Hickory & Sprig

[Reputation]

Ma and Pa style Toy Store

[Tessa Alcott]

It was the kind of cold that made your breath feel heavy in your chest, the kind that stitched pink across the apples of Tessa Alcott’s cheeks as she walked beside Graham down Main Street, gloved fingers wrapped loosely around his. Bedford Falls looked like a postcard this close to Christmas. Twinkle lights laced every lamppost, wreaths hung in neat, predictable symmetry, and someone was playing a jazzy version of “Silver Bells” from the speakers outside the bakery. Tessa had rolled her eyes at it earlier, but now she found herself walking in rhythm with it.

They weren’t shopping—not technically. She’d told him they were just getting out of the house, stretching their legs. But when she spotted the hand-painted sign for Hickory & Sprig, the town’s longstanding and vaguely magical Ma-and-Pa toy store, she paused mid-stride. The window display glowed with warm amber light and mismatched whimsy: a wooden train looping around a snowman castle, a jack-in-the-box mid-pop, and paper stars that twirled from the ceiling like they had thoughts of their own.

“Come on,” she said, tugging his hand before he could protest. “Just for a second.”

He let out a low, amused sound, but followed.

Inside, the air smelled like cedar shavings and peppermint taffy. The narrow aisles twisted through towering shelves like something out of a dream, each one more chaotic than the last—plush dragons nestled beside marionettes, vintage board games balanced next to wind-up ballerinas. Tessa didn’t bother trying to keep track of Graham once they stepped through the door. They had a rhythm for this kind of thing. Separate, explore, reconvene. It was easier that way—more natural. Besides, she was on a mission.

They already had presents wrapped and hidden for Ollie under Iris and Elliot’s tree, but that didn’t stop her from veering left and weaving through a crowd of bundled-up shoppers with all the precision of a general. She didn’t want anything big, just... more. A tiny dinosaur stamp kit. A book about bears who made their own soup. A pack of finger puppets shaped like sea creatures. Things that would make him laugh. Things that would make her feel like she mattered to him in a way that only she could.

Tessa hadn’t grown up wanting to be a mother. It had never been a craving, never something that pulled at her in a way that felt elemental. But the moment Iris asked her to be Ollie’s godmother, something shifted. Not everything—just enough. Just enough to make her fiercely, hopelessly devoted to the idea of spoiling the hell out of him.

She was halfway through reading the back of a wind-up snowman that skated in circles when she looked up, scanning for Graham. She spotted him two aisles over, standing completely still in front of a display labeled "Jedi Training Zone."

Plastic lightsabers of every color lined the rack in neat little rows, some still boxed, others loose with demo buttons half-worn from eager hands. Blue, green, red, even one in purple that had clearly seen better days.

Graham stood in front of them like he was seeing them for the first time—or maybe like he was remembering something that still lived somewhere in him. He hadn’t picked one up. He didn’t move at all.

Tessa smirked, weaving through a knot of chatting grandparents and sidestepping a toddler in a puffy jacket as she made her way to him. When she reached his side, she didn’t say anything right away—just let her shoulder brush his lightly.

“You planning to fight your way through Christmas morning, Jedi-style?” she teased, voice soft but full of affection. “Because I gotta say, babe... that green one’s got your name all over it.”

She didn’t expect him to answer. Not yet. Not when he was looking at the display like that.

Honestly? She was kind of tempted to buy it for him.

Just to see him light up the way he did when he forgot the world was watching.

[Graham Alcott]

Graham blinked like he’d been caught doing something private in public.

He glanced at her, then back at the lightsabers, lips tugging into that crooked, helpless smile he always got when she nailed him. One corner of his mouth lifted first, like the rest of his face was deciding whether to follow.

“I was not planning to fight my way through Christmas morning,” he said, immediately defensive in the most unconvincing way. “I was just… appreciating the craftsmanship. You know. As one does.”

He leaned closer to the display, squinting at the labels like they might explain him.

“And for the record,” he added, lowering his voice, “green is a solid choice. It’s very… Luke-coded. Earnest. Slightly underestimated. Emotionally burdened.”

He glanced at her again, eyes warm, playful.
“…So yeah. Obviously me.”

