A Little Bit of Everything

Eventually I rolled slowly onto my other side to face him. My fingers slid into his hair, pushing it away from his forehead, combing through the soft sleep-tangled strands. He exhaled at the touch, eyes still half-closed, leaning into my palm like he always did.

“Did you set an alarm for seduction?” I murmured.

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Natural talent.”

I traced my thumb over his eyebrow, down the bridge of his nose. “Very festive of you.”

“Thought I’d start the day strong.”

I giggled, and his eyes warmed at the sound of it. He tipped his forehead lightly against mine, just breathing me in for a second before his mouth found mine.

He kissed me softly. A brush of lips. Then again, slower. His hand travelled over my waist, up my side, settling at my ribs as though reacquainting himself with me after the night.

The world outside the room felt distant. Suspended.

The kiss deepened in increments. Unhurried. Exploratory. He made a quiet sound against my lips and shifted closer, one thigh pressing between mine. The sheet tangled around our legs as our bodies aligned naturally, familiar and close.

His thumb brushed over my breast before settling again at my waist, drawing me flush against him. I could feel him fully awake now, the lazy teasing replaced with something heavier, more focused.

I let my mouth wander — down his jaw, along his throat — feeling the way his breath changed under my touch. His hands tightened at my back, sliding lower, pulling me with him as we shifted under the covers.

He guided my thigh a little higher, resting it over his hip so we stayed perfectly aligned, chest to chest, breath mingling. His fingers slipped between us, tracing me with the same patient reverence. I moaned against his mouth when he found the right rhythm, soft circles that made my hips rock instinctively towards his hand.

“Shh. We have to be quiet baby,” he whispered, voice low and rough with morning.

I kissed the corner of his mouth, then his lower lip, catching it gently between my teeth before soothing it with my tongue. My own hand drifted down, wrapping around him. He groaned quietly, the sound vibrating against my lips as I guided him to me.

I sighed into his mouth as he filled me completely, our bodies slotting together like they’d been made for exactly this closeness.

For a long moment he stayed still inside me, simply holding me, letting us both feel the deep intimacy of it. My leg tightened around him, drawing him impossibly closer.

He began to move then — shallow, gentle rocks of his hips, and I met him with the same small movement. No rush. Just the slow, rolling glide of bodies that already knew each other by heart.

He kissed me through every careful movement, swallowing the soft sounds I couldn’t quite keep inside.

I watched his face as we moved together. His mouth parted on each breath, eyes fixed on mine, the tenderness there catching me off guard, even now.

The pleasure gathered steadily, coiling low. My breathing faltered first. My fingers curled at his shoulder, then into his hair again, holding him there as my body tightened around him.

I felt him tense beneath my hands, trying to steady himself. A stifled sound escaped him, the effort to stay quiet written plainly in his face.

The release came slowly — a cresting wave rather than a crash. I clung to him as he followed a heartbeat later, burying his face in my neck, his breath hot against my skin.

He stayed there a moment longer, cradling me close as his breathing began to settle. Then he gathered me back against his chest, pressing a kiss into my hair as the sky beyond the window shifted from indigo to pale gold. We lay there like that, tangled and warm, watching the light creep slowly across the ceiling.

I tilted my head to look toward the window as the first proper stripe of sun spilled across the quilt. “Your dad was right,” I murmured. “About the morning light.”

Austin followed my gaze, then looked back at me. “Yeah,” he said, a small smile touching his mouth. “He was.”

He held my face for a second, thumb brushing lightly along my cheekbone, like he was committing the moment to memory.

Downstairs, a door thudded. A child’s voice carried up the stairwell, bright and impossibly awake.

Austin let out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “Guess that’s our cue.” He stayed where he was, looking at me like he was weighing something.

I raised an eyebrow. “We could ignore it.”

“Tempting,” he said, considering that very seriously for a second. He pressed his mouth to mine again, like he wasn’t quite ready to give the morning up.

