Inside the old farmhouse, the world was still held in a deep, quiet pocket of the night. He felt your breath, a soft puff of warmth on his collarbone, and the impossible silk of your hair tangled in his fingers. In these pre-dawn moments, the world was reduced to this simple, profound calculus: his body as a bulwark against the cold, your presence as his anchor, and the impending, joyous chaos of a three-year-old on Christmas morning.

A soft thump, followed by the padded shuffle of small feet, broke the silence. Clark smiled against your hair. Showtime.

“He’s up,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, sleep-roughened. He felt you stir, a slow, languid stretch against him.

“Mmm. Five more minutes,” you mumbled into his skin, your words slurred with sleep.

But the pitter-patter was already at their door, followed by the soft creak of it being pushed open. A small silhouette appeared, clutching a worn stuffed dog. “Mama? Dada?” Jon’s voice was a tiny, hopeful whisper in the gloom. “Did Santa come?”

Any pretense of sleep was abandoned. Clark’s heart did that thing it only ever did for the two of you—a simultaneous squeeze and expansion, a feeling so vast it was almost painful. He reached over and clicked on the bedside lamp, flooding the room with a soft, golden glow.

“Let’s go see, buddy,” he said, his voice impossibly gentle.

The scene in the living room was, in Clark’s opinion, a miracle far greater than any he’d witnessed in the skies. The Christmas tree, which they’d decorated with a mix of heirloom ornaments from his childhood and colorful, clumsy popsicle-stick creations from Jon, was a beacon of tangled lights and glittering tinsel. Beneath its boughs, the presents had multiplied overnight, a bright, promising sea of wrapped boxes and lumpy stockings.

Jon stood frozen on the threshold, his small mouth a perfect ‘o’ of wonder. “Whoa,” he breathed, the word full of reverence.

You knelt down beside him and wrapped an arm around his tiny shoulders. “Look at that, sweetheart. Santa was here.”

“Okay, champ,” Clark said, scooping Jon up and settling cross-legged on the rug. You curled beside them. “Which one first?”

The next hour was a whirlwind of shredded paper and delighted shrieks. Clark was tasked with the delicate operation of undoing the industrial-strength tape that was used on the gifts. Jon was a tornado of enthusiasm, more interested in the ripping than the receiving, his little hands tearing into packages with a ferocity that made Clark chuckle.

Clark’s gift to you was tucked away, a small box he’d hidden behind the tree skirt. But for now, he was content to be the stagehand in this domestic play. He fetched coffee, its rich, bitter scent cutting through the sugary smell of the cinnamon rolls you’d put in the oven. He untangled twist-ties from action figures with a precision that would make a surgeon jealous.

“This one’s for you, Mama,” Jon announced, dragging a large, awkwardly shaped parcel towards you. It was from him with Clark’s help. The wrapping job was lopsided and covered in an entire roll of tape.

You made a great show of surprise, gasping and shaking the box gently. “I wonder what it could be!”

As you carefully peeled back the paper, Clark held his breath. Inside was a framed collage. In the center was a photo of the three of them from the autumn, tangled together in a pile of leaves, their faces alight with laughter. Surrounding it were Jon’s painted handprints, a riot of blue and green and gold, like a chaotic, beautiful galaxy.

Your eyes welled up instantly. “Oh, my boys,” you whispered, your voice thick. You looked from the messy art to Clark, your gaze holding his, and in that silent exchange, a thousand words passed between you.

“Do you like it, Mama?” Jon asked, his little face suddenly uncertain.