His fingers hovered, then finally—finally—he picked one up. The green plastic hilt fit into his hand like it had been waiting. He pressed the demo button.

VSHOOM.

The sound echoed down the aisle. A nearby kid gasped. A grandmother smiled indulgently.

Graham froze.

“Oh no,” he whispered, eyes widening. “Oh no, that’s… that’s a good swoom.”

He looked at Tessa, fully caught now, boyish delight all over his face. No irony. No armor. Just pure, unfiltered joy.

“I mean, I’m not saying I need this,” he said quickly, like he was talking himself down from a ledge. “But imagine Ollie in, like, three years. Or four. Or tomorrow. This is basically a long-term investment in his Jedi education.”

He flicked the button again—VSHOOM—then winced.

“Okay, that one was for science,” he said, grinning. “Last one.”

He didn’t put it back.

Instead, he angled it slightly toward her, softer now, like he was letting her in on the secret.

“You know,” he said, quieter, “this was the first thing I ever saved up for as a kid. Took me months. My dad tried to convince me a flashlight was ‘basically the same.’”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head, then shrugged.

“So… if you did happen to buy this for me,” he added, eyes flicking up to hers, hopeful but teasing, “I would obviously pretend to protest. Briefly. For dignity.”

He leaned closer, shoulder brushing hers again.

“But I would also love you forever.
Possibly even duel you in the living room.”

That smile again—soft, nerdy, devastating.

“Just saying.”

[Tessa Alcott]

Tessa didn’t answer right away.

She just stared at him—this tall, ridiculous man who somehow still got flustered around toy lightsabers—and tried very hard not to melt.

It didn’t work.

“Okay, first of all,” she said, tilting her head, “that was the most dramatic sales pitch I’ve ever heard. And I once watched you talk a barista into giving you an off-menu seasonal drink and a free cookie, so that’s saying something.”

Graham didn’t respond, just gave her a look—one eyebrow raised, smug but hopeful.

Tessa folded her arms and shifted her weight onto one hip, eyes drifting back to the rack. The purple lightsaber—half-forgotten and slightly askew—caught her eye like it knew. It was the only one that looked a little beat up, a little feral. Naturally, it called to her.

“I’m just saying,” she murmured, mostly to herself, “if we were to duel... I’d need the purple one.”

She glanced at him again, eyes narrowed. “Because obviously I’m not emotionally burdened. I’m just hot and intimidating.”

He grinned wider, and she elbowed him lightly in the ribs—then let her hand rest there a second longer than necessary.

She hadn’t known anything about lightsabers before him. Or comic books. Or the difference between Marvel and DC. Or which version of Spider-Man was “objectively wrong.” That entire part of her brain had once been occupied by skincare routines, designer handbags, and mentally scoring her high school classmates. But then came him—and slow, sleepy Saturday mornings with cartoons she didn’t understand, and museum dates where he whispered trivia in her ear, and the feeling of being let in on a world that had never made space for girls like her.

So yeah. She knew what the lightsaber meant.

She knew exactly why he hadn’t put it back.

Tessa turned toward him fully, letting her shoulder press into his just a little more deliberately this time.

“You duel me in the living room,” she said, voice soft but dangerous, “you better be ready to lose. Because I’m buying the purple one. And I don’t fight fair.”

She smirked, then leaned in and kissed his cheek—fast, decisive, her way of saying I see you. I love you. You’re getting a damn lightsaber for Christmas.

And maybe—just maybe—so was she.

[Graham Alcott]

Graham made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a surrender.

He tilted his head toward her, cheek still warm where she’d kissed him, like he was recalibrating his entire nervous system around that single point of contact.

“Oh,” he said softly, eyes flicking to the purple lightsaber and back to her, “so this is how it’s gonna be.”

He reached out and plucked the purple one from the rack with exaggerated care, turning it over in his hands like it was sacred—or dangerous. Or both.

“First of all,” he went on, slipping effortlessly into mock-serious mode, “Mace Windu energy is not something to take lightly. Purple sabers are for people who live in moral gray areas and could absolutely destroy you emotionally and physically if provoked.”

He glanced at her, grin slow and knowing.

“So… yeah. That tracks.”

