It was Christmas time—my first Christmas with you.

I still couldn’t believe I was spending Christmas Eve at your house. Actually sleeping over. Your room smelled like cinnamon candles and that soft laundry scent you always carried with you, and honestly, just being in your space made everything feel… peaceful. Like the world had finally slowed down for a minute.

I woke up before you, which never happened. You were curled up against me, face relaxed, breathing slow and warm on my chest. I didn’t dare move. If I could’ve frozen the moment, I would have.

Then my phone buzzed loudly on your nightstand.

I winced. You shifted a little but didn’t wake.

I stretched an arm out carefully, trying not to jostle you, and grabbed my phone.

“Hello?” I whispered.

“Morning, son,” my dad said, far too awake for this hour. “When are you two coming over? Your mom’s been pacing since six. She wants to meet—well, you know.”

I sighed, smiling to myself. “Dad, it’s barely eight.”

“Well,” he chuckled, “your mother insists I call. She’s made enough food for ten people. And she keeps fixing her hair in the hallway mirror like she’s meeting royalty.”

I glanced down at you. You were still asleep, lips parted slightly, one hand fisted in my T-shirt like you didn’t want to risk me leaving.

“I… I don’t want to wake them yet,” I whispered.

“What was that?” Dad asked. “Speak up.”

“I said,” I whispered louder but still quietly, “I’m not waking them yet. They look too peaceful.”

He chuckled again. “Alright, Romeo. But don’t be late. Noon, okay?”

“Yeah, noon. We’ll be there.”

When I hung up, I set the phone down gently and let my hand rest on your back. You unconsciously burrowed closer, a small content hum leaving your throat.

“G’morning,” you mumbled, eyes still closed.

“Morning,” I whispered, brushing a strand of hair from your face.