Joe felt that sob before he heard it.

Her body shook under his, not in fear, not in panic — in release. In the kind of grief-laced relief that hit a person only after they’d been carrying something too heavy for too long.

And when she pressed her forehead to his — hard, desperate, shaking — Joe’s heart didn’t break.

It shifted.

Settled.

Like it had finally found the shape it was meant to fit.

Her hands came up to his face, trembling, trying to hold him still like she needed proof he wasn’t going anywhere.
He let her.

He let her touch every inch of him she needed to, his eyes half-closed as her words rushed out in fragments — baggage, kids, flower shop, shoes everywhere — all the things she thought would scare him off.

But all Joe felt was something tightening low in his chest, warm and certain.

“Riley,” he murmured, voice low, steady, sure — the kind of sure a man had after surviving heartbreak and knowing damn well he wasn’t letting himself lose her again. “Sweetheart. Look at me.”

She did.
Eyes wet, chin trembling, hope flickering like something fragile and holy.

He cupped her face back, thumbs brushing the streaks her tears left, not wiping them away — learning them.

“You think any of that scares me?”
He shook his head slowly, forehead still pressed to hers. “Baby, that is the foundation.”

Her breath caught.
He felt it against his lips.

“You got baggage?” he continued softly. “Good. Means you lived. Means you loved. Means you fought your way back here.”

He kissed the tip of her nose, gentle and reverent.

“You got kids?”
His voice thickened, but not with fear.
With pride.
With something fierce and tender all at once.
“Then I get more people to love.”

She let out a ragged, broken sound he swallowed with his next kiss.

“You got a flower shop that barely breaks even?”
His mouth curved against hers.
“Then we’ll keep the lights on together. Hell, I’ll build shelves, fix the roof, carry the bags of soil — doesn’t matter. Long as you’re there.”

She shook harder, tears slipping faster.

“And the shoes everywhere?”
He huffed a breath — half laugh, half something that felt like awe.
“Rye… you don’t scare me with imperfections. You scare me when you think they’re reasons to run.”

Her fingers curled tighter into the back of his neck.

He pulled her impossibly closer, one hand sliding into her hair, the other anchoring her hip.

“You’re messy,” he whispered into her mouth, “and scared, and stubborn.”

A kiss — soft but deep, grounding her to him.

“And I’m stayin’ anyway.”

Her breath hitched again — not in pain.
In surrender.

“You ask me to keep you?”
His voice dropped to a murmur that rattled low in his chest.
“I already am. Already did.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth, slow and molten.

“You tell me to lock the door?”
He shook his head against her cheek, voice cracking around the edges.
“Sweetheart, I ain’t just lockin’ it.”

His thumb brushed her jaw, gentle as breath.

“I’m nailing it shut so you don’t gotta fear the hinges creakin’ ever again.”

Then he wrapped his arms fully around her — not crushing her, but holding her with the kind of strength only a man who’d lost her once could hold with. The kind that said:

Mine.
Safe.
Home.

When she whispered “Just don’t let me go… keep me here,” something in Joe broke open with a quiet, devastating certainty.

He pressed his face into her neck, breathing her in like he finally understood what oxygen was for.

“I’ll keep you,” he murmured, voice thick, southern, unshakeably sincere.
“Every stubborn inch of you.”

His arms tightened, slow and sure.

“And Riley?”
He kissed her pulse, soft as a vow.
“Even if you try to run — I’ll be right behind you. Not to drag you back. Just to make damn sure you never feel alone on the road.”

He lifted his head just enough to look in her eyes again — raw, honest, loving her harder than he ever planned to.

“You’re home,” he whispered.
“And baby… I ain’t lettin’ go.”

The tears that had been threatening to spill finally broke free the second he mentioned the kids.

“Then I get more people to love.”

It wasn't just a line. It wasn’t just something a guy said to get a girl to stop crying. She knew Joe Barnes. She knew the bone-deep integrity of him. He wasn't just accepting her; he was looking at the two heartbroken, confused, wonderful little humans she’d inherited—Benny with his quiet anger and Nikki with her nightmares—and he was deciding, right then and there, that they were his to protect too.