He pressed the demo button.

VSHOOM.

The sound was deeper than the green one. Meaner. A little unhinged.

Graham blinked, then laughed outright. “Oh no,” he said. “Oh no, this one’s terrifying. I love it.”

He held it up between them like he was presenting evidence in court.

“You realize,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “this means our living room is now a neutral dueling ground. Rugs will be pushed aside. Coffee table casualties are inevitable. I will probably trip over the ottoman.”

He leaned closer, forehead nearly touching hers.

“But,” he added, quieter, softer, “I’m okay losing if it’s to you.”

That one wasn’t a joke.

He reached out, fingers curling gently at her wrist, grounding and familiar.

“And just so we’re clear,” he said, thumb brushing the inside of her glove, “I absolutely fight fair.”

A beat.

“…I just don’t fight dirty-hot intimidating-purple-saber fair.”

His smile softened then, fond and unmistakably in love.

“So,” he said, lifting the green saber again and nudging it against her purple one, “Christmas morning. Ollie opens his gifts. Iris cries. Elliot pretends not to.”

He clinked the sabers together lightly.

“And then you and I retire to the living room to settle this like adults.”

Another grin—irresistible, earnest, hers.

“Winner makes breakfast.”

[Tessa Alcott]

Tessa narrowed her eyes, letting her purple saber hover just above his like she was seconds from declaring war. She held it wrong—her grip a little too high, a little too theatrical—but that didn’t stop her from looking completely self-satisfied.

“I’m not saying I’m scared of your earnest, emotionally-repressed, green-saber energy,” she said coolly, “but I am saying I’ve already picked out my victory speech. And it rhymes.”

She held his gaze for one beat, then two, then dropped her saber to her side with a dramatic sigh.

“Anyway,” she said, flipping her hair back like it was part of a costume change, “this isn’t about you.”

She turned on her heel and gestured vaguely toward the display.

“It’s about Ollie. Obviously. The child. The one we’re shopping for and not totally forgetting about because you’re a Jedi in denial and I have impeccable taste.”

She scanned the rows again—this time with marginally more intention, but only barely.

After a second, she reached for one of the red sabers and held it up between them, squinting. “Okay, so I know this one is the villain saber or whatever, but hear me out—red is festive. And it matches his Christmas pajamas.”

She looked at Graham, deadpan. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

He didn’t say anything (because you told him not to), but she could see the disbelief all over his face, written in the crease of his brow and that annoying twitch of his mouth that always gave him away.

Tessa rolled her eyes. “Fine. I get it. I don’t speak fluent lore.”

She picked up a blue one at random and tilted her head, considering it like she was inspecting produce. “This one’s… cooler? I think? What’s blue again—truth, justice, the Jedi way, yadda yadda?”

She handed it to him before she could talk herself into or out of it.

“Okay, Obi-Wan, come on. Help me pick. He’s five. He deserves an origin story that doesn’t involve me choosing based on aesthetics.” She made air quotes with one hand, still holding the purple saber like it was her birthright with the other.

Then, quietly, as she leaned in, chin tilted and voice softer:

“I want it to be something he remembers, you know? Like, ten years from now—when he’s taller than me and correcting me on droid names—I want him to say, ‘My godmother got me my very first lightsaber.’ And it wasn’t even the wrong one.”

She nudged him gently with her elbow, already smirking again.

“So. Jedi master. Make me look cool.”

[Graham Alcott]

Graham didn’t answer right away—because he couldn’t without smiling first.

It started small. A press of his lips. A breath through his nose. Then that familiar, helpless grin took over like it always did when she went full Tessa—performative, incisive, secretly sentimental.

He lifted his green saber just enough to gently tap the air above her purple one, not a strike. More like punctuation.

He adjusted her grip without thinking—two fingers sliding lower on the hilt, thumb nudging her hand back.

“Okay,” he said softly, calm as a man defusing a very stylish bomb, “first note—your form is aggressively theatrical. Which is powerful. But you’re gonna want the grip lower unless you’re auditioning for Space Hamlet.”

He glanced at her face, eyes warm, amused.

“And for the record,” he added, “your victory speech definitely rhymes. I can feel it.”

