Chapter 34
thirty-four
LAILA
My family never really had traditions like this. At least not every year. When Ella’s dad was alive, our time was filled to the brim with traditions for every single holiday we knew of, and others we didn’t.
Once he was gone, so were the traditions.
Ella, Bridget, and I did our best to create our own once we had our own place, but that can’t compare to the moments occupying my time now. Holden and I never really had time to get this rooted in something we could do every single year. Our time was too precious.
I wish I’d realized what I was missing out on.
Maybe that’s what I’ve been chasing, but couldn’t put words to. Not perfection, just a place that remembers me back instead of me being the one to hoard all the memories.
Flour dusts almost every available surface. Cookies, frosting, and candy overrun our kitchen table.
Henry is standing on his chair, enthusiastically squeezing frosting onto every available square inch of gingerbread he can see. Luna is bent over her gingerbread house, tongue between her teeth as she frames windows and doors.
“She’s really serious about this,” I say to Holden, popping a gumdrop into my mouth.
“Mommy steal!” Henry gasps, dropping his frosting and pointing a chubby finger at me. “Give me. My turn.”
“It’s the Mommy tax,” I insist, grabbing yet another.
“Caught red-handed.” Holden laughs.
“I want one!” Henry squeals excitedly. “Blue!”
“It’s kind of late—should I let him have one?” I half expect my non-motherhood inexperience to give me away, but Holden just grins at me, unbothered.
“I think after the day they’ve had, it will be fine.”
“One,” I caution, holding up a finger for extra emphasis.
Henry giggles and grabs three. I’m too blissfully happy and fulfilled to care.
“We’ve got a structural problem on House Four.” Holden makes an explosion sound as a whole side of his house falls. “I’m out of the running, I guess.”
“Well, if someone would stop eating all the support beams…”
“Heresay.” He slaps a hand on the table with a wide smile.
“I don’t think that word means what you think it means.”
Luna lets out an exaggerated huff. “If you two are going to be silly, will you please go somewhere else? You’re ruining my Christmas lights.”
I’ve never heard such a well-spoken four-year-old in my life. I also don’t think I’ve been admonished by a child before.
“Daddy is sorry—no more table slapping. Your lights are beautiful.”
She flashes him a smile, then goes back to her work. “Mommy keeps bumping the table, too.”
I drop my mouth open and hold my hands up in mock surrender. “I will make sure not to touch the table. Right after I see if it’s possible to fix this wall.”
Holden leans close to me. “You bought the strawberry candy canes, Laila. You can’t expect me to exercise self-control when you buy the strawberry ones.”
I have one memory of strawberry candy canes, and I find it hard to believe that we’re referencing the same thing.
“What’s the big deal about strawberry candy canes?” I ask, feigning nonchalance.
He’s made a mess of his gingerbread house, probably to lose to our children because Holden is the king of gingerbread houses, and I have to really lean in to see if there’s any saving his destruction.
There’s no reason to take it this seriously, except that this is the most fun I’ve had in ages. It’s the kind of fun that sneaks past every guard I’ve ever built. The kind that feels dangerously like belonging.
“You’re joking, right?” he says.
I blindly reach for the nearest tube. “No.”
Maybe I can squeeze a bunch of frosting between the candy cane in question—which isn’t tall enough to offer support—and close the gap.
“You bought them for me the weekend we got engaged.”
I jerk in surprise, squeezing the tube, which is aimed right at my face.
Holden’s laughter rumbles through the room, soon to be joined by the kids’.
“Gingerbread man!” Henry squeals. “Gumdrop buttons.”
“You said we couldn’t put frosting on our faces,” Luna giggles. “You look silly, Mommy.”
“That’s why we check the frosting tube before we squeeze,” I tell her, trying not to laugh. “How bad is it, Holden?”
His face is already red from holding in his laughter. “Hold still.”
“Frozen like a statue.”
“Let it goooooo!” Henry sings, and that’s all it takes for everyone to break.
Luna drops her frosting tube with a flourish. “How am I supposed to work in this?”
I swipe a bit of frosting from my cheek and trail it down Holden’s.
He blinks, startled. “That, ma’am, was a declaration of war.”