The realization hit her like a physical impact, fracturing the hard, calcified shell she’d built around herself to survive the last six months.

A jagged, wet sob tore out of her—ugly and loud and entirely unrestrained. She buried her face in the curve of his neck to muffle it, her hot tears soaking instantly into his skin, her body shaking with the force of the release. It felt like her ribs were cracking open, making room for all the air she hadn’t let herself breathe since the funeral.

"You..." She hiccuped, the sound vibrating against his pulse point. She pressed a fierce, open-mouthed kiss to the tendon there, tasting salt and skin. "You can't just say things like that, Joe. You can't just... adopt my whole messy, tragic life in a sentence and expect me not to fall apart."

Her hands scrambled up his back, needing to touch him, needing to verify the solidity of him. She gripped his shoulders, her fingers digging in as if she could physically graft herself to him.

"I have been so scared," she confessed, the words muffled against his shoulder, wet and trembling. "I have been so scared that I wasn't enough for them. That I was going to drown and take them down with me."

She lifted her head then, her face a wreck of tears and mascara, hair plastered to her cheeks, stripped of every ounce of her usual cool, sharp-witted defense. She didn't care. She let him see it all. She let him see the woman who was terrified of failing the people she loved.

"But you..." She choked on a breath, framing his face with her shaking hands. Her thumbs brushed over his cheekbones, tracing the familiar lines she’d missed for three years. "You promise to walk behind me? Just so I’m not alone?"

She shook her head, a watery, fragile smile breaking through the devastation on her face.
"I'm not going to run," she whispered, the promise shaking but absolute. "I'm done running, Joe. I'm tired. I'm so goddamn tired of being the one who leaves."

She let out a long, shuddering exhale, and the tension finally, truly left her body. She went boneless beneath him, melting into the mattress, melting into him, trusting him to hold her together so she didn't have to do it herself for five minutes.

"And you don't have to nail the door shut," she murmured, her voice dropping to a hush, thick with exhaustion and love. "Because I'm taking the hinges off. Nobody's leaving. We’re staying right here."

She leaned up, bridging the small distance to kiss him—not with heat, but with a desperate, pouring tenderness that tasted of salt and surrender. It was a seal. A vow.
"You take the kids," she whispered against his mouth, her voice cracking with the weight of her gratitude. "You take the shop with the leaky roof. You take the shoes in the hallway and the burnt toast and the panic attacks."

She rested her forehead against his, closing her eyes and letting the darkness of the room wrap around them, safe and warm.

"And you take me," she promised, breathing the words into the space between them. "Mess and all. I'm yours, Barnes. I'm so completely yours."

Joe felt her break against him — not the soft kind of breaking she tried to hide, but the deep one, the kind that ripped straight through a person’s center and shook everything loose.

And he didn’t flinch.
Didn’t panic.
Didn’t rush to hush her.

He just held her tighter, one hand sliding up into her hair, the other wrapping fully around her back, supporting her like he’d been built to take the weight she’d been carrying alone.

Her sob soaked hot into his neck, and Joe pulled her closer still, chest pressed to hers, heart beating a slow, steady rhythm that he offered up like a lifeline.

“You fall apart, sweetheart,” he murmured against her temple.
“I got you.”

She kissed his neck — desperate, fierce, broken — telling him you can’t just say things like that and you can’t adopt my whole life and I’ve been so scared.

Every word cut him open.

Not because he doubted her.
Because she’d carried all that alone.
Because she thought she had to.

Joe lifted his head, brushing his cheek against hers, catching the tears hitting her jaw.

“Riley,” he whispered, voice low, thick, sure. “You listen to me real close.”

He cupped her face in both hands, slow and careful, like she was something precious and frayed he needed to steady.

“You think I said that without meanin’ it?”
He shook his head, thumb swiping a tear with a tenderness that made her inhale sharply.
“Baby… I’ve loved those kids since before you came back.”

Her breath hitched hard.

“I’ve tucked Nikki in after nightmares. I’ve driven Benny to school when he wouldn’t talk to nobody. I didn’t show up tonight and decide to care.”
He leaned in, his forehead pressing to hers.
“I been here. The whole damn time.”

