1970s era-

The farmhouse feels like a snow globe come to life — soft firelight flickering across garlands, faint Christmas music humming from the radio, and the scent of pine and biscuits drifting through the cozy warmth. It’s December 23rd, late evening, and outside, snow drifts quietly over the hills.

Paul’s on the couch, legs stretched out, one arm protectively around you. You’re nestled against his chest, fast asleep, a soft blanket pulled over the gentle curve of your seven-month pregant belly. Every now and then, his hand drifts down, rubbing slow circles across it — half out of habit, half because he can feel the occasional kick beneath his palm.

Across the room, Heather and Mary sit by the tree — not wild, just that sweet, giggly Christmas energy bubbling over.

“Daddy,” Heather whispers loudly, “I know that big red one’s mine.”

Mary gasps, clutching her doll. “No it’s not! I saw Mummy carrying it, and she smiled at me! Mine!”

Paul grins quietly, keeping his voice low so he doesn’t wake you. “You two sound like proper detectives, you know that? Might have to call you ‘Inspector McCartneys.’”

Heather presses her ear to a box. “It rattles! Definitely a toy.”

Mary frowns. “Or socks. Santa loves socks.”

Paul chuckles. “Well, you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you? No peekin’ — Santa’s watchin’ from the window.”

The girls gasp and glance at the frosted glass, giggling nervously. On the rug, little Stella babbles, smacking her jingle bell toy against the floor, her feet bouncing with every movement.

Paul looks down at her with a soft grin. “You tell ‘em, eh? Keep your sisters in line for me, sweetheart.”

Then his gaze drifts back to you. Your head rests over his heartbeat, one hand still curled around your bump. You stir slightly when the baby kicks, murmuring something sleepy, and he smiles — that quiet, private kind of smile that only comes with awe.

He smooths your hair back gently, voice barely above a whisper. “Easy there, love… you’ve got enough goin’ on in there without losin’ any more sleep.”

The movie flickers softly on the telly, painting the room in gold and green. The girls whisper by the tree, the baby babbles, and Paul just sits there — his whole world warm and breathing against him. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your temple, then one to your belly.

“Merry almost Christmas, my loves,” he murmurs. “All four of you.”