“Oh, yeah?” I grab the nearest handful of sprinkles. “Then prepare for battle.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” he murmurs, his voice low. Laughter dances in his eyes, but there’s also something else in his gaze that has heat curling in my belly.
There’s no turning back if I follow through with this, but I don’t think I care. I want to see what’s at the end of this path so desperately it hurts.
“Try me,” I whisper with a smile.
In seconds, we’re all out of our chairs.
Luna and Henry squeal as colored sprinkles rain like confetti.
Laughter bounces off the walls. Flour turns to snow, the air thick with cinnamon and joy.
Gumdrops scatter across the floor like tiny breadcrumbs, shining sugar trails in the chaos—proof that joy can lead you home, too.
For a heartbeat, the air sings with Christmas magic.
Holden ducks left, then right, trying to corner me. I spin away, laughing so hard I can barely breathe.
“Truce!” I gasp.
“Too late.” He catches my wrist mid-swing, the warmth of his fingers curling around my skin.
The room quiets around us. I know we had music on, but all I can hear now is the rhythm of our breaths tangled together.
“You’ve got a little something…” he murmurs, brushing a thumb across my cheek.
“So do you,” I whisper back.
He looks at me the way he always has, with a certain awestruck tenderness, like he’s the luckiest man alive. My breath catches when his eyes drop to my lips, then again when his eyes lift back to mine.
“Thank you for building this life with me,” he says. “For loving me.”
For once, the words come easily. “You’ve always made that part easy, Holden. Unlike getting this frosting out of my hair.”
His fingers tighten around my wrist, tugging me closer to him.
“Stop talking, honey,” he says, his voice low and playful. Then he leans in and kisses me, and somewhere in the background, Luna’s giggles tinkle like sleigh bells.
Holden’s lips are warm and sure, tasting faintly of sugar, and for a second, I forget that my hair probably looks like I could be Smurfette’s cousin, the gumdrops on the floor—everything else that isn’t this.
His hand lets go of my wrist, only to drag his fingers down my arm and disappear around my waist. Both arms wrap around me, squeezing me closer in a way that makes the world tilt and blur.
When we finally pull apart, Luna collapses again. “Daddy, you have frosting in your hair, too.”
He grins, lazy and perfect. “Totally worth it.”
I step away from Holden and take in the scene around us. The kitchen looks like a snow globe exploded, flour still hanging in the air and glittering in the twinkle lights wrapping the garland above the cabinets. I laugh so hard my chest aches.
It’s a mess, but it’s ours.
Normally, I’d get straight to work cleaning, but I soak it up, memorizing this picture in my mind. There’s more space between us now, but Holden’s arm still circles my waist. Henry and Luna spin in circles, and the scents of ginger and sugar hang in the air.
The artist we loved back in Sweetheart Springs—Piper, the one who paints the most beautiful stories—could paint this exact picture. And she’d call it home.
I used to think it was a place or a plan—I’ve spent years trying to chase it.
Or something I had to earn once I figured myself out.
My job, my future, my life. But maybe it’s this.
It’s chaotic and whimsical and so full of love I could burst. Love used to scare me because it burned too bright.
But this? This kind of love glows—it lasts.
It’s belonging. It’s me.
Holden glances down at me. “You okay?”
“Better than okay.”
He drops his arm only to grasp my hand. “Good. Because La, we may find sprinkles until Easter.”
“Maybe we should start a new tradition.” I shrug.
He chuckles, brushing something from my cheek. I don’t know if it’s more flour or a stray hair or sprinkles, but I just breathe him in.
Maybe Henry was right about stories needing new endings because the old ones no longer fit. Maybe this is where ours changes.
“Let’s go get bath time started,” he says, with one last squeeze. “Before the kids decide the sprinkles belong in their beds.”
I follow him out of the kitchen to herd kids and fall into a routine I never knew I wanted. The house hums with the tired magic of the perfect day—laughter echoing from the bathroom, music from one of Holden’s mix CDs, and Christmas lights filling the house with a warm glow.
He still makes them, even now. Maybe that’s his way of leaving little love notes I can’t delete.
If this is a dream, maybe I don’t want to wake up after all. But dreams end. And when they do, you either follow the crumbs home—or stay lost.