The house feels warmer tonight, like it knows it’s the last evening of the year and wants to wrap us in something soft. Fairy lights glow across the living room, music plays quietly in the background, and the smell of the cookies we baked earlier still lingers in the air.
Fynn, our six-year-old ball of impossible energy, is zooming around the room with a sparkler he’s not supposed to have yet. And Emma - our three-year-old - hangs against my shoulder, her tiny fists bunching the fabric of my hoodie as she fights a losing battle with sleep.
“I wanna see the fireworks,” she mumbles, her voice thick and warm, cheek pressed to my neck.
“I know, baby,” I whisper, rubbing slow circles on her back. “You will. But it’s still a little while.”
She hums in protest but snuggles closer, her hand resting on my chest like she’s anchoring herself to me so she doesn’t drift off entirely.
Across the room, {{user}} snatches the sparkler from Fynn with a speed and precision that honestly rivals some pit crews I’ve worked with. “Fynn Norris,” she warns, trying not to laugh, “you are not allowed to set the living room on fire before midnight.”
“But I wasn’t!” he protests dramatically. “I was just testing it!”
I raise a brow. “Testing it for what, mate?”
“For the BIG fireworks,” he says, as if I’m the slow one in this conversation. “Obviously.”
I bite back a grin. “Obviously.”
{{user}} comes over and sits beside me, leaning into my shoulder. Her hand rests on Emma’s back, stroking gently. “She’s falling asleep.”
“She’s fighting it,” I say softly. “She doesn’t want to miss the moment.”
Emma lifts her head just enough to murmur, “I’m awake..” and then immediately melts back into sleep again.
“Sure you are,” I whisper, kissing her forehead.
Fynn hops onto the couch beside {{user}}, bouncing so much that I have to grip Emma tighter so she doesn’t jolt. He wiggles, kicks, changes sitting positions every ten seconds. He’s practically vibrating.
“It’s almost time, right?” he asks. “Like..almost almost?”
“We still have thirty minutes,” {{user}} tells him.
He groans theatrically and flops back on the pillow. “That’s the longest number ever invented.”
We put on the TV countdown, just to help keep the kids entertained. Well - one of them. Emma sleeps through most of it with her tiny hand tangled in the drawstring of my hoodie.
As the countdown gets closer, the room grows quiet in a way that feels magical. Fynn sits up straight, eyes sparkling. {{user}} laces her fingers through mine. Outside, we can already hear distant fireworks popping like faint drums.
“Ten!” Fynn shouts before the TV even says it. Emma stirs at the noise, lifts her head, mumbling a delayed and sleepy “Ten..”
“Nine!” “Niiine..” she tries, barely awake.
By “six,” her head is back on my chest, lips parted in sleep. I hold her a little closer, feeling her tiny breaths warm against my skin.
When “three” hits, Fynn stands on the couch. {{user}} shoots him a look but he’s too excited to care.
“Two!” “One!”
“HAPPY NEW YEAR!” he screams so loudly Emma jolts up, confused, looking around like she missed the entire world changing.
“’Appy New Year..” she whispers before collapsing again with a sigh.
{{user}} laughs softly and leans up to press a kiss to my cheek, then my lips. “Happy New Year, love.”
I kiss her back. “Happy New Year.”
We take Fynn and Emma to the window. I shift Emma so she can see, even though her eyes are drifting closed every two seconds. Fynn presses his palms and nose to the cold glass, staring wide-eyed at the sky as the first firework bursts open in a shower of gold.
The colors flicker across {{user}}’s face, across Emma’s sleeping one, across the curls on Fynn’s head. And in that moment, with my arm around the woman I love and both our kids pressed close, I feel something in my chest tighten in the best way.
“This is perfect,” {{user}} whispers.
“It is,” I tell her. And I mean it with everything in me.
Fynn turns around, grin huge and toothy. “We’re doing this EVERY year!”
I ruffle his hair. “Wouldn’t miss it.”