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Eric sat beneath the Christmas tree, legs crossed on the soft rug as colored lights blinked overhead. The new toy helicopter in his hands whirred unevenly each time he spun its tiny rotor, and he grinned each time it wobbled toward lift-off before collapsing against a wrapped present. The living room smelled faintly of pine and whatever the adults were cooking in the kitchen—something warm and rich that drifted through the doorway whenever someone passed by.
Jack was beside him, already absorbed in assembling the pieces of a plastic race car track. He was younger by a few years, but lately that gap had begun to show—Jack still talked with boundless excitement, narrating every move his toy made, while Eric had grown quieter, more careful. Still, Christmas evened everything out. The moment they’d been reunited that morning, Eric had grabbed Jack by the wrist and tugged him toward the tree, and Jack had dissolved into giggles as though no time at all had passed.
The two of them were supposed to “play nicely this time,” as Eric’s mother had put it. He doubted the adults really believed that would happen. They had been exiled to the living room for a reason. Last year, a runaway toy car had skittered beneath the kitchen table and sent a bowl of gravy flying. Eric could still picture the adults’ horrified faces and Jack’s look of absolute awe, as if they’d discovered a new kind of magic.
Eric nudged Jack’s elbow. “Make room. My helicopter needs a landing pad.”
Jack scooted a little to the side, though not enough to prevent the inevitable collision. The moment Eric set the helicopter down, it toppled against the half-built racetrack. Jack let out an exaggerated gasp, clutching his chest as if struck.
“There’s been a crash!” Jack declared.
Eric tried not to laugh but failed immediately, the sound spilling out bright and unrestrained. “Pilot error,” he said, already reaching to set the helicopter upright again.
From the kitchen came muffled conversation, the clatter of dishes, and the warm, bustling energy of Christmas preparations. Neither boy paid it any mind. In their corner of the house, the world was small and simple—plastic toys, blinking lights, and the certainty that chaos was only ever a moment away.
Both boys glanced up when Eric’s mother appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Come sit at the table, boys.”
They scrambled to their feet at once, toys forgotten. The promise of Christmas dinner—and the competition for the good chair—sent them practically sprinting toward the kitchen. Eric ducked under his mother’s arm, sliding across the linoleum just in time to seize the sturdier of the two kids’ chairs. He dropped into it triumphantly a heartbeat before Jack reached it, half shoving his cousin aside in the process.
Jack toppled to the floor with a startled yelp. He pushed himself up with a huff, cheeks pink, and circled to the opposite side of the table. The moment he sat in the wobbly chair, it creaked unevenly beneath him. His scowl deepened.
Eric grinned across the table, stuck out his tongue, and leaned back smugly.
His mother passed behind him, flicking the back of his head with two gentle fingers. “Be nice, Eric.”
“Sorry, Mom,” he said, voice sugary sweet. The instant she turned away, he stuck his tongue out again, wider this time.
Around them, the adults began to gather—chairs sliding, dishes clinking onto the table, warm smells of roasted vegetables and turkey filling the room. The holiday chatter softened as everyone settled, and both boys straightened in their seats, well aware that bad table manners on Christmas earned swift consequences.
For a while, they behaved. They ate quietly, kicked their feet, and exchanged the occasional exaggerated face whenever no one was watching. But halfway through dinner, Eric couldn’t resist. He stretched out his leg and nudged Jack’s shin beneath the table—just hard enough to be annoying.
Jack immediately tried to retaliate, swinging his foot back. Instead of Eric, though, he struck the solid edge of Eric’s father’s boot.
Eric’s father looked down sharply, then fixed Jack with a stern, unimpressed stare.
Jack’s bravado evaporated. He ducked his head at once. “Sorry, Uncle.”
Eric smirked into his mashed potatoes, shoulders shaking. Jack shot him a glare that was meant to be furious, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward, betraying the laugh he was struggling not to let out.
When the plates were mostly picked clean and the adults had shifted into comfortable conversation, Eric’s attention drifted. He glanced at the little smear of mashed potato left on his plate, then at Jack across the table. A mischievous grin crept over his face.
Before he could second-guess himself, he scooped up the tiniest bit with his fingertip and flicked it. It arced through the air and landed squarely on Jack’s sleeve.
Jack’s eyes widened. Without missing a beat, he plucked a crumb of turkey from his own plate and flicked it back, hitting Eric near the collarbone. Eric snorted, scooped another bit of potato, and launched it with practiced precision.
Jack’s father cleared his throat—a short, pointed sound that cut through the noise of the table.
Both boys froze. Eric’s hand hovered mid-scoop; Jack sat stiffly, eyes darting toward the adults. Nearly everyone at the table had turned to look at them. Several tried to maintain stern expressions, but a few had already cracked, lips twitching as they took in the sight of both boys splattered with gravy and food.
Jack swallowed. “Sorry, Dad.”
“Sorry, Uncle,” Eric echoed quickly.
Eric’s father set down his fork and raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you two boys go get cleaned up?”
They nodded in sync, eager to escape before the adults changed their minds. Chairs scraped back as they slipped from the table and hurried out of the kitchen. The moment they were in the hallway, they broke into a run.
Halfway up the stairs, Eric glanced over his shoulder and whispered, “I got a new train set in my room.”
Jack’s face lit up instantly. He let out a quiet, excited gasp and took off, racing the rest of the way up. Eric shouted after him and chased, both boys sprinting toward Eric’s room with zero regard for the food splattered across their clothes—or the fact that they’d promised to get cleaned up in the first place.
---
Eric glanced up from his book at the sound of knocking, though he didn’t bother standing. His mother was already hurrying across the hallway, wiping her hands on her apron as she went. He slid a bookmark neatly between the pages and set the book aside, stretching his fingers before shifting on the couch to get a look at the door.
Jack and his parents stepped inside in a flurry of winter air and half-muttered greetings. They were always the last to arrive—living the farthest away meant they showed up right when Christmas dinner was nearly finished. Eric had offered to help in the kitchen earlier, but the adults had waved him off with fond but firm insistence. Relax, enjoy your gift, they’d told him. Honestly, he preferred it. A quiet living room and a new book beat the chaos of holiday cooking any day.
Jack stepped forward, only barely prepared for the way Eric’s mother wrapped him up in a hug. “Look at you,” she said warmly. “You’ve shot up again!”
Jack stiffened, shoulders rising defensively, but he didn’t complain. He muttered something polite—something about road conditions or traffic—and slipped past her into the living room. He looked as relieved as Eric felt to be out of the kitchen’s noise.
He dropped onto the couch beside Eric. “Hey, man.”
“Hey.” Eric offered a small nod. The silence that followed was thick and awkward, nothing like the easy chatter they used to fall into as kids. Years had stretched long between their visits, each of them following separate paths that didn’t cross much anymore.
Eric cleared his throat. “How’s the police academy?”
Jack shrugged, leaning back, expression somewhere between tired and restless. “It’s alright. What I really want is to get onto detective work. That’s where the fun stuff is.”
Eric nodded slowly, trying to picture the job, but failing. He didn’t really understand the appeal—investigations, suspects, long hours—but he could tell Jack cared about it. And that felt enough.
“Sounds like you’ve got it figured out,” Eric said softly.
