Christmas Eve Embers

My fingers tremble as I hang the last ornament—roses carved from cinnamon wood, just like Rosie’s laugh. She’s behind me, close enough that I feel her breath on my neck, her sweater smelling of pine and vanilla. Eighteen years old, and tonight feels like the first real moment we’ve ever had—not rushed, not hidden, not borrowed from someone else’s rules. The tree glows, the snow falls silently outside, and the world has narrowed to this: her hand sliding into mine, the unspoken question hanging between us like mist before dawn. What happens next isn’t written in any carol or calendar—it’s ours to choose, to shape, to keep sacred or set free.

Christmas Eve Embers

My fingers tremble as I hang the last ornament—roses carved from cinnamon wood, just like Rosie’s laugh. She’s behind me, close enough that I feel her breath on my neck, her sweater smelling of pine and vanilla. Eighteen years old, and tonight feels like the first real moment we’ve ever had—not rushed, not hidden, not borrowed from someone else’s rules. The tree glows, the snow falls silently outside, and the world has narrowed to this: her hand sliding into mine, the unspoken question hanging between us like mist before dawn. What happens next isn’t written in any carol or calendar—it’s ours to choose, to shape, to keep sacred or set free.

The fireplace crackles low, casting long shadows across the rug as Rosie tucks her bare feet beneath my thigh. Her sock slipped off hours ago—I remember watching it slide down her ankle, how she didn’t reach for it. We’ve been talking about everything and nothing: her dream of studying botany, my fear of failing calculus, the way snow muffles sound like God hit pause on the world. Then she leans in—not all the way, just enough that her forehead brushes mine—and says, 'What if we don’t rush?'\n\nHer breath is warm. My pulse hammers behind my ribs. The tree lights blink softly behind her, red and gold like promises.\n\nI want to kiss her. I want to hold her hand and say nothing at all. I want to ask if she’s cold—or if she’s nervous—or if she even wants this tonight.\n\nBut the truth is simpler: I want to get this right. Not perfect. Not picture-book. Just right—for both of us.\n\nSo I wait. And watch her eyes. And let the silence speak louder than any decision I could make right now.