She sobbed again — softer this time, but deeper — and Joe felt the way her body melted under his hands, like her bones finally understood she wasn’t carrying this alone anymore.

“You scared you weren’t enough?” Joe whispered, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek. “Rye… you been holdin’ up the whole world with your bare hands. Anyone else would’ve folded day one.”

Her fingers dug into his shoulders like she needed the anchor.

“You ain’t drownin’,” he said, his voice breaking just enough to show it mattered. “You been breathin’ through a straw in the middle of a hurricane. Anyone would struggle.”

She pulled his face closer, forehead to forehead, eyes shaking with hope she was terrified to believe in.

“You promise to walk behind me?” she whispered.

Joe smiled — soft, sure, heartbreakingly real — and let one hand slide to her jaw, tilting her face up gently.

“I’ll walk behind you when you need space,” he said.
“I’ll walk beside you when you need a partner.”
He kissed her nose — warm, grounding.
“And I’ll walk in front of you when life gets mean.”

Her chin trembled.
He kissed that, too.

“But I ain’t lettin’ you walk alone ever again.”

That was when she broke for real — not in fear, but in relief.
She melted fully into him, her entire body softening, trusting him to hold her up.

And Joe did.
Without a second thought.

When she said she was done running, he closed his eyes, breathing her in—salt, tears, warmth, courage.

When she whispered she was taking the hinges off the door, Joe let out a quiet, reverent laugh that vibrated against her lips.

“Good,” he whispered, his thumb grazing her bottom lip. “Then neither one of us is leavin’.”

She kissed him — soft, shaking, sure — and he kissed her right back with the same slow tenderness he used to fix broken things at the shop.

“You take the kids,” she whispered. “The shop. The mess. The panic attacks. You take me.”

Joe pulled back just enough to look her straight in the eyes — no fear, no doubt, nothing but absolute, bone-deep love.

“You ain’t givin’ me burdens,” he murmured.
“You’re givin’ me a family.”

Her breath broke on a sob.

He kissed her — slow, lingering, sealing her words with his.

“I take you,” he whispered into her mouth. “Every part. Every piece. Every mess. Every miracle.”

He shifted his weight just enough to wrap her completely in his arms, his hand sliding into her hair, his lips brushing her cheek.

“You’re mine, Riley Carson... Riley Barnes” he whispered, soft as a vow. “And I’m yours.”

Then, quieter — the kind of quiet that changes lives:

“Welcome home.”

Riley didn’t think she had a single tear left in her body, but the sheer, quiet magnitude of what he was saying squeezed a few more hot drops from her eyes. They soaked into the skin of his chest, a silent testament to the walls he had just dismantled, brick by brick.

He hadn’t just stepped up when she arrived; he had been the foundation while she was still miles away, thinking she had to fix everything from a distance. He had been the one keeping the roof up while she was just trying to find the door.

"You..." Her voice was a wrecked, watery whisper, vibrating against his chest. She tried to huff out a laugh, but it came out as a broken, happy sob. "I love you."

She shifted her legs, tangling them even more inextricably with his, needing to feel the heavy, solid reality of him along every inch of her body.

"I spent six months terrified I was doing this wrong," she murmured, pressing a fierce kiss to the hollow of his throat. "Terrified I was failing them. And you were already there. You were already raising them."

She lifted her head just enough to rest her chin on his chest, looking up at him in the dim light. Her eyes were swollen, her hair was a disaster, and she felt raw and exposed—but for the first time in forever, she didn't feel the need to hide it.

“You’re mine, Riley Carson... Riley Barnes.”
She didn't correct him. She didn't make a joke about the paperwork. She just let the name land, feeling it settle around her shoulders like a warm, heavy coat she’d been stupid to ever take off.

"Riley Barnes," she whispered, testing the sound of it. A slow, tired smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Yeah. Okay. You win, Professor. That sounds... about right."

She lowered her head back to his shoulder, her body going completely boneless against him. The exhaustion of the last year—of the grief, the fear, the running—was finally catching up to her, pulling her under. But it wasn't a scary darkness; it was a warm, safe drift.