Jack huffed a quiet laugh, not quite agreement, not quite disagreement, and the room settled into a careful calm as the muted clatter of dishes drifted in from the kitchen.
He looked like he was about to speak—his mouth starting to open, his fingers drumming once against his knee—but whatever he’d been about to say vanished when Eric’s mother appeared again in the doorway.
“Dinner will be ready soon, boys.”
They both stood automatically. Eric placed his book on the coffee table, careful with the spine, and followed Jack toward the dining room.
They had been promoted from the kids’ chairs a couple of years ago—far later than either of them would ever admit they’d expected. For years, one of them had been doomed to the wobbly chair. More often than not, that someone had been Eric, assigned the uneven seat in the spirit of being a “good host.” Jack had found that hilarious. Eric had not.
Now, though, all the chairs were sturdy and adult-sized, and neither cousin had to spend the entire meal adjusting the angle of their weight just to stay balanced. It was a small but meaningful victory.
They slid into their usual spots at the far end of the table, still opposite each other. Eric didn’t mind it. His family could be loud—discussion at the dinner table tended to escalate quickly, especially when certain relatives got into debates about sports, politics, or whose turn it was to host next year. But sitting at the end meant he could stay quiet, keep his head down, and avoid being pulled into any of it.
One year, he’d even smuggled in a book and read through half the meal before anyone noticed.
He settled into his chair now, hands folded loosely in front of him. Jack mirrored the posture across from him, glancing around as the adults drifted in with dishes and drinks. For a moment, it felt almost like the old days—just the two of them quietly waiting for the chaos to begin.
The food made its way to the table in steaming dishes—bowls of potatoes, gravy boats, vegetables, rolls, the turkey set proudly at the center as everyone squeezed into their seats. Conversations rose and fell around them, soft at first, the calm before the eventual holiday storm.
When the platter of turkey finally reached Eric, he took it with deliberate care. He carved himself a piece, then—very slowly, almost theatrically—turned the plate in his hands. Jack watched him with growing impatience, jaw tightening.
Eric pretended to study the turkey as if considering going back for seconds. He adjusted his grip. He shifted the platter an inch to the left, then to the right. He glanced down the table as if wondering who might need it next.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “Eric,” he muttered under his breath.
Eric only raised his eyebrows innocently, then continued to take his sweet, unnecessary time.
Jack’s glare sharpened.
Finally, Eric laughed under his breath and passed the platter across the table. Jack snatched it the second it was within reach.
Sure, they were adults now—working, training, dealing with expectations and responsibilities—but maturity didn’t erase old habits. It certainly didn’t stop Eric from finding ways to irritate Jack purely for the satisfaction of it. Honestly, it was practically tradition at this point.
Even if Jack had grown into a bit of an asshole lately, Eric still found a strange comfort in these small, familiar annoyances. Some things, it seemed, didn’t change with age.
---
Eric sat slouched on his couch, one arm draped along the backrest, eyes drifting between the small Christmas tree in the corner and the blank stretch of wall beyond it. The tree looked a little pathetic—leaning slightly to one side, its cheap tinsel reflecting the dim light of the room in uneven flickers. He’d bought it because it was the only size that fit his cramped apartment, but now it looked more like something salvaged from a clearance shelf than a symbol of holiday warmth.
It was his first Christmas truly alone.
He’d always imagined it would feel a little strange, but he hadn’t expected the hollow quiet of it. No clatter of dishes from the kitchen. No muffled arguments over who burned what. No cousins barreling through the hallway, no Jack kicking him under the table. Just… silence.
Everyone was older now, and scattered. Jack had moved away for work—farther than Eric could really justify visiting on a whim, especially on a holiday. His parents had rented a cabin this year, a cozy-sounding place in the mountains. They’d invited Eric, warmly and insistently, but he couldn’t bring himself to drive four hours there and four hours back in a single day. It felt exhausting before he’d even started the car.
And then there was the matter of friends—or lack thereof. He had colleagues, people he liked well enough, but no one he felt close enough to intrude on their family Christmas. Not without feeling awkward or out of place.
So he’d told himself that spending it at his apartment would be fine. Peaceful, even.
He hadn’t realized how lonely it would feel.
He’d decorated a bit, trying. A few cards propped along the shelf. A couple of fake candles. The tiny tree, which he’d set up with some reluctance but ultimately couldn’t bring himself to skip. Under it were a few presents—one from his parents, one from Jack mailed a week early, and a handful from other relatives who still remembered him in the holiday shuffle. He hadn’t opened any yet.
He could have made more of an effort, he supposed. Bought a bigger meal, splurged on nicer decorations. But money was tight, and the idea of decorating just for himself felt… strange.
He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. Maybe he’d cook something later. He had that fancy frozen lasagna in the freezer—the one he kept saving because it seemed “too nice” for a random Tuesday night. Maybe today was as good an occasion as any.
The apartment around him hummed with the quiet of the radiator and distant street noise. Not exactly Christmas cheer, but it was what he had.
Eric sighed and pushed himself up from the couch, joints protesting more from disuse than age. He padded across the apartment and knelt in front of the little tree, the branches rustling faintly as he shifted closer. Maybe opening a few presents would help—if not with the Christmas spirit, then at least with the silence.
He reached first for the one from his parents. The wrapping paper was neatly taped, the kind his mother insisted on using—no garish patterns, just simple red with a gold ribbon. Eric peeled it open carefully, slower than he needed to, not wanting to deal with the mess later.
Inside was a book, just as he’d expected. Something about engineering—though not the kind he actually worked with. Still, the thought made him smile a little. His parents always tried, even if they didn’t quite understand the specifics of what he did. And who knew? Maybe it would be interesting.
He set it aside gently and picked up the next present—the one from Jack. He braced himself. Jack had a long, impressive history of terrible gag gifts.
The wrapping on this one was chaotic, a mess of tape and overlapping paper as if Jack had used every scrap he could find. Eric huffed a small laugh as he tore it open.
The first thing he found was a tiny notebook. Comically tiny—small enough to fit in his palm. When he opened it, the first page read, in Jack’s unmistakably blocky handwriting: for your important science notes.
Eric snorted. Of course.
He dug deeper into the rest of the parcel and pulled out a shirt. A very small shirt. Way too small for a full-grown adult. And printed on the front was that stupid cartoon dog—big eyes, floppy ears, the one Eric had hated as a kid and Jack had adored specifically because Eric hated it.
It was, undeniably, a children’s size.
Eric let out a genuine laugh, the sound bouncing warmly off the walls of the apartment. Jack wasn’t even here, and yet he’d still managed to annoy him and amuse him in equal measure. Classic.
He folded the ridiculous shirt with exaggerated care and placed it on top of the notebook.
He’d have to call him later. Wish him a Merry Christmas. And tell him, in no uncertain terms, to stop being such an asshole—affectionately, of course.
---
Eric stood at the stove, one hand wrapped around the wooden spoon as he stirred the gravy in slow, steady circles. Behind him, the oven hummed softly, turkey and potatoes roasting together in careful coordination. The vegetables bubbled away on the stovetop, and he kept shifting his attention from pot to pan, making sure nothing boiled over or burned. Everything was on medium heat—safe, predictable—and if he’d timed it right, dinner would be finished just after Rachel arrived.
Just the thought of her tugged a smile onto his face.
Rachel.
