Epilogue Two
Hudson
Snowflakes drift past the wide living room windows, soft and glittery like someone shook a giant snow globe around the house.
The Christmas tree, which the alphas insisted be tastefully moderate, is twelve feet tall, flocked, and dripping with ornaments that were definitely not part of any moderate design plan.
There are baby-safe felt ornaments at the bottom. Glass ones near the top. And three custom pieces – Rowan, Luca, and Ivy written in looping script – right at eye level for every alpha in the house.
Alex hung them himself and then cried. Twice.
I still tease him about it.
The fireplace crackles. Lights twinkle. Cinnamon and vanilla float through the air. And the entire living room floor is covered in gifts because apparently, three four-month-old infants need enough presents to supply a small city.
I sit cross-legged on the plush rug with Ivy in my lap.
She’s wearing a red dress with tiny embroidered snowflakes and fuzzy white socks that she keeps kicking off even though she’s barely discovered her feet.
She yawns dramatically, then squeals at the lights like she’s rediscovered them for the fifth time in ten minutes.
Desmond is on the couch with Rowan propped upright against his chest. Rowan is focused – deeply, seriously focused – on the ribbon dangling from Desmond’s wrist like it contains the secrets of the universe.
“Should we let them open presents?” Desmond asks.
“They’re four months old,” I point out. “They can’t open anything.”
“We can open them for them,” he replies, already picking up a gift bag the size of a suitcase.
“Des,” I laugh, “what is in that?”
He opens it proudly. “Baby noise-canceling headphones. For when they come to the office.”
I blink. “Why would they come to the office?”
Before he can respond, Mason strides in from the hallway carrying Luca in one arm and a stack of wrapped gifts in the other. Luca has a tiny Santa hat that keeps sliding over one eye. Mason adjusts it every five steps. He refuses to admit defeat.
“My sons will absolutely visit the office,” Mason says as though this is an objective truth of the universe. “They’re the heirs to Anders Law. Might as well start early.”
“They’re not heirs,” I say, trying not to laugh. “And they’re also babies.”
“They can observe deposition recordings,” he insists. “For early cognitive development.”
Alex throws a handful of tinsel at him.
“Stop trying to make our babies prodigies,” Alex says, sitting down beside me with a plate of cookies. “They can barely hold their heads up.”
“They held them up yesterday,” Mason says defensively.
“For two seconds,” I remind him.
He grunts like those two seconds were Olympic-level triumphs.
Ivy squeals again and kicks her sock across the floor. Alex retrieves it with a sigh that’s far more dramatic than necessary.
“She’s a menace,” he says, kissing her cheek anyway.
“She’s perfect,” I reply, and all three alphas go soft at the same time.
That look – like I’ve handed them the stars every time I say something about their children – still makes my chest ache in the best way.
“Okay,” Alex says suddenly. “Time for stockings.”
“Stockings?” I laugh. “They can’t –”
But it’s too late. The alphas are already moving with wild holiday purpose. Each stocking is enormous. Larger than the babies. Hand-embroidered. Personalized. Mason had them custom made from an artisan in Norway because he liked her craftsmanship.
They dump the contents: rattles, books, sensory toys, crinkly paper, baby booties, soft stuffed animals… and, inexplicably, a toy hammer.
“Why is there a hammer?” I ask.
Mason clears his throat. “For motor skill development.”
“They don’t have motor skills,” I remind him. “They have arms that flail and necks that can’t hold their heads upright.”
The alphas beam with unearned pride.
We spend the next hour taking turns helping the babies open gifts. The babies mostly drool on things. Rowan falls asleep halfway through. Ivy tries to eat a bow. Luca startles every time someone laughs too loudly.
It’s chaotic. It’s messy. It’s loud.
It’s perfect.
Eventually, the three babies are stretched out in a row on the rug, bundled in new holiday sleep sacks and half-heartedly swatting at the hanging ornaments Alex lowered for baby enrichment. His words, not mine.
Desmond sits behind me, legs open around me, arms wrapped around my waist as I lean back against his chest. Mason lowers himself beside us and rests Luca on my thighs.
And Alex lies on his side, propped on an elbow, watching us all with a soft, quiet smile I’ve only ever seen when he’s overwhelmed with happiness.
“This is the best Christmas I’ve ever had,” he says.
Mason nods. “The house feels full.”
Desmond kisses the side of my neck. “Feels like home.”
I look at the three tiny people who changed everything. Then at the three alphas who made me the center of their family.
The alphas who love me unconditionally.
“This,” I whisper, “is all I ever wanted. Even before I realized I wanted it.”
Alex reaches out and threads our fingers together.
“Merry Christmas, omega.”
I lean my head on his shoulder and whisper back, “Merry Christmas, alphas.”
And just like that, the first Christmas as a family settles into my bones – warm, sparkling, chaotic, and overflowing with love.