"But just so we're clear," she mumbled into his neck, her eyes fluttering shut as his heartbeat lulled her toward sleep. "Since you're taking the lead on the 'family' thing... and since you've apparently been the responsible one this whole time..."

She tightened her arm around his waist, holding on for dear life.
"I'm sleeping in. Don't you dare wake me up unless the house is on fire."
She paused, her breath ghosting over his skin, and her hand drifted lower, a faint, sleepy echo of the heat they’d just shared.

"...Or unless you need to conduct more research."

Joe didn’t break when she said I love you.

He felt it — sharp and sweet and straight through the ribs — but he held steady.
Because someone had to be steady right now, and he’d decided long before she ever came home that it was gonna be him.

She burrowed into his chest, tears soaking into his skin, and Joe just let her.
His hand slid up her spine, slow, soothing strokes he hoped she could feel down to her bones.

“I love you too,” he murmured into her hair, his voice low enough to vibrate through her. “Been lovin’ you. Nothin’ new there.”

When she tangled her legs tighter with his, he shifted just enough to fit her better — instinctive, easy, like his body already knew the contour of her exhaustion.

She kissed his throat, fierce and grateful, and Joe’s hand tightened on her hip in a protective squeeze before moving to stroke the back of her head.

“You weren’t failin’ ‘em,” he whispered into the top of her hair. “Baby, you were survivin’ for ‘em. That counts.”

She lifted her chin to look up at him — swollen eyes, wet lashes, red cheeks — and Joe thought she’d never looked more beautiful.
This wasn’t polished Riley.
This wasn’t the version she showed the world.

This was her.
The real her.
The one he’d never stopped wanting.

And when she whispered Riley Barnes,
when she smiled tired and soft and said it sounded right —
Joe felt something warm and fierce bloom behind his ribs.

He brushed his knuckles along her cheek, tender, slow.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Sounds perfect.”

She melted against him again, boneless and trusting, and he pulled the blanket up around her shoulders, tucking her into his body like she belonged nowhere else.

He felt her drifting — that heavy, warm, safe kind of sleepiness that only comes after you’ve finally laid your weapons down.

Her mumbled threat about sleeping in made him smile against her temple.

“House on fire,” he echoed softly. “Got it.”

She added… research.
Joe huffed a quiet laugh — low, warm, fond enough to tighten something low in his chest.

“Darlin’,” he drawled, pressing a slow kiss to the side of her head, “you’re gonna be asleep for three days if I keep conductin’ research like that.”

Her fingers flexed lazily at his waist — that little half-asleep squeeze she always used to give him back when they were kids sharing a blanket at movie nights — and he felt his heart twist in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

She wasn’t tense anymore.
She wasn’t bracing.
She wasn’t running.

She was resting.
On him.
With him.

His hand kept moving — up her spine, over her shoulder, through her messy hair — slow patterns meant to anchor her deeper into the safety she’d earned and never been given.

“Sleep,” he whispered, brushing his lips over her forehead. “I’m right here. Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

The morning light was creeping in around the curtains — soft and gold, dusting across her bare shoulder, warming the air between them.

He looked down at her — face tucked into his neck, breath soft against his skin, her whole body molded to his like she’d finally found the right place to land.

And something inside him settled with absolute certainty.

He tightened his hold, kissed the crown of her head, and whispered with a small, knowing smile —

“When you wake up, sweetheart… I’m makin’ you breakfast.”

A beat.
A quiet breath.
His voice a low rumble in her hair:

“Pancakes. Fruit. Coffee the way you like it. Whole damn spread.”

His hand stroked her back one last time before he let his chin rest atop her head.

“You sleep,” he murmured. “I’ll take care of the mornin’.”

Riley was already halfway gone, floating in that warm, fuzzy space between consciousness and dreams, but the word pancakes acted like a temporary anchor.

A small, sleepy smile tugged at her lips against his skin. She didn't open her eyes—she couldn't have if she tried—but she shifted, nuzzling deeper into the crook of his neck, her breath puffing warm against his pulse.