At her dramatic pivot—this isn’t about you—he made a quiet, exaggerated sound of offense and pressed a hand to his chest.

“Wow,” he murmured. “Bold pivot. Olympic-level deflection. I respect it.”

When she lifted the red saber, his brows shot up so fast it was almost comical.

“Festive,” he echoed, nodding slowly. “Yes. Nothing says childhood wonder like symbolic rage and the corruption of absolute power.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like he was sharing state secrets.

“Also,” he added, “that one canonically belongs to people who yell a lot and fall into lava. So unless Ollie’s Christmas pajamas are flame-retardant—”

He stopped himself, lips twitching.

“—I’d gently advise against red.”

She handed him the blue one, and he took it carefully, turning it in his hands like it mattered. Because to her, it did.

“Blue,” he said, thoughtful now. “Blue’s solid. Blue’s brave. It’s the ‘run toward danger because someone has to’ color. Very classic hero energy. Earnest. Loyal. A little reckless.”

He flicked the demo button once—VSHOOM—then turned it off immediately, like he didn’t want to waste the moment.

When she leaned in and said the quiet part, his smile softened completely. Gone was the teasing. Gone was the bit.

He looked at her—really looked at her.

“Hey,” he said gently, bumping her elbow back. “You already look cool.”

Then, after a beat:

“But also—yeah. You’re right.”

He glanced back at the display, then reached past the blue saber and pulled down a smaller green one. Kid-sized. Lighter. Still bright.

“This,” he said, handing it to her instead of keeping it, “is the one.”

He shrugged, sheepish but sure.

“Green’s about curiosity. Growth. Figuring things out instead of just charging in. It’s for kids who ask a million questions and think rules are more like… suggestions.”

A glance at her. A grin.

“So, obviously Ollie.”

He nudged the box toward her hands.

“And ten years from now,” he added quietly, “when he’s correcting you on droid names—”

A pause.

“—he’s not gonna remember the color. He’s gonna remember that his godmother saw him. That she picked it for him.”

He tilted his head, playful again, because he couldn’t stay earnest too long without combusting.

“Also,” he said, tapping her purple saber with his green one, “you absolutely get to keep purple. That’s non-negotiable.”

A beat.

“Because I would never survive you going full Sith in our living room without proper warning.”

[Tessa Alcott]

Tessa stared down at the little green lightsaber now sitting in her hands, then back up at him.

Her brow lifted—slow, suspicious, deeply unimpressed. “Wow,” she said. “What a shocking, completely unpredictable coincidence.”

She angled the saber between them and arched one eyebrow higher. “You mean to tell me that out of all the options—blue, red, purple, whatever that weird orange one is—you just happened to land on green for Ollie. Green. Same as his Godfather. Who, I remind you, already has one in his size and is now coaching me on my space grip like I didn’t spend fifteen minutes last week watching YouTube clips from Revenge of the Sith.”

She squinted. “The puppet one. With the ears. You made me.”

A nearby couple glanced their way, but Tessa didn’t notice. Or she did and simply didn’t care. That was the magic of being her. Chaos in a cardigan. Drama in fuzzy socks. Queen of main character energy and accidental sentiment.

She tapped the hilt against her palm thoughtfully.

“Right,” she said. “So what I’m hearing is: the kid who uses bendy straws as swords and once tried to fight a scarecrow is clearly a calm, inquisitive, slow-to-anger type.”

She looked up at him, lips pressed together like she was just barely holding back a smile.

“And it’s totally unrelated to the fact that you, a known green-saber sympathizer, are attempting to create a miniature version of yourself in a galaxy far, far away.”

Her voice dropped, conspiratorial. “Do you… want to match with him? Is this like a tiny Jedi father-son fantasy thing you’re projecting onto my godson?”

She clutched the saber to her chest like it was fragile.

“Because if so, I fully support it. I just want you to say it out loud so I can remember this moment forever.”

But her teasing softened when she looked down again—really looked at it.

It was the right one.

Not because it matched Graham, but because it matched Ollie. That curious little brain, the nonstop questions, the way he always asked why before what. She could see him with it—chasing shadows, dueling furniture, using the Force to get out of bedtime.

She exhaled quietly and nodded, less for him and more for herself.