He still wasn’t entirely sure how he’d gotten this lucky. From the first day they’d met in that rock climbing class—her bright teasing, her easy confidence—something in him had sparked in a way he’d never felt before. They’d become friends first, but he’d spent every minute of it buzzing with that warm, rising feeling in his chest. And when she’d finally admitted she felt the same, he’d kissed her before he’d even realized he’d moved.
Now she was coming over for Christmas.
His Christmas.
They could’ve gone to her place, technically. Her apartment was bigger, nicer, definitely less cramped than his. But she’d laughed—soft and embarrassed—when she admitted she couldn’t cook. Couldn’t might have been generous. She claimed she could burn water. He suspected she wasn’t exaggerating.
So he was hosting, partly because he wanted to, partly because he trusted himself more in his own kitchen. He knew where everything was, how the old stovetop behaved on each setting, exactly how long the oven took to preheat no matter what the dial said.
Cooking wasn’t a chore to him anyway. Once he’d gotten old enough to handle it responsibly, his mother had started teaching him—real recipes, real techniques. Holiday cooking had still been off-limits; too many relatives crowding into the kitchen, too many opinions flying around. But on quieter days, she’d shown him what she knew.
And now he got to use all of that to cook for someone else.
Even if it wasn’t a huge meal—just enough for the two of them—it felt good. Right. Like building something warm out of the quiet pieces of his life.
He tasted the gravy, adjusted the seasoning, and glanced at the clock.
She’d be here any minute.
A knock sounded at the door, light but unmistakable. Eric startled slightly, then hurried to turn the gravy down to the lowest simmer. He wiped his palms on a towel, then brushed them down the front of his Christmas sweater—an anxious habit he’d never managed to break—before crossing the small apartment to answer.
He pulled the door open, and there she was.
Rachel stood on the threshold, cheeks pink from the cold, a large bag stuffed full of presents hanging from one hand. She looked bright and warm and so unmistakably her that Eric felt something flutter in his chest.
He grinned. “Come on in, Rach.”
She smiled back and stepped inside, immediately setting the bag down so she could shrug out of her coat. Underneath, she wore her own Christmas sweater—green with a slightly lopsided tree stitched across the front. He loved it instantly.
Eric reached to take her coat, hanging it on the hook by the door.
“What a gentleman,” Rachel teased lightly.
His cheeks heated up at once. He could feel it—he always blushed around her. She found it endlessly amusing, and he pretended not to notice her smirk whenever it happened.
He cleared his throat and tried to compose himself. “Uh—you can put your bag under the tree. I’m just finishing dinner.”
“Perfect,” she said with a grin, lifting the bag again and heading down the hallway toward the living room.
Eric watched her disappear for a moment, heart still thudding, then forced himself back to the kitchen. He turned the gravy back up to a steady simmer and checked the oven, making sure nothing was burning. Everything looked good. Better than good, actually.
He was ladling gravy into a small bowl when Rachel wandered back in, leaning casually against the counter. “That smells amazing,” she said, eyes warm.
Eric couldn’t help the way his smile widened. He hadn’t stopped smiling since she arrived. “Thank you,” he said softly. “It should be ready soon.”
Eric began ladling vegetables into bowls, arranging everything neatly out of habit. He lifted the turkey from the oven and placed it on the platter—and immediately realized how small it looked. For two people, it was perfectly reasonable. Still, compared to the giant birds he’d grown up seeing at family dinners, it looked… a little sad.
Before he could worry too much, Rachel said warmly, “That looks lovely, Eric. Much better than I could ever do.”
He paused, then smiled, relief easing tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying. He brought the platter to the table, setting it carefully beside the bowls. Rachel grabbed a couple dishes as well, helping him ferry everything into place.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asked.
“That would be lovely.”
Eric nodded and reached into the cupboard for two wine glasses—ones he definitely had not bought specifically for this dinner—and set them on the table. He grabbed the bottle of wine next, which he also had definitely not bought specifically for this, and placed it beside the glasses.
The table looked nice. Really nice. The Christmas napkins—those he would admit to buying just for today—tied everything together.
They sat down across from each other, the soft glow of the tree from the living room casting a gentle halo of light down the hallway. Eric pulled the turkey closer, took a breath, and began carving. It wasn’t exactly graceful, and he was sure his technique was questionable at best, but he managed. And honestly, he thought it came out fine.
There was plenty left when he finished. More than enough for leftovers. Suddenly the turkey didn’t feel too small at all—he was just used to cooking for a crowd.
They served themselves, the clinks of cutlery the only sound for a minute or so as they started to eat.
“This is delicious, Eric,” Rachel said finally, looking genuinely impressed. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
Eric felt the heat crawl up his neck. He ducked his head slightly. “My mother taught me. She wanted to make sure I could take care of myself.”
Rachel smiled warmly. “She’s done an amazing job. These potatoes are lovely.”
Eric’s grin grew a little wider, pride slipping through despite the blush. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
When they had both finished eating, Eric refilled their wine glasses, then began gathering the dishes and stacking them in the sink. Rachel said, “I can help wash up.”
Eric shook his head lightly. “It’s alright. It’s Christmas—I’ll do them later.”
Rachel smiled. “Alright.”
Eric picked up his wine glass and headed into the living room, Rachel following close behind. He’d actually decorated properly this year—partly because he finally had the money, and partly because he wanted the place to look nice for Rachel. He had gotten a proper tree and decorated it himself, with lights and ornaments that somehow came together in a way that looked intentional. He’d hung tinsel between picture frames, propped Christmas cards along the shelves, and dotted a few other decorations around the room. For once, it actually looked Christmassy. It felt… lived in, he supposed.
Rachel went straight to the tree, dragged the big bag of presents over to the couch, and sat down. Eric carefully lifted the stack of presents he’d bought for her—maybe he had gone a little overboard—and set them on the coffee table. They were all things that had made him think of her, little gifts he’d picked up here and there over the past couple of months. At least to himself, he could justify it.
Rachel’s eyes widened as she took in the stack of gifts on the coffee table. “Eric, I thought we agreed not to spend a lot on each other.”
Eric lifted his hands in surrender, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. “I didn’t. Most of these are just little things that made me think of you. And besides—look at how many presents are in your bag.”
Rachel opened her mouth, clearly ready with an argument, then seemed to think better of it. She shut it again and sighed with a half-smile. “Fair point.”
Eric picked up the gift sitting on top of his pile and held it out to her. “Open this one first.”
He felt a flutter of anticipation rise in his chest. He was almost more excited for her to open her presents than he was to open his own. He wanted to see her smile at something he’d chosen—wanted that warm spark of knowing he’d made her happy, even in a small way.
Rachel tore into the wrapping paper, and as Eric watched the paper fall away, he couldn’t help the quiet swell of something warm in his chest. After so many Christmases spent alone or simply going through the motions, he finally had someone to share the day with. For the first time in a long while, it felt like the Christmas spirit had come back to him.
---
Eric’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel in an uneven rhythm, stopping only when he caught himself doing it and forcing his hand to still. His eyes kept flicking sideways toward Rachel in the passenger seat, then back to the road. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was so nervous. It was just Christmas at his parents’ house—something he’d done nearly every year of his life.
But this year was different.
