Epilogue
Noel
One Year Later
It’s our first Christmas together as husband and wife. Frost dusts the backyard like sugar, glittering in the pale morning light. Inside, the house smells like cinnamon and cedar.
Kyler’s workshop lights glow through the back door, a golden square against the gray December sky. I can hear faint music and the steady hum of his sander. He promised he’d only be a few more minutes, but “a few minutes” in Kyler-time usually means an hour.
I pour two mugs of cocoa—his with extra marshmallows, mine with peppermint—and glance around the living room. The tree leans a little to the left, and our popcorn garland looks like something my kindergarteners made during arts and crafts.
I couldn’t love it more.
A moment later, the back door opens and a rush of cold air follows Kyler inside. He’s dusted with sawdust, cheeks pink from the chill, eyes shining the way they always do when he’s made something with his hands.
“Close your eyes,” he says.
“Kyler…”
“No peeking.”
I obey, grinning, and hear him move around the room.
“Okay,” he says. “You can look now.”
I open my eyes, and gasp.
It’s a chest. Cedar, polished smooth, the grain gleaming like honey in the light. The edges are curved just enough to feel soft, not sharp. And carved into the lid, precise and delicate, is a single snowflake.
“Kyler…” My voice catches. I run my fingers over the carving. “It’s beautiful.”
He kneels beside me. “I wanted to build something that would last. Something that could hold every Christmas we’ll ever have. Or, you know, just the ridiculous number of ornaments you keep buying.”
I laugh softly, tracing the snowflake again. “You even included this.”
“Couldn’t not,” he says, brushing his thumb over mine. “Getting snowed in with you last year changed everything. Felt right to honor it.”
I set my cocoa aside and kiss him, slow and deep and sure. When we finally pull apart, I rest my forehead against his.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper. “Sturdy. Beautiful. Built to last.”
“Like us,” he murmurs.
“Like us,” I agree.