You wake to the sound of laughter downstairs. The smell of coffee and something sweet—maybe cinnamon rolls or gingerbread—slips under the door, warm and comforting.

Justin stirs beside you, his arm instinctively reaching across the bed, resting lightly on your round belly.

You breathe in deeply, eyes still closed, one hand slipping over his. The baby gives a small kick—just enough to remind you both he’s still there. Still growing. Still waiting. Not for long.

Justin presses his lips to your shoulder. “Merry Christmas, mama,” he says, low and sleepy.

You roll over carefully, belly-first now that it’s taken over your center of gravity, and grin. He’s shirtless, dog tags on his chest, hair tousled, eyes soft. Even first thing in the morning, he looks like the kind of man women write about. And he’s yours.

“Merry Christmas, daddy,” you tease. “We should probably go down before your mom comes looking for us.”

“She already texted me twice,” he chuckles. “And Em knocked earlier. Said if we weren’t down by nine, she was sending a search party.”

You sit up slowly. You’re so pregnant. Like any-moment-now pregnant. You hadn’t expected to be this far along during Christmas, but here you are—and now everyone’s on high alert.

Justin helps you pull on one of his flannels—it fits more like a dress—and you make your way down the hallway of his childhood home, one hand on the banister, the other gripping his.

The sounds grow louder. Laughter. Clinking dishes. A burst of Christmas music. Someone shouting over someone else. You smile. It’s chaos—the good kind. The kind you always dreamed of.

Your own holidays were quiet. Small family. Empty living rooms. No cousins spilling over couches or five conversations at once. But this… this is something else.

When you step into the living room, everyone looks up. For a second, there’s a pause—like the record skips.

“There she is!” Margaret beams from the kitchen, apron dusted in flour, cheeks flushed from oven heat. “Come sit, sweetheart. You shouldn’t be on your feet.”

“I’m fine, Margaret—”

“Nonsense,” she says, already shooing a cousin off the armchair near the fireplace. “It’s your chair today.”

You chuckle, exchanging a look with Justin as he squeezes your hand and heads to fix you a plate. Margaret always fusses—but lovingly. You’re not just her daughter-in-law. You’re her girl.

John’s across the room, coffee in hand, mid-football debate. He glances up, catches your eye, and smiles.

“Looking good, kid,” he says. “One more week, huh?”

“Maybe less,” you grin, settling into the chair. “Depends what your grandson decides.”

That word still hits different. Grandson. He said it proudly at dinner last night. You still can’t quite believe it.

Emily appears in a crooked Santa hat, cocoa in each hand. She gives you one, then flops onto the couch beside you.

“He’s gonna be so spoiled,” she smirks. “Not just by Mom and Dad. You’ve seen the baby pile upstairs? And I’m not done yet.”

You laugh. “He’s not even born and already more popular than me.”

“Well, yeah,” she says with a grin. “But only slightly.”

You love Emily. She’s the sister you never had—funny, loyal, a little bossy in the best way. From the start, she made you feel like you belonged.

Justin’s grandparents are curled in the corner under matching blankets, mugs in hand. His aunts and uncles fill the room. Cousins perch on floor pillows or lean against walls.

There are no kids. Not yet. You’re bringing the first in decades.

You feel the shift. Not a spotlight, but a shared breath. You’re carrying more than just a baby. You’re carrying the next chapter. And everyone knows it.

Justin returns with a plate—eggs, toast, bacon, fruit. You raise an eyebrow.

“I got a little of everything,” he says, kneeling beside you. “Just in case.”

You smile, one hand resting over his. “You always do.”

The room hums—tree lights glow, wrapping paper flies, phones are out. Margaret’s already planning lunch.

And you sit in the middle of it all, warm mug in hand, baby boy rolling gently in your belly.