"Blueberry," she mumbled, her voice thick, slurred, and barely audible. "And... burn the edges a little. Like I like."

She felt the rumble of his chest, the safety of his arms, and for the first time in years, the silence didn't feel like a threat. It felt like a promise.

Her hand, heavy with sleep, patted his chest blindly before settling over his heart, feeling the steady thud that was now beating for her, for the kids, for them.

"And iced coffee," she added, a faint, stubborn whisper that was 100% Riley Carson. "Don't you dare bring me hot coffee, Barnes... I don't care what the thermostat says."

She let out a long, slow sigh, the tension fully bleeding out of her frame, leaving her heavy and soft in his hold.

"You handle the morning," she breathed, the words fading into the rhythm of his breathing. "I'll handle... staying."
And then, she was gone.

The Christmas tree stood like a giant in the corner of the living room—branches full, needles deep green, the whole thing still settling from its trip inside. Frost still clung to the tips of some needles, sparkling under the soft lamplight. The house smelled gloriously of fresh pine and cinnamon, the air warm compared to the icy Tennessee twilight outside.

Riley knelt on the patterned rug, a massive tangle of colored lights in her lap. It looked like a rainbow had been knotted by a mischievous elf. The kids hovered around her, vibrating with anticipation, creating their own little gravitational pull.

Nikki flopped dramatically onto the floor beside her, glitter still stuck in her hair.
“Aunt Riles, if we don’t start soon, I might actually explode.”

Benny rummaged through an ornament box, shaking it like he expected music to come out.
“This one has the good stuff. I can feel it.”

Riley smirked.
“You two are acting like we’ve never decorated a tree before.”

Nikki held up a silver star ornament like it was the Holy Grail.
“We haven’t decorated THIS tree before.”

Behind them, Joe adjusted the tree silently—steadying the trunk, turning it a fraction to the left, then a little more to the right. Riley glanced over her shoulder at him, and he flashed her a quiet, soft smile. His hands were dusted with pine needles; a few clung to his sweater.

Riley turned back to the mess of lights in her lap.
“Okay, team… find me the end.”

Benny leaned in, squinting.
“Is that it?”

“That is absolutely not it,” Riley laughed.

Nikki suddenly pointed at a loose bulb.
“Aunt Riles! This one’s glowing! That means we’re close!”

“It means it’s a bulb, sweetheart,” Riley said, gently redirecting her hands. “Try pulling that little loop right there.”

They tugged, twisted, shuffled, and scooted in a pile on the floor, arms overlapping as they worked. The dog circled around them twice and then plopped herself down with a grunt, tail thumping against the couch.

Finally, a loop loosened.
Then another.
Then the whole knot unraveled like magic.

Riley held up the strand triumphantly.
“Victory!”

Nikki gasped.
“You’re like… a Christmas ninja.”

Benny nodded in awe.
“Or a light-wizard.”

Riley leaned forward to bump her forehead gently against Nikki’s.
“I’ll take either.”

Joe stepped closer, holding out the plug with one hand. His fingers brushed Riley’s as he passed it to her—warm, steady, familiar. Riley’s chest filled with that soft fullness she tried (and failed) not to show on her face.

She plugged in the lights.

A wave of color burst across the living room—bright reds, sparkling blues, vivid greens, buttery golds. The kids froze, eyes wide, faces glowing in the reflection.

Nikki whispered reverently,
“It’s beautiful…”

Benny breathed out,
“Aunt Riles… we did that.”

Behind them, Joe straightened up, resting one hand on the back of the couch as he watched the kids take in the lights. His smile was small and warm, the kind that curled at the corner of his mouth.

Riley brushed pine needles from her jeans and stood.
“Alright—positions, people. Benny, you get the bottom. Nikki, the middle. I’ll take the top.”

Nikki hopped to her feet.
“Tree, you are officially getting dressed!”

Benny grabbed a cluster of lights like he was holding treasure.
“Aunt Riley, does this part go around the back?”

“That’s perfect,” Riley said, guiding his hand. “Keep it even.”