It was the first time his whole family had been together in years. Maybe the last time they would be for a long while, if his parents were to be believed. They’d phrased it gently, in that blunt-but-well-meaning way they had: Everyone’s getting old, and it would be nice to have one last Christmas all together.
That thought alone was enough to knot his stomach.
And then there was Rachel.
He’d never brought anyone home for Christmas before. Never had anyone to bring. His parents had asked—actually asked—if he’d bring her this year, clearly excited and trying not to sound too excited. Rachel had agreed immediately when he mentioned it, smiling like it was the most natural thing in the world, but Eric still couldn’t shake the worry that he’d pressured her somehow. That she’d said yes just to make him happy.
He glanced at her again. She looked relaxed, gazing out the window, humming softly along to the radio.
Jack was supposed to be there too. Eric hadn’t spoken to him properly in years. Jack was always working, always busy, and when they did manage to talk, something about him felt… different. Sharper. More closed off. Eric figured the job had done that—constant exposure to the worst parts of people had a way of grinding you down.
Still, Jack had taken time off to come. That had to mean something.
Eric exhaled slowly and tightened his grip on the wheel, then loosened it again. He wanted this Christmas to be a good one. Wanted it to feel warm, like the ones they used to have—before distance and time and responsibility pulled everyone in different directions.
He glanced at Rachel one more time, then focused back on the road, hoping that somehow, this year, everything would come together.
Eric pulled up outside his parents’ house and parked the car, the familiar sight of the place making his chest tighten. He sat there for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel, before glancing over at Rachel.
“I’ll warn you now,” he said quietly, “my family can be… a lot.”
Rachel smiled, easy and reassuring. “I’m sure everything will be fine, Eric.”
He returned the smile faintly, then opened his door and climbed out. Cold air bit at his face as he walked around to the back of the car and opened the trunk, pulling out the bags of presents he’d bought for everyone. Rachel reached in and grabbed one as well, and together they made their way up the garden path toward the front door.
Eric knocked, then immediately set the bags down at his feet. He barely had time to straighten up before the door swung open.
His mother surged forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Eric! We’ve been waiting for you!”
That was exactly why he’d put the bags down.
She stepped back at last to let them in, and Eric bent to collect the presents as he crossed the threshold, Rachel just behind him.
“Mom,” Eric said, shifting the weight of the bags, “this is Rachel. My girlfriend.”
His mother’s face lit up. She smiled broadly and immediately pulled Rachel into a hug. “It’s so nice to finally meet you!”
Rachel froze for half a second, clearly startled by the sudden affection, then awkwardly patted Eric’s mother on the back. “It’s nice to meet you too.”
His mother stepped away at last, already turning toward the kitchen. “Go put the bags under the tree. I need to get back before your Aunt Peggy burns everything.”
She bustled off down the hallway, calling something unintelligible over her shoulder.
Eric headed into the living room and set the bags beneath the tree. Rachel added hers to the pile, then leaned closer to him and murmured, “I see what you mean now.”
Eric smiled. “I’d stay out of the kitchen if I were you. Everyone likes to cook everything differently—it turns into a battleground in there.”
Rachel laughed softly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Eric smiled a little wider and nodded toward the couch. “Sit down. I’ll go get us both a glass of wine while everyone’s cooking.”
Rachel did as she was told, settling into one end of the couch as Eric slipped into the kitchen. The space was already crowded—relatives squeezed shoulder to shoulder, arguing over stove space and seasoning like it was a competitive sport. Eric threaded his way through them carefully, murmuring apologies as he went.
He reached the cupboard, pulled out two wine glasses, and poured them with practiced ease. From where he stood, he could see out into the garden. His dad and a couple of uncles were clustered together near the fence, cigars in hand, clearly having chosen exile over kitchen duty.
Eric smiled and lifted one hand in a small wave through the window. His dad noticed and raised his cigar in return.
Balancing the glasses carefully, Eric navigated his way back through the kitchen, narrowly avoiding elbows and wooden spoons, and made it back to the living room. He’d just handed Rachel one of the glasses when there was a sharp knock at the front door.
His mother bustled out of the kitchen immediately, wiping her hands on her apron as she headed for the door.
The door opened, and Jack stepped inside, a bag of presents slung over one shoulder. Eric’s mother immediately wrapped him in a hug.
“Jack, it’s so good to see you! How’ve you been?” she said, barely pausing for breath. “Your mother’s in the kitchen—here, let me take that.”
Jack nodded, surrendering the bag as she took his arm and steered him toward the kitchen, still talking all the while. As he passed the living room, Eric lifted a hand in a small wave. Jack met it with a brief nod in return.
Eric’s mother set Jack’s presents beneath the tree and vanished back into the kitchen once more.
Eric turned to Rachel. “That’s Jack. My cousin. He’ll probably be back in here in a minute—we were both permanently exiled from Christmas duty when we were kids.”
Rachel laughed. “That sounds about right.”
Eric smiled, but before he could say anything else, his mother was already herding Jack back into the living room. Jack looked mildly overwhelmed by the chaos in the kitchen, visibly relieved to escape it.
He dropped onto the couch beside Eric. “Hey, man.”
“Hey,” Eric said. “How you doing?”
“Been alright. Work’s been busy.” Jack’s gaze shifted, landing on Rachel. “Now who’s this lovely lady?”
Eric bristled. Of course Jack would do this.
Before he could say anything, Rachel leaned around Eric and held out her hand. “I’m Rachel. Eric’s girlfriend. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Girlfriend? You finally settled down with someone.”
Eric bristled again. “You can talk. How many girlfriends have you had in the past year?”
Jack stiffened. “That’s none of your business.”
Eric’s mother appeared in the doorway, having clearly heard their voices rising. “Now, now, boys. It’s Christmas. Everyone will get along.” She turned to Jack. “Why don’t you come help set the table? Dinner’s almost ready.”
Jack clenched his jaw, then exhaled sharply, the fight draining out of him as he stood. “Yes, Aunt.”
He disappeared back into the kitchen.
Eric leaned back against the couch, rubbing a hand down his face. Rachel smiled, a clear teasing note in her voice. “He seems nice.”
Eric raised an eyebrow at her, then sighed. “He wasn’t always like that.”
“I don’t mind,” Rachel said lightly. “It’s almost a compliment to see you get protective over me like that.”
Eric blinked—then laughed, the tension easing out of him. He knew Jack had only been flirting to annoy him. And Jack knew it would work. Neither of them had meant to take it that far.
They’d make up later.
They always did.
Jack appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, looking distinctly sheepish, like he’d just been on the receiving end of a firm lecture. “Dinner’s ready.”
Eric and Rachel stood together. Rachel’s hand found his for a moment, giving it a gentle squeeze. Eric smiled and returned it before letting go as they headed into the kitchen.
An extra chair had been added to the end of the table—one that, hopefully, didn’t wobble. People were already sitting, others weaving around with bowls and platters. Eric set his wine glass down and took his seat, Rachel settling beside him.
Jack sat opposite. He glanced at Eric, looked away again, then cleared his throat. “I’m, uh… sorry.”
Eric smiled easily. “It’s alright.”
Jack hesitated, then offered a small smile in return. It wasn’t the wide, reckless grin Eric remembered from their younger years, but it was still a smile.
Eric’s mother bustled past and gave his shoulder a quick pat. “Glad to see you two getting along.”
