from the cold and eyes bright. Callum followed behind her, juggling a diaper bag, a car seat, and a plate of cookies like the domestic superhero he never meant to become.
And in Lydia’s arms, wrapped in soft gray fleece, was Tulah Mae Benedict, the tiniest, calmest, most perfect reminder of how much had changed in one year.
“Merry Christmas!” Lydia said, beaming. “She’s finally letting me put her down for more than five minutes. Miracles do happen.”
“Speak for yourself,” Callum muttered. “She’s still got a sixth sense for when I’m about to sit down.”
Drew came up behind me, wrapping an arm around my waist. “You two look exhausted.”
“Thank you for noticing,” Lydia said. “I’ve been living on caffeine and the sound of lullabies that haunt my dreams.”
I laughed and reached for the baby. “Can I?”
“Of course,” she said, passing her over. “She’s a snuggler. It’s genetic.”
Tulah blinked up at me with wide eyes, her tiny hand curling around one of my fingers. She smelled like powder and hope and the softest thing you can’t name. My heart gave that same aching tug it had last time I held her.
“Hey there, little one,” I whispered. “You’re going to grow up surrounded by people who spoil you rotten.”
“Damn right,” Lydia said. “You’re already Aunt Melanie by decree.”
“I second that,” Drew said, resting his chin on my shoulder. “I’ll start teaching her to throw snowballs next year.”
“Perfect,” Callum said dryly. “You can babysit too.”
I looked up at Drew, meeting his grin. “We’d better start practicing, then.”
“Practicing?” he said, feigning confusion. “You mean, like… babysitting?”
“Sure,” I said, smirking. “Eventually.”
He raised an eyebrow, reading between every line. “Eventually, huh?”
“Eventually,” I repeated, my heart doing a ridiculous little spin as he kissed the side of my head.
We moved to the living room, Lydia and Callum collapsing onto the couch like survivors of a holiday marathon. The fire glowed, the baby cooed softly, and everything felt beautifully simple.
Lydia smiled at me, tired but radiant. “You two seem happy.”
“We are,” I said, glancing at Drew.
He met my eyes, that familiar spark there. “Yeah,” he said softly. “We really are.”
Lydia leaned back with a satisfied hum. “Good. Reckless River suits you, Mel. Both of you.”
“Drinks anyone?” I asked.
“Coffee black for both of us.” Callum smiled. “If you want us to stay awake.”
I chuckled and took Tulah into the kitchen and Drew followed behind me.
“They look exhausted,” Drew muttered.
“But happy.”
His eyes locked on mine. “Very happy. You think…someday?”
Tulah snuggled into my chest and I nodded.
“I hope so.”
Drew grabbed two mugs and poured their coffee, and we made our way back into the living room.
Only, they were asleep.
Lydia was even snoring.
“Well, I guess they can have iced coffee later,” I whispered, looking at Tulah in my arms. She was fast asleep and I eyed the pack and play that Callum had gotten out of their car. I slowly made my way over and placed her down and backed away.
“It’s as if this family hasn’t slept for months,” I said softly.
Drew chuckled and we left them to sleep, sneaking down the hallway to the family room behind the kitchen.
“You were looking at that baby like she had you hypnotized,” he said softly.
“She kind of did,” I admitted. “She’s perfect.”
He smiled, pressing a kiss to my hair. “You’d be a great mom, you know.”
I froze, then looked up at him. “You think so?”
“I know so,” he said. “And if you ever decide you want that, we’ll figure it out. Together.”
My throat tightened. “You’re sure you’re ready for that kind of forever?”
He brushed his thumb along my jaw. “Mel, I stopped pretending I wasn’t when I got that compass.”
The room fell quiet again, just the tree lights blinking, soft and steady. I leaned into him, resting my forehead against his.
“You’re ridiculous,” I whispered.
“Probably,” he said. “But I’m yours.”
I smiled, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. “Forever?”
He kissed me…slow, certain, and full of all the Christmases still to come.
“Forever,” he said.
Outside, snow swirled under the moonlight.
Inside, I realized that forever didn’t look like a fairy tale.
It looked like this.
We stood at the window for a minute, watching the snow pile up on the back porch steps. The house smelled like cinnamon and pine, cookies cooling on the counter, and coffee still steaming beside the fire.
“Quiet again,” I said softly.
“Almost too quiet,” Drew said. “Think we should adopt a dog? Or twelve?”
“Tempting. But I think we should enjoy this peace for at least five minutes.”
He grinned, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Five minutes I can do.”
I smiled and leaned my head against his shoulder, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding me.
Everything about this place, the flickering lights, the hum of the fire, the way he absentmindedly traced circles on my back, felt like the life I didn’t know I’d been missing until I stumbled into it.
“You’re thinking too hard,” he murmured.
“I’m just… happy,” I said. “That’s new for me. It’s kind of weird.”
“Let me guess. You’re waiting for something to go wrong.”
“Maybe,” I admitted. “The last time my life felt this good, the universe sent me a car battery that died.”
He chuckled. “Well, your car battery’s new. The only thing dying around here is my self-control every time you walk past in those Christmas pajamas.”
“Smooth, Benedict,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Worked though,” he said, leaning in for a kiss.
It did.
He kissed me slow and sweet, the kind that made everything in the world go soft around the edges. When he pulled back, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested against mine.
“Mel?” he said quietly.
“Mm?”
“I’ve been thinking about something.”
“Is this about your ongoing feud with the smoke detector? Because I already hid the batteries.”
He laughed, a quick puff of warmth against my cheek. “No, not that. Bigger.”
I blinked up at him. “Bigger than the cookie incident?”
“Much bigger.”
He stepped back, and for a second, I thought he was just grabbing more coffee, but then he took a deep breath, and his hand slipped into his back pocket.
My stomach flipped. “Drew…”