Page 73 of Big Santa

Something inside me shifts. Not lust. That’s been there. Since approximately three seconds after I met her.

This is worse. It’s not about physical pleasure and release. This is wanting to keep her here. Wanting to be the person she comes to when she’s sad. Wanting to know what makes her cry so I can make sure it happens as little as possible. Wanting her to miss me someday the way she misses them.

Fuck me.

I tighten my arms.

Noelle makes a tiny sound and melts closer.

My eyes close. This was a mistake. A massive fucking mistake.

Not marrying her. But the contract with all of those rules. All of the carefully negotiated boundaries I put in place because I thought I could control what happened inside my own goddamn house.

I thought I was bringing home a woman who could give my son a family.

I didn’t consider what she’d give me.

I press my cheek against the top of her head. We stay that way for a long time. I don’t know how long.

Long enough that her breathing evens out. And her tears stop.

Long enough that holding my wife stops feeling like something unusual and starts feeling like something I should have been doing all along.

Eventually, she shifts.

I make myself loosen my arms.

She leans back enough to look up at me. Her cheeks are pink. Her eyes are wet.

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do.”

“No.”

Her eyebrows lift.

I know that look.

Apparently she knows mine too.

“Are we going to argue about whether I’m allowed to thank you?”

“Yes.”

A tiny smile. “Fine. Then I won’t thank you.”

“Good.”

“I’ll just be quietly appreciative.”

“Noelle.”

“Silently grateful.”

I shake my head.