Then, of course, she ruined it with a smirk.

“Fine. Green it is,” she said, lifting it with mock-ceremony. “But I’m getting a matching robe for the living room duels. And if he picks you over me on Christmas morning, I’m filing for emotional custody.”

She turned, already heading toward the register, but tossed a look over her shoulder—grin sharp, eyes shining.

“And for the record?” she added. “I look extremely cool. I just also happen to be right. About everything.”

She spun her purple saber once for dramatic flair.

“Prepare yourself, Skywalker.”

[Graham Alcott]

Graham let out a slow breath through his nose, the kind that meant I have been clocked and I accept my fate.

He lifted his hands in surrender, green saber angled harmlessly down at his side.

“Okay,” he said calmly, reasonably, “first of all—Revenge of the Sith clips absolutely count as research, and I’m proud of you for expanding your media literacy.”

At the mention of Yoda, he winced.

“And yes,” he added, lowering his voice, “the puppet one. With the ears. You did fall asleep halfway through, but you also asked questions before that, which I feel like balances out.”

When she went full monologue—accusatory, theatrical, devastating—his mouth twitched again. He tried to keep it together. Failed.

“Wow,” he said softly. “You caught me. This is all an elaborate long con to raise a tiny, curious, question-asking Jedi who thinks bedtime is negotiable.”

He leaned in a little, conspiratorial now.

“And for the record, that weird orange one is canonically complicated and absolutely not for beginners, so thank you for trusting my judgment.”

At her father-son fantasy accusation, he paused. Considered. Then nodded solemnly.

“…Yeah. A little.”

He tapped his chest with the hilt of his saber.

“I mean, not in a ‘replace his actual parents’ way—obviously—but in a ‘someday he looks at me like I know things’ way. Which is deeply aspirational and statistically unlikely.”

When she hugged the saber to herself, something softened in him. He didn’t comment on it. Just watched her. Let the moment breathe.

Then she ruined it (affectionately), and he grinned.

“Oh, you’re absolutely filing for emotional custody,” he said. “And I will lose. Immediately. Iris will side with you. Elliot will pretend neutrality and then sneak you snacks.”

He followed her toward the register, matching her pace easily.

“And for the record?” he added, nodding at her with quiet certainty. “You look devastatingly cool. Intimidating. Historically accurate. Frankly unfair to the rest of us.”

At her final spin and challenge, he lifted his green saber in a mock salute.

“Always prepared,” he said, eyes warm, smile easy. “But just so you know—”

He lowered his voice, playful but sincere.

“I’m totally fine being second place on Christmas morning… as long as I’m first place in the living room.”

A beat.

“…And in your heart. Obviously.”

Then, softer, as they reached the counter:

“Good pick, Jedi.”

Graham lingered half a step behind her at the counter, still smiling like he’d just won something he hadn’t been trying to.

He reached out and gently steadied the purple saber when it wobbled in her hand—casual, instinctive—then let his fingers fall away before it could turn into a thing.

“Just so we’re clear,” he said quietly, eyes on the register display like he was being very normal about this, “if you do get a robe for living room duels, I’m insisting on a dramatic hood situation. I refuse to be taken out by someone in athleisure without at least one ceremonial garment involved.”

He glanced sideways at her, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“And emotional custody is fine. I’ll take weekends. Maybe holidays if I bribe him with pancakes shaped like droids.”

The cashier scanned the green saber. Beep.

Graham’s gaze flicked to it—softened again, just for a second—then back to Tessa.

“You know,” he added, lower now, meant only for her, “you’re gonna be the reason he remembers Christmas like it mattered. Not the presents. The feeling.”

A beat.

“Also,” he said, straightening, tone light again, “I am absolutely not Skywalker. I am—at best—a background Jedi who survives three movies and dies heroically off-screen.”

He slid his card across the counter, then paused, eyes crinkling.

“But you?”

A small nod toward her purple saber.

“You’re terrifying. I would never underestimate you.”

[Tessa Alcott]

Tessa tried—truly, sincerely tried—not to smile.

