Raven
Sam is still asleep beside me, one arm draped across my waist. His breathing is slow and even.
His weight is familiar, anchoring. I lie there longer than I mean to, taking everything in and still trying to believe that this is my life.
That despite everything that was against us, I have the life I once only dreamed of.
For the first time in what feels like weeks, my body doesn’t feel braced for impact.
I shift carefully, easing out from under Sam’s arm. He stirs but doesn’t wake, his hand flexing once before falling back to the mattress. I pause, watching his face soften again, the lines between his brows smoothing out.
God, I love him like this. Unaware. Unburdened.
Pulling on one of his shirts, I pad into the kitchen, the floor cool beneath my bare feet. The cottage is quiet, suspended in that fragile space between night and morning, as if it's holding its breath.
This little place has worked its way into my heart in ways I never expected.
Not because of what it is, but because every room still feels touched by him.
His boots lying by the door. His favorite mug beside the coffee pot.
The flannel blanket draped over the couch.
They're ordinary things, but together they've become the shape of home.
By now, moving through these rooms feels as natural as breathing. Nothing here is extravagant, yet every corner holds a memory we've made together—a shared meal, stolen kisses, quiet mornings, late-night laughter. Somewhere along the way, this tiny cottage became the place we belonged.
The thought makes my chest ache, just a little. Not sadness. It’s tender like the feeling of being recognized by something that transcends words.
I start the coffee, the rich smell filling the room. Outside the window, a bird hops along the railing, watching me like it expects breakfast on schedule.
Grabbing the bag of seed from the cupboard, I step onto the porch, surprised by how cool the morning still feels. The feeder is lighter than it should be. As soon as I twist the lid open, an impatient chirp sounds behind me.
I glance over my shoulder to find the same little bird perched on the railing, staring at me with the unmistakable expression of someone whose service has been unacceptable.
“I know. Breakfast is late,” I murmur as I pour the seed in. “You’re getting greedy.”
It chirps back, louder, unmistakably scolding. I can’t help but laugh.
I stay where I am, curious to see what it'll do. After a moment, it gives a tiny hop in my direction. Then another. Soon, it's standing only a few feet away, completely unconcerned by my presence, as though I've finally proven I'm worthy.
I linger for a moment, breathing in the quiet and the small trust of this small animal. For a heartbeat, I see a hundred ordinary moments like this, before the moment slips away.
“I was wondering where you disappeared to,” Sam murmurs from the open door, hair rumpled, shirtless, looking unfairly good for someone who just woke up.
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I don’t mind,” he says as he wraps his arms around my waist. “You’re the only thing I want to wake up to.”
I rest my head against his, and he tightens his arms. We stand there together, quiet, the way people do when they don’t need words to fill the space.
“The weather is changing,” I say. “The mornings are getting colder.”
"They are," he agrees, his chin brushing my temple. "Feels like the season's turning."
I smile at that. "I can't wait."
"For what?"
"Our first Christmas."
A soft laugh vibrates against my back. "A real tree?" he asks.
"The biggest one we can find."
He chuckles. "In this little cottage?"
"I didn't say it had to fit."
He laughs again, shaking his head. "Guess I'll be the one crawling under it every morning to water it."
"And cursing when you step on pine needles until February."
"I'll definitely be cursing."
I grin. "I want lights everywhere. The tree. The porch. Garland on the railing."
"And one of those little Christmas villages," he adds.
I turn to look at him, surprised. "Really?"
He shrugs, a little sheepish. "My mom used to put one out every year. I always liked it."
My heart squeezes. "Then we're getting one."
He smiles, and this time it's quieter.
"We'll drink hot chocolate until we're sick of it," I say. "You'll complain when I make you watch cheesy Christmas movies."
"I won't complain."
"You absolutely will."
"Maybe a little,” he says with a grin.
"But you'll still watch every single one with me."
"Every single one."
The words paint pictures in my mind so vividly that I can almost see them. A tree glowing in the corner. Stockings hanging from the mantel. Snow piling against the porch while we stay tucked inside, wrapped in blankets and each other, with nowhere else we'd rather be.
"This feels like where everything begins," he says.
I believe him.
Standing there in his arms, with autumn giving way to winter and tomorrow waiting just beyond the trees, I can't imagine there will ever come a Christmas that doesn't belong to us.
Later, the day settles into an easy rhythm. I curl up on the couch with a book while Sam sits beside me, boots on, absently scrolling through his phone. Our knees brush now and then, neither of us bothering to move.
A familiar wave of exhaustion rolls through me, heavier this time. I blink hard, trying to focus on the page, but the words begin to blur together.
The corner of Sam's mouth lifts. "You're done."
I glance over at him. "I am not."
He reaches over and gently closes the book in my hands.
"You're falling asleep sitting up."
A sleepy laugh escapes me. "I've been running on adrenaline for so long, my body's finally realized it doesn't have to anymore."
"Then let it."
I don't argue. I curl against him, his arm sliding around my shoulders as naturally as breathing.
The steady rise and fall of his breathing lulls me to sleep. Within a few minutes, I close my eyes and let go, trusting him.
Trusting a future that feels so ordinary it doesn’t occur to me to doubt it.