They all sat down, food beginning to circulate around the table. When the turkey reached Jack, he deliberately passed it to Rachel first, flashing Eric a smug smirk as he did.
Eric shot him a glare, then accepted the platter from Rachel and passed it along. Jack took a sip of his wine to hide his growing grin and started eating.
Eric followed suit. He’d missed his mother’s cooking—it always beat his own, no matter how much she’d taught him. He glanced at Rachel, relieved to see her enjoying it too.
He’d been nervous about bringing her to family Christmas. But as conversation filled the room and the table settled into its familiar rhythm, it felt like everything was turning out okay.
When everyone had finished eating, Rachel leaned forward slightly. “Thank you for the food, Mrs King. It was delicious.”
Eric lifted his wine glass and took a sip, already smiling into it. He knew exactly how his mother was going to react to being called Mrs King.
“Oh, you don’t need to call me Mrs King, deary,” his mother said brightly. “After all, you’re my future daughter-in-law.”
Eric choked.
Wine went the wrong way, and he coughed hard, eyes watering as Rachel immediately patted his back, smiling far too calmly about the whole thing. Eric wiped at his mouth and set the glass down, mortified.
Okay. Maybe he hadn’t known exactly how his mother was going to respond. He definitely hadn’t expected that.
Eric’s father cleared his throat, sensing Eric’s silent plea for rescue. “Well then,” he said, pointedly cheerful, “shall we open presents?”
“Yes,” Eric said quickly. “Let’s.”
He shot his father a grateful look as they all stood, and his father smiled back, knowing his wife all too well.
They filed into the living room, immediately running out of seating. Eric’s mother sat down beside his father, then shifted over and patted the cushion next to her. “Let’s not make our guest sit on the floor,” she said, smiling at Rachel.
Rachel glanced at Eric. He just shrugged—he was long used to the floor at Christmas.
Rachel sat carefully on the couch, the space a little tight for three people. Eric dropped down onto the floor in front of them, his shoulder brushing Rachel’s leg. Jack sat beside him, leaning against the arm of the chair Jack’s father occupied.
Eric’s aunt nearest the tree began passing presents around until everyone had a neat little stack beside them—even Rachel.
Eric blinked, surprised. He hadn’t expected many people to have bought Rachel gifts. He’d even brought a few extra himself, despite the fact they’d already exchanged presents, just so she wouldn’t feel left out.
Apparently, his mother had spread the word.
Rachel’s pile was nearly as respectable as anyone else’s.
Eric smiled to himself, warmth settling in his chest. His family had already accepted Rachel as one of their own.
---
Eric stirred awake to a comforting weight at his side, warmth draped partially over him. He shifted, stretching slightly, then relaxed again, slipping his arm around Rachel where she was nestled close against him. Her hair brushed his chin, familiar and grounding.
It was Christmas morning.
The first Christmas he’d ever woken up with Rachel beside him. And the last one before they got married.
The thought pulled a sleepy smile to his face. They’d moved in together a few months earlier, after he’d proposed, and life since then had felt steady in a way he hadn’t known he’d been missing. Shared routines, quiet evenings, laughter over nothing at all. He’d never been happier.
He couldn’t wait to marry her. Couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his life waking up like this.
Rachel shifted, murmuring softly in her sleep as she pressed a little closer, her arm tightening around his waist. She was probably close to waking up. Eric stayed still, content to just be there, listening to her breathing and the quiet hum of the apartment around them.
Today was going to be a good Christmas.
It was only a few minutes later when Rachel shifted again, her lashes fluttering as her eyes slowly opened. “Good morning,” she mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.
Eric leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. “Good morning, sweetheart. Merry Christmas.”
Rachel smiled, eyes crinkling softly, then stretched with a quiet groan as she woke up a little more. Eric watched her fondly.
“You want some coffee, darling?” he murmured.
“Yeah,” she said sleepily. “Please.”
Eric carefully shifted out from under her and stood, stretching his arms above his head before padding out of the bedroom. The hallway was strung with tinsel between picture frames, catching the morning light. He smiled to himself as he walked toward the kitchen.
They’d spent days decorating together, digging out boxes and arguing playfully over where things should go. Almost every room in the apartment was decked out now, more festive than it had ever been. Decorating had never been fun before—not like this. Moving side by side with Rachel, handing things back and forth, working together like they’d done it a hundred times already. It had only reinforced how right everything felt.
Eric started up the coffee machine and leaned back against the counter, listening to it whirr to life. His old, once-pathetic little tree sat on the corner of the counter, looking far less sad now with proper ornaments and lights twined around it.
Ribbons were tied around the cupboard doors too, making them look like oversized presents—one of Rachel’s ideas. Eric never would have thought of it himself, but now he couldn’t imagine the kitchen without it.
The coffee machine beeped softly, pulling Eric from his thoughts. He poured two mugs, carefully adding sugar and milk the way Rachel liked hers. He’d just finished stirring when Rachel padded into the kitchen, rubbing at her eyes.
Eric smiled, leaned in, and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek before handing her the mug. “Here you go.”
“Thank you, darling,” she murmured, taking a long sip. Some of the sleepiness faded from her expression almost immediately.
In the bright kitchen light, Eric couldn’t help but take her in. Rachel had bought them matching Christmas pajamas and insisted they wear them—apparently a tradition in her family. He hadn’t complained. They were comfortable, and honestly, he liked them more than he’d expected. His were blue, hers purple, both patterned with tiny Christmas trees.
Rachel looked absolutely adorable.
“You want some breakfast, sweetheart?” he asked.
She glanced up from her mug. “I think I’ll have something later.”
Eric nodded easily. “Alright.”
He took his own mug and headed into the living room, settling onto the couch. The space was the most Christmassy room in the apartment by far—a large tree filled with lights, tinsel, and ornaments stood proudly in the corner. The mantelpiece was layered with decorations and glowing lights, and tinsel ran between picture frames along the walls. It looked almost magical.
Stacks of presents crowded the base of the tree. Some were from family, but most were for each other.
Eric took another sip of coffee, letting it wake him properly. Rachel soon joined him, sitting close and leaning gently into his shoulder.
Eric drained his mug first but didn’t move, content to let the morning unfold slowly. It was such a contrast to the Christmas mornings of his childhood—loud, chaotic, full of people talking over one another—or the quieter ones as an adult, when he’d barely celebrated at all. Back then, Christmas had just been another day, one he’d filled with work to keep the loneliness at bay.
Now, sitting here with Rachel in their shared home, the Christmas spirit had found its way back to him.
Rachel finished the last sip of her coffee, then reached over and took Eric’s mug as well. “I’ll refill these,” she said, already heading toward the kitchen.
Eric groaned softly as he stood, then crossed to the tree and crouched beside it. He began sorting through the presents, shifting them into neater piles, trying to remember which were which. Rachel returned a moment later, set the mugs on the coffee table, and joined him by the tree.
Eric shifted to sit more comfortably and handed her the present from her parents. He knew he had one from them too—he just couldn’t spot it right now. Instead, he picked up the one from Jack, bracing himself for the inevitable joke.
He opened it and paused, genuinely surprised. Inside was a book on physics, a notebook, and a set of nice writing pens.
Eric smiled to himself. It was actually a good gift. Thoughtful, even. He did miss the gag gifts a little, though.