But his voice had that infuriating thing it did when he was joking without performing, when he was sincere without making a spectacle of it. And now he was standing there, rattling off robe requirements and droid-shaped pancake bribes with a lightsaber in one hand and a look on his face that was way too soft for the toy aisle of a ma-and-pa store.

The fact that it was working on her? Infuriating.

She tucked the green saber against her side and gave him a look—sharp and wry, the kind she usually reserved for people who claimed Die Hard wasn’t a Christmas movie.

“I knew it,” she said, tone dry as snow-dusted pavement. “You do want the robe.”

She shook her head. “This whole thing’s a slow burn Jedi rebrand, and I’m just now catching on. I let my guard down once and suddenly we’re buying toy weapons and emotional memories like we’re in a Hallmark special.”

Still, she didn’t hand the saber back.

Didn’t back away either.

Instead, she adjusted her grip on both hilts—green in one hand, purple in the other—and tried to act like she wasn’t ridiculously, irrationally flustered by the fact that he’d just said he was fine being second on Christmas morning… as long as he was first in the living room. And in her heart.

That line should’ve been illegal.

Or at least taxed.

Her voice dropped slightly. Not teasing now—just quieter, steadier, like something true had slipped out without permission.

“You’re not background,” she said.

She didn’t look at him when she said it, just watched the cashier wrap the sabers in brown paper and tissue, sticking a little red sticker on the box like that made it festive.

“You talk like you’re just the guy in the corner—like all you do is support. But he lights up every time he sees you. Like, full-body sparkle mode. Like you’re the one who brings the fun and the stories and the dumb trivia no one else thinks to tell him.”

She glanced at Graham then, eyes warm despite herself.

“And Elliot trusts you. Iris, too. They wouldn’t have picked anyone else.”

A shrug. Casual. Not casual.

“And neither would I.”

She turned back to the counter before he could say anything—before she could talk herself out of what she'd just said.

The cashier handed her the bag, and Tessa took it with both hands, curling her fingers around the handles like it might anchor her.

Outside, the cold was waiting. So was Main Street and the rest of the day. But for one quiet moment inside that toy shop—under warm lights and surrounded by mismatched joy—she just stood there next to the boy she wasn’t supposed to fall for, holding the gift they’d picked for someone else’s kid, thinking about how none of this had been the plan.

And how she’d never trade it for anything.

Not even a robe with a hood.

“…Also,” she added lightly, finally breaking the silence as they started toward the door, “if you think I’m letting you die off-screen in any story we’re in together, you clearly haven’t been paying attention.”

She bumped his arm with her shoulder, gaze flicking up to meet his. Smile crooked. Eyes bright.

“You're a main character, Alcott. Act like it.”

[Graham Alcott]

Graham stopped walking.

Not abruptly—just enough that her shoulder tugged slightly where it had brushed his arm, like the world itself noticed the shift and paused out of courtesy.

He looked at her then. Really looked. Not teasing. Not deflecting. The boyish charm quieted, replaced by something steadier and more exposed.

“Hey,” he said softly.

He reached out—not to grab, just to rest his fingers against her sleeve, grounding, familiar. Present.

“You don’t get to say things like that,” he went on, voice low and careful, “and then expect me to just… keep joking.”

A breath. A half-smile that didn’t quite make it to humor.

“I know I play it like I’m fine being in the corner,” he admitted. “And most days? I am. I like being the guy people lean on without realizing it. It’s safer there.”

His thumb brushed once against the fabric of her coat, a tell.

“But when you say stuff like that—when you see me like that—”
He shook his head, a quiet laugh under his breath. “That’s dangerous.”

Not accusatory. Honest.

He stepped back into motion with her, matching her stride again, shoulders close like they belonged there.

“For the record,” he added lightly, because he couldn’t leave it bare for long, “I absolutely want the robe. I just didn’t expect to be emotionally exposed in aisle three first.”

At the door, he held it open for her, cold air spilling in, lights from Main Street blinking like punctuation.

Then, softer—just for her:

“And yeah. If we’re in the same story?”

A pause. A look.

“I’m not dying off-screen.”

A beat.

“…I’m sticking around. Even if it means being brave enough to act like I belong in the frame.”

He followed her out into the cold, shoulder brushing hers again, voice warm despite the winter.

“Lead the way, General.”