The three of them moved in harmony—Riley reaching up to loop lights over higher branches, Nikki circling the middle like a tiny, determined decorator, Benny crouching to wrap the lower branches with surprisingly careful precision.

Joe stayed behind them, steadying the tree whenever someone tugged too hard, brushing falling needles into a little pile with his foot.

Nikki stepped back, hands on her hips, inspecting their progress like a seasoned professional.
“We are so good at this.”

Benny nodded, proud.
“We’re like… tree experts.”

Riley laughed softly.
“The highest honor.”

Colored lights flickered across their faces, painting everything in warm holiday glow.

The tree was officially waking up.

And the decorating—truly, fully—began.

Joe didn’t say much.

He never did when something mattered this much.

He just stood there, one hand braced on the back of the couch, heart caught somewhere between his throat and his ribs, watching the three of them move like they’d been doing this together forever.

The lights glowed soft across the room—colors bouncing off pine needles and picture frames, casting little halos across Nikki’s hair and the tip of Benny’s nose. The dog snored from her corner of the rug, tail twitching now and then like even she knew this night was something good.

Joe’s fingers curled around the edge of the couch cushion as Riley stood to reach for a higher branch, her sweater hem lifting just enough to show the curve of her hip. Benny handed her a bulb with both hands, like it was something sacred. Nikki directed like she’d been born to lead a holiday mission.

Joe felt it—like a tide rolling in, slow and inevitable.

That ache in his chest, warm and deep and right.

He cleared his throat and stepped forward, nudging a stubborn section of the tree back into alignment.

“Benny,” he said, voice low and easy, “go ahead and scoot those lights just a touch more to the left, bud. That’s it. Right there.”

Benny grinned up at him, proud and pink-cheeked. “You think we’re gonna win?”

Joe tilted his head. “Win what, partner?”

Benny shrugged, already halfway back to the ornament box. “Like… best tree. In the world.”

Joe smiled, crouching beside him to steady a loose branch. “If there’s a contest for best team? I reckon we’re already takin’ home the trophy.”

Nikki twirled in a burst of tinsel, then planted her feet like a little soldier. “Can I put the marshmallow snowman next?”

Joe nodded solemnly. “Only if he’s earned it.”

“He’s been training all year,” she declared, and off she went, digging through tissue paper and glitter like a woman on a mission.

Joe stayed where he was for a beat longer—crouched low, one hand still resting on the pine trunk, the other brushing a fallen needle from the floor.

He let himself feel it.

The lights.

The laughter.

The thump of a small footstep on hardwood, the soft rustle of an ornament being hung just right.

The woman he loved wrapping herself in this life like she’d finally stopped bracing for the cold.

It wasn’t loud, this kind of happiness.

But it was steady.

And as far as Joe Barnes was concerned, that was the kind worth building a life on.

Riley felt his eyes on her long before she turned.

She always did.

It wasn’t heavy, wasn’t watchful, wasn’t the kind of stare that made her want to fold into herself.
It was warm.
Steady.
The kind of gaze that filled in all the little cracks she hadn’t realized were still there.

She hung the last ornament Benny handed her, smoothing her palm over the branch like she was coaxing it into place. Then she glanced over her shoulder—and the look on Joe’s face…
God.

Her heart tripped right into her throat.

He wasn’t smiling big.
He wasn’t grand-standing.
He wasn’t performing.

He was just watching her with that soft, quiet awe he never said out loud unless she made him.

She held his gaze for a second, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile—the kind that said I see you. The kind that said you’re home too.

“Hey, Barnes,” she teased lightly, brushing her sweater down as she stepped toward him, “you keep staring at me like that and this tree’s gonna end up crooked.”

His ears flushed just enough to make her grin.

Before he could answer, the timer on her mom’s old kitchen stove beeped—a high, bright ding that snapped the room into motion.

“Oh!” Riley clapped her hands once. “Cookies.”

Nikki gasped like Christmas had personally spoken her name.
Benny pumped both fists in the air.
Even the dog’s ear twitched.

Riley shot Joe a quick, soft look—one he felt more than saw—before she brushed her hand over his chest on her way past, fingertips catching on the fabric of his shirt like she didn’t quite want to let go.