He set it aside and looked back to Rachel, who had just finished opening her parents’ gift—a new blouse.
“That’s a nice shirt,” Eric said.
Rachel smiled. “They always get me a new blouse. I think I have four in this style now.”
Eric laughed softly, then handed her one of the presents from him. He’d been excited for her to open this one ever since he’d bought it.
Rachel began tearing away the wrapping paper, and Eric watched her, a quiet smile on his face. In that moment, he felt more certain than ever that he’d made the right choice in asking Rachel to marry him.
---
Eric lay awake in bed, staring blankly at the wall. He’d been awake for a while now, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to move. He’d heard Rachel get up earlier, moving quietly around the apartment, probably thinking he was still asleep. He usually slept longer after physio, and the session a few days ago had drained what little energy he’d had left.
He knew it was Christmas Day. He knew he should get up, try to make an effort. He just… didn’t have it in him yet.
Pain radiated through him in familiar, exhausting waves—his stump aching despite having done nothing at all, the phantom sensations sharp and relentless. The rest of his body felt just as worn down, his other leg sore from overcompensating, his arms aching from weeks of relying on crutches. The thought of getting up, of navigating the apartment, felt overwhelming.
A small, guilty part of him wondered if he could just stay here all day. He’d done it before—curled up and unmoving while Rachel gently tried to coax him out of bed, never pushing, never sounding frustrated. He knew he couldn’t do that today. At some point he’d need his medication, some water, maybe food. And it was Christmas. If nothing else, he owed it to Rachel to try.
She’d been doing so much for him. Too much, sometimes. He knew part of it came from her own guilt about the accident, even though he’d told her again and again it wasn’t her fault. That knowledge sat heavy in his chest.
The first Christmas without his leg was always going to be difficult. He’d known that. Still, knowing it and living it were two very different things.
There was a soft knock at the bedroom door.
“Eric?” Rachel’s voice drifted in, gentle and careful. “You awake?”
He swallowed, then answered quietly, “Yeah. I’m awake.”
The door opened a crack, and Rachel peeked in. When she saw his eyes open, she smiled softly and stepped inside, carrying a mug. She set it on the bedside table and sat down beside him.
“Merry Christmas,” she said quietly.
Eric managed a small smile. “Merry Christmas.”
She didn’t rush him, didn’t tell him to get up or ask what was wrong. She just reached for his hand and held it, warm and steady. And for the first time that morning, the weight on his chest eased just a little.
Eric gently squeezed Rachel’s hand, then started hauling himself upright. He didn’t bother trying to stand yet; just sitting up drained what little energy he had. He leaned back against the headboard and picked up the mug, taking a long swig of coffee, his fingers still laced with hers.
“Do you want your meds?” Rachel asked softly.
He nodded, voice quiet. “Yeah. Please.”
Rachel squeezed his hand once more, then slipped out into the bathroom. Eric stayed where he was, staring down at his lap. Even now, his eyes caught on the empty space beneath the blanket, the fabric lying flat until it reached his stump. His throat tightened, a familiar ache settling in his chest, and he forced himself to look away.
Rachel came back a moment later with his medication and a glass of water. Eric took them from her, swallowing the pills with a careful sip before setting the glass down on the nightstand. All he wanted was to lie back down, curl up, and sleep—if he wasn’t awake, he wouldn’t have to feel the phantom pain, wouldn’t have to think about what he’d lost.
Rachel sat down beside him again and gently took his hand, grounding him. They weren’t wearing matching Christmas pajamas this year. Rachel had bought them anyway and was wearing hers, but the fabric had irritated Eric’s stump, scratchy and unbearable. He’d changed back into his usual pajama pants halfway through the night, then pulled the shirt off not long after when the sensation on his skin became too much. Even now, the sweatpants brushed wrong against him, the skin raw and oversensitive, making him want to stay perfectly still.
Rachel rubbed her thumb slowly over his knuckles, a small, steady motion. Eric lifted his mug again and took another sip of coffee, lingering over it, grateful for the excuse to stay right where he was a little longer.
Eric’s mug was eventually empty, leaving him without an excuse to sit there and hide from the day. He set it down on the nightstand but didn’t move right away, his shoulders slumping slightly.
Rachel squeezed his hand gently. “Do you want to go open some presents?”
He hesitated, staring at the blanket for a moment, then slowly nodded. “In a minute,” he mumbled.
Rachel sighed softly but didn’t argue. Eric could hear it anyway—the edge of frustration she tried so hard to hide. Not anger exactly, but weariness. He hated that he could feel it, hated even more that part of him understood it. He didn’t want to ruin Christmas for her, didn’t want to be the reason the day felt heavy.
“Could you pass me my crutches?” he asked quietly.
Rachel smiled, relief flickering across her face, and squeezed his hand again before standing. She grabbed the crutches from where they were leaned against the wall by the nightstand and brought them back over.
Eric swung his legs over the side of the bed, a sharp grimace crossing his face as phantom pain flared, hot and insistent. He rolled the right leg of his sweatpants up around his stump so the fabric wouldn’t hang or tug. The doctors had told him the phantom pain would fade with time, but so far it remained loud and relentless, his brain stubbornly clinging to something that wasn’t there anymore.
He grabbed his shirt off the floor and pulled it on, then took the crutches from Rachel and paused, breathing through it, bracing himself before pushing upright. Rachel hovered close, her hand near his back, ready to steady him if he stumbled like he had so many times before.
By the time he was standing, his breathing was already heavy. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly, frustrated. He should have known better than to schedule physiotherapy so close to Christmas. It always wiped him out, always left him like this.
“Would you like some more coffee?” Rachel asked gently.
He nodded. “Yeah. Please.”
Rachel picked up his mug and slipped out of the room. Eric grit his teeth and followed, moving slower than usual, each step costing more than it should have. By the time he reached the living room, he all but collapsed onto the couch, leaning back with his eyes closed for a moment.
He set the crutches carefully against the wall, close enough to reach, and stayed still, gathering himself, listening to the soft sounds of Rachel moving around in the kitchen.
Rachel returned a few moments later, carrying two steaming mugs of coffee. She handed one to Eric and set the other on the coffee table before heading over to the tree.
She knew Eric wouldn’t be able to sit on the floor by the tree like they usually did. Even if he could, he wouldn’t be able to get back up again without a struggle. So instead, she gathered the presents for both of them and brought them over, stacking them into two neat piles within easy reach.
Eric sat back against the couch, eyes half-lidded, watching her move quietly around the living room. Deep down, he wanted to help, wanted Christmas to feel like it used to—the chaos, the laughter, the little rituals they’d built together. But everything hurt. His body ached from phantom pain and overuse, his stump throbbed, and the exhaustion made it impossible to summon the energy to do more than just sit. He wanted so badly for his leg to be there, to be whole again.
When Rachel had placed the last presents in a spot he could reach without straining, she finally sank down beside him on the couch. She took a long, satisfied sip of her coffee, the steam warming her face.
Eric lifted his mug and drained it, the rich, hot liquid offering a brief comfort. He set it down on the small side table Rachel had thoughtfully positioned beside the couch after he’d nearly toppled forward trying to reach the coffee table the week before.
For a moment, they sat there in quiet companionship, the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights flickering across the room, the stacks of presents between them, and the world outside forgotten.
Rachel set her mug down and picked up a present from the top of her pile, one from Eric’s parents. She unwrapped it carefully, revealing a delicate necklace.
Eric reached for one from his own pile, and his fingers landed on a package from Jack. He tore the paper away, bracing himself for the usual joke. Inside was a prosthetic cleaning kit—Jack had stuck paper over the label and written “Robot Leg Kit” in big letters.
Eric stared down at it for a long moment. He knew it was meant to be a gag gift, meant to make him laugh, but instead something ached deep in his chest. He didn’t even have a prosthetic yet; his stump was still too swollen for a socket. He set it aside carefully, forcing himself not to let it ruin the alright-ish morning he’d been having.
He turned to Rachel. “That’s a nice necklace,” he murmured.
Rachel smiled softly. “Your parents got it for me. Isn’t it sweet?”
Eric nodded and reached for another gift. Their piles were small; he hadn’t been able to go out and buy much for Rachel, and she’d been too busy taking care of him to shop for him. They had a few presents from family, and a few for each other, but mostly they were the usual—books, shirts, little novelty gifts. None of it made him feel much, but that didn’t matter.
When the last gift was unwrapped, Eric set it down and looked down at his lap. Rachel’s attention lingered on the bracelet he had bought her months ago and wrapped up for Christmas in advance, before the accident, before everything. Her thumb brushed over the edge of it, her eyes distant, almost sad.
“I’m sorry I’m not making this a very good Christmas,” Eric murmured, his voice low.
Rachel glanced up and smiled, though there was a faint sadness around the edges. She placed her hand gently on his knee. “It’s not your fault, Eric. I can see that you’re trying.”
He gave a small, tired smile, but the guilt didn’t fully leave him. He knew he’d ruined parts of Christmas—he couldn’t cook dinner on crutches, and Rachel couldn’t manage it either without burning everything. Decorating had been nearly impossible, and running errands to get gifts was out of the question while he was bedridden for months.
But she was still trying. She was still making an effort to make Christmas special, even with him limited in every way.
Eric sighed softly, resting his hands on his lap. He knew Rachel was also getting frustrated, quietly, with his lack of effort. She wanted him to be better, to be up and walking, to have her husband back. And Eric… he still needed time to wrap his head around the fact that his leg was gone forever.
For now, all he could do was sit there, let her care for him, and try to be present in the small ways he could.
---
Eric lay curled on his side, legs drawn tight to his chest, eyes half-lidded as he stared blankly ahead. His face was buried in Rachel’s pillow, breathing in the fading scent that still clung to it. God, he missed her so much.
This was the first Christmas he’d spent without her since they’d met. Part of him kept expecting her to walk through the door, to ask why he hadn’t decorated, to wrap him up in her arms and kiss him. But she wasn’t coming back. She had left, and he still hadn’t gathered up the pieces of himself that she had left behind.
He squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled deeply, letting her scent fill his lungs. He just wanted to feel her arms around him again, to sit with her at his side, even if they didn’t speak. Her presence alone had been enough. He wanted that comfort back, even for a moment.
He didn’t want to do Christmas without her. He knew, in the back of his mind, that he would have to get up eventually—to take his meds, eat something, maybe open the few presents he had from family—but for now he couldn’t.
He didn’t move. He just stayed curled there, each breath slow and heavy, his body aching, his chest tightening. The room felt cold and empty without her. And as the minutes dragged on, he felt himself breaking a little more with every quiet, lonely second.
Eventually, Eric couldn’t justify staying in bed any longer. If he didn’t move now, he knew he would remain curled up all day, unmoving, drowning in grief. With a deep, shaky breath, he hauled himself upright, pausing before reaching for his prosthetic. Maybe if he recovered more, if he tried harder, Rachel might come back. Maybe she’d love him again.
He slid the liner over his stump, then pulled the prosthetic on, adjusting it carefully until it felt right. Slowly, he rose to his feet, pressing against the wall for support, taking a moment to steady himself and think about what came next in his routine.
Meds first.
He limped toward the bathroom at first, then adjusted his stride as his prosthetic settled, moving a little more confidently. He opened the cupboard above the sink and grabbed his pill pot, downing two dry. His eyes caught Rachel’s hairbrush still sitting in the cupboard—he didn’t know why she hadn’t taken it, maybe she’d forgotten, maybe she’d come back for it. Maybe she’d see how well he was doing and stay.
Eric shut the cupboard and grabbed his toothbrush, forcing himself to focus on the small, familiar steps of his routine. Stick to the routine. That was all he had to do.
He brushed his teeth carefully, then splashed water on his face, smoothing his hair down until it looked at least manageable. He left the bathroom and moved on to the next step in his routine: breakfast.
Eric padded into the kitchen and popped a slice of bread into the toaster, leaning against the counter. There were no decorations this year—no little tree, no ribbons on the cupboard doors. Rachel had tried last year, even when Eric couldn’t, but now… with her gone, he hadn’t bothered putting anything up at all. He didn’t even want to celebrate Christmas, but that didn’t mean the rest of the world would stop.
He moved to the coffee machine and started a pot, the quiet whir of the appliance filling the room. While it brewed, he returned to the toaster, pulling out his slice and carefully spreading butter across it. The knife slipped from his hand and clattered into the sink, joining the growing pile of dishes he just didn’t have the energy to wash.
He poured a mug of coffee, then carried his plate and mug into the living room. Sliding onto the couch, he sank back into the cushions, taking a slow sip of coffee. The apartment was quiet, the stillness heavy, and he let himself sit there for a moment, trying to summon the will to do more than just exist in the absence of the woman who had made Christmas feel alive.
The living room looked pathetic, if he was honest. A small pile of presents from family sat in the corner, a handful of cards lined the mantelpiece from his parents, Jack, and Clarice, and that was all the decoration he could be bothered with.
He took a long swig of his coffee, then tore a bite of toast. Clarice had invited him to spend Christmas with her family, and she had seemed genuinely eager, but Eric… he didn’t want to ruin her Christmas along with his own. He knew he wasn’t good company, that he’d just bring the mood down, so he declined. He told her he already had plans.
She hadn’t argued, but he could see the disbelief on her face. Hell, he didn’t even believe it himself. Still, she let him go, probably knowing she was fighting a losing battle.
Eric dropped his gaze from the cards on the mantelpiece and turned back to his toast, chewing slowly. He didn’t want to do Christmas; it all felt like too much effort. Without Rachel to share it with, the day had no meaning, no warmth, no joy.
Still… he should open the presents. He should at least try to do something that wasn’t sleeping, or working, or endlessly staring at the empty spaces she had left behind. He took another bite of toast, letting himself slowly gather the smallest flicker of resolve to at least start.
Eric finished his toast and set the empty plate on the coffee table beside his mug. He couldn’t be bothered to take them into the kitchen yet; that was a problem for later. He stood carefully, crossed the room, then slowly lowered himself to the floor in front of the small pile of presents. Getting down—and more importantly, getting back up—still wasn’t something he’d mastered, but his physio would probably tell him he needed to practice, so here he was.
He pulled the first present toward him, the one from his parents. Inside was a Christmas sweater—one that was actually nice, not loud or embarrassing. He tugged it on immediately, grateful for the extra warmth since he was still just wearing his pajama shirt.