“I’ll grab ’em,” she said, already padding toward the kitchen. “Y’all don’t touch that ornament box until I get back. I mean it.”

From the living room she heard Nikki whisper, “We should definitely touch the ornament box.”

Riley laughed under her breath and pulled the tray from the oven—warm sugar cookie smell rushing up in a soft sweet cloud. All golden edges and melted frosting chips, the kind she used to make with her dad the week before every Christmas game.

She blinked once, steadying the warmth in her chest.

Then she called out, light and lilting:

“Who wants hot chocolate?”

Two small voices:

“ME!”

The dog emitted a hopeful snort.

Riley grinned as she set the tray on the counter.

“I’ll make it,” she announced. “Extra marshmallows. The big fluffy kind. And…” she paused dramatically, glancing toward Joe in the doorway as he leaned there with that soft, crooked smile. “…whipped cream if you help clean up later.”

Nikki gasped.
Benny did a victory spin.
Joe lifted a brow.

Riley moved back toward them carrying the tray like an offering, warmth in her hands and something even warmer in her chest.

“Alright, team,” she said, handing Joe a cookie first because he always pretended he didn’t want one, “hot chocolate’s comin’ right up…”

She softened, smiling fully now—at him, at the kids, at the room bathed in twinkling lights.

“…family tradition.”

Joe didn’t move.

Not when she brushed past him with that hand skimming his chest like she didn’t quite want to let go.

Not when the kids nearly vibrated out of their socks over the word cookies.

And definitely not when the scent of those cookies—sugar and butter and something just this side of heaven—came drifting in from the kitchen.

He just stood there, one shoulder braced against the doorframe, a slow grin tugging at his mouth as he watched his whole damn heart move through this house like she belonged in every corner of it.

Because she did.

She always had.

She wasn’t gone ten seconds before Benny started creeping toward the ornament box like he was in a spy movie, knees bent, exaggerated tip-toes, whispering to Nikki like it was a military op.

Joe cleared his throat, real low.

Both kids froze.

Benny blinked at him. “We weren’t technically touching.”

Joe raised a brow and didn’t say a word—just shifted his weight enough to make the floorboard creak and took a bite of the cookie Riley had handed him.

Lord, it was still warm.

Buttery and soft in the middle, just a little crisp at the edge. That kind of perfect you didn’t mess with.

He chewed slow, letting the vanilla and sugar melt on his tongue, and watched as the kids reluctantly scooted away from the forbidden ornament zone. The dog gave him a look like you’re no fun, and flopped back down with a huff.

Joe smiled around the cookie. “She’s makin’ hot chocolate,” he reminded them, nodding toward the kitchen. “Big marshmallows. Might even be bribin’ y’all with whipped cream.”

Benny perked up instantly. “Do we have to do a lot of cleaning?”

Joe shrugged. “Depends how many marshmallows you’re after.”

Nikki gasped. “Eight. I want eight.”

“Then I’d recommend bein’ real thorough,” he drawled.

He took another bite of the cookie and turned his attention back toward the kitchen just in time to catch Riley returning—tray in hand, that soft smile blooming on her face, and the kind of light in her eyes that hit him square in the gut.

It wasn’t loud, the way he loved her.

It didn’t need to be.

It was right here, in the way he bit back the urge to tell her she looked like home. In the way his fingers twitched like they missed her touch. In the way he tucked this moment deep into his chest like something sacred.

She passed him again, handing off cocoa and cookies like a holiday queen, and he felt her shoulder brush his arm—just enough to remind him that she was here.

That she was his.

And God help him, but he’d never wanted anything more than to keep this.

This room.

This night.

This woman who’d walked back into his life like she'd never really left.

He finished the last bite of the cookie slow, eyes never leaving her, smile soft and certain as she laughed at something Benny said and adjusted Nikki’s grip on the mug like she hadn’t been gone a thousand Christmases before this.

He didn’t say a word.

He just reached for her empty hand when it finally passed close enough—and laced their fingers together like a man who already knew exactly what forever felt like.