The next present was from Jack. Eric opened it to find a notebook, and snorted softly when he saw the sticker slapped on the front: the stupid cartoon dog Jack had tormented him with since they were kids. He flipped it open and paused. In the corner of every page was another sticker. Jack must have gone out of his way to do that.
Eric smiled to himself. He might actually take this notebook to work. The stupid dog would probably make him smile every time he opened it. He set it aside carefully.
The last present was from Clarice. He hadn’t expected one from her at all, and he’d had to scramble to get her something in return. He peeled the wrapping away and froze.
It was a book—one on different types of satellites, by the author he loved. He’d mentioned once, offhandedly, that a new one was coming out. He hadn’t expected Clarice to remember, let alone go out of her way to buy it for him.
Eric stared down at the cover for a long moment, something tight and unfamiliar pressing at his chest. Slowly, he let out a breath and held the book a little closer, grounding himself in its solid weight.
Maybe he wasn’t as alone as it felt.
---
Eric stood at the stove, stirring the gravy while keeping a careful eye on everything else, making sure nothing burned and that it was all coming together at the same pace. From the living room he could hear Rachel moving around, the soft thump of footsteps and the faint clink of decorations being adjusted. She was probably making sure everything looked perfect.
They had guests coming later—Jason, Clarice, and Nick. As much as Eric hadn’t wanted Nick to come, Rachel had insisted, gently but firmly, saying they’d survived hell together and that Nick didn’t deserve to be alone on Christmas. Eric had given in, if only because he wanted to make her happy. Salim was meant to call from England at some point too; he’d gone over there with Zain for university, and Eric was looking forward to hearing his voice, even if it was only over the phone.
Mostly, though, Eric was just happy to have Rachel back. To be standing in their kitchen again, cooking Christmas dinner while she fussed over decorations in the next room. The apartment looked the way it used to—lights strung carefully, ornaments placed with intention, warmth woven into every corner. The Christmas spirit was back.
He checked the turkey in the oven, smiling to himself. Even after the temple, after quarantine, after the nightmares that still sometimes dragged him awake in the dark, Rachel still loved him. He got to spend his life with her again.
The thought settled deep in his chest, steady and real, and Eric found that he couldn’t stop smiling.
Rachel stepped into the kitchen and pressed a soft kiss to Eric’s cheek. He smiled and turned the heat down before stepping back from the stove, teasing, “Don’t get too close, you’ll burn it all.”
She shot him a fake glare, then laughed and said, “Come on, they’ll be here soon, and I want to give you a present before they do.”
Eric let her take his hand and guide him out of the kitchen, raising an eyebrow as he followed. “I thought we were waiting until everyone was here to open presents.”
Rachel smiled, that familiar, secretive smile he knew meant she’d already decided. “Normally, yes. But this one’s special.”
She gestured for him to sit on the couch, and Eric did, settling back as Rachel knelt by the tree and rummaged through the presents beneath it, clearly searching for something specific. While he waited, his gaze drifted to the small table beside him. They’d already opened their family gifts that morning, most of them stacked neatly there.
Jack’s present sat on top—a mug with a cartoon robot printed on the side. A tease, no doubt, about his prosthetic, his so-called “robot leg.” Eric smiled faintly at the thought. This year, it didn’t hurt. Thinking about it didn’t twist his chest or make his stomach sink. He could walk properly again now, move freely, do everything he used to.
Rachel straightened, turning back toward him with a box in her hands, and Eric looked up at her, curious and calm, feeling—for the first time in a long while—whole.
Rachel sat down beside him and pressed the box into his hands. Eric opened it carefully, and his breath caught despite himself. Inside was a small wooden case. When he lifted the lid, he found a watch nestled inside—simple, sturdy, the kind built to last. The leather strap was worn soft already, and on the back of the watch face were words etched neatly into the metal: Semper fi.
Eric swallowed hard, his vision blurring just a little. He looked back up at Rachel, then leaned forward and kissed her, slow and sure. “I love it, Rach. Thank you.”
Rachel smiled, eyes bright, but before she could say anything else there was a knock at the door. She stood and went to answer it while Eric set the watch carefully on the table, giving it one last glance before heading back into the kitchen to check on dinner.
Jason and Clarice’s voices floated down the hall a moment later. Once Eric was satisfied nothing was burning, he went to greet them. Clarice immediately wrapped her arms around his neck in a hug, and Eric laughed softly, patting her back, still not entirely used to her greeting him like that.
Jason punched him lightly on the arm. “How you doing, man?”
“Doing good,” Eric said with a smile. “Dinner’ll be ready soon. Maybe fifteen minutes or so.”
Clarice inhaled dramatically. “It smells delicious, Eric.”
Eric stepped aside to let them move further into the apartment. Rachel ushered them toward the living room, and Eric returned to the kitchen, checking the food again, paranoid about messing it up and ruining Christmas.
A few moments later Jason wandered in and leaned against the counter. “Those the veggies I dropped off a few days ago?”
“Yeah,” Eric said. “They’re way better than store-bought.”
Jason grinned. “Glad to be of service.”
Eric laughed. “Go sit down before Rachel comes in here hunting you down and burns them with her presence alone.”
Jason grinned and headed back to the living room just as there was another knock at the door. Nick, presumably.
Eric took a deep breath, telling himself it was fine, that Nick being here didn’t mean anything. It was just kindness—making sure he wasn’t alone for Christmas. He heard Rachel greet Nick and guide him into the living room with the others. Eric knew he should go say hello, but dinner gave him an excuse, and he took it.
He stepped away from the oven long enough to set the table, adding the most matching extra chairs that they’d gotten now that they were actually hosting people. Then he returned to the stove and began dishing everything up.
Rachel came into the kitchen as he was transferring the mashed potatoes into a bowl. “Nick’s here,” she said gently.
“Yeah,” Eric replied. “I heard.”
She hesitated, then said, “You know there’s nothing between me and him, right? I love you. Only you.”
Eric turned to her and smiled. “I know, darling.”
Rachel smiled back and started carrying dishes to the table. Eric watched her for a moment, the knot in his chest easing. He knew she’d been worried about him, about what Nick represented. And maybe he had worried too, once.
But Rachel had chosen him—twice now. And that had to mean something.
Eric carried the turkey over to the table and set it down carefully on the platter. Rachel disappeared back into the living room, and a moment later he heard her cheerful voice announce that dinner was ready.
They all filed in together. Nick lingered at the edge for half a second before taking a seat, and when his eyes flicked to Eric, he had the decency to look a little sheepish. Eric noticed, then gave him a small, polite smile. He could at least be a good host.
Eric sat down with Rachel on one side and Clarice on the other, the familiar closeness grounding him. He picked up the knife and began carving the turkey, slower than he used to but steady, practiced.
“This looks lovely, Eric,” Clarice said warmly.
Eric smiled. “I hope it lives up to your expectations.”
The food began to make its way around the table, bowls and plates passed from hand to hand. Jason cracked a joke halfway through, something dry and poorly timed, and somehow it had all of them laughing anyway—even Nick.
It felt strange, sitting there, surrounded by them, but not uncomfortable. Familiar, in an unexpected way. It reminded Eric of family dinners when he was a kid—noisy, imperfect, warm.
Maybe his family just looked different now.