Another crash of noise from downstairs.

He groaned softly. “Alright,” he murmured against my lips, then he pushed himself upright, running a hand through his hair.

“Race you downstairs?”

The living room was holding itself together by sheer willpower. Stockings still hung in a neat row across the mantel. The kids were on the floor in their pyjamas, orbiting the tree without touching it, voices pitched high with the effort of waiting. Someone was still half-asleep on the sofa.

Coffee steamed on the kitchen island. David glanced over from where he was lining up mugs. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Austin said.

Tracy handed me a cup as I stepped into the kitchen. “You two alright?”

“Good, thanks.” I said, wrapping my hands around it.

“Have they cracked yet?” Austin asked, tipping his head toward the kids.

“They’re waiting on your grandpa,” David said, glancing toward the back of the house.

“You’re not opening anything without him,” Austin’s grandma warned the kids, who collectively groaned.

As if summoned, his granddad appeared in the doorway, pausing just long enough to take in the room. “Horses don’t care what day it is,” he said mildly. “They’ll be wanting their breakfast.”

“Morning,” he added.

“Merry Christmas,” a few people echoed.

He stepped inside, cutting across toward the back door, reaching up to the peg for his jacket and slipping it on before settling his hat into place.

I watched him for a second. There was something about the quiet practicality of it that I liked — the fact that Christmas morning didn’t cancel everything else. The day still started the way it always did.

I set my coffee down. “Do you need a hand?”

He looked at me, surprised but not dismissive. “You don’t have to.”

“I’d like to.” I said. “I like animals. They’re easier than small children.”

Austin laughed under his breath.

His granddad’s mouth twitched. “That so?”

“I teach Year Four,” I said. “Trust me.”

That did it — the hint of a proper smile now. “Alright then.”

Austin was already moving, a faint smile pulling at his mouth like he’d expected that. “I’ll come too.”

His grandma called after us, “Don’t disappear on us.”

“We won’t,” Austin said, but he was looking at me in that quiet, pleased way that made my chest feel warm.

The air felt sharper than yesterday, that early chill that hadn’t yet burned off. Austin bumped his shoulder lightly against mine as we crossed toward the barn. “You realise this involves actual work.”

“I volunteered,” I said. “I stand by it.”

He smiled at that.

The barn door rolled open with a low metal groan. Inside, it was warmer — thick with the smell of hay and leather, something earthy and alive. The horses shifted in their stalls as we stepped in, heads lifting, ears flicking forward.

“They know the routine,” his granddad said, already scooping feed into a metal bucket.

The first horse nudged over her stall door before I’d even reached her. I laughed softly and ran a hand down her neck, feeling the steady heat of her under my palm.

“Hi,” I murmured. “She’s beautiful.”

Austin leaned against the next stall. “She knows it.”

His granddad snorted quietly. “One scoop. She’ll try and bully you. Don’t let her.”

We worked our way down the aisle — Austin carrying buckets two at a time, me topping up water, giving quick brushes along flanks where straw had clung overnight. It wasn’t complicated, but it was satisfying. The barn filled with the soft rhythm of feed hitting troughs, the low rumble of content chewing.

Once the buckets were done, his granddad grabbed a rake and shovel from the wall and stepped into the first stall. I reached automatically for the spare leaning beside it.

He looked at me, then at the shovel. “You don’t wanna be shovelling shit on Christmas morning.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I do,” he replied simply. He jerked his chin toward the open barn door. “Take two of them round the paddock while I do this. Stretch their legs. I’ll come get you when I’m done.”

I hesitated. “Are you sure? I don’t want to hold everyone up.”

“They’re not starting without me,” he said, already working the rake through the straw. “Go on.”

Austin was already unclipping two halters. “Still in?” he asked me quietly.

I smiled. “Definitely.”

“Don’t let him show off.”

“I never show off,” Austin said.

His granddad just looked at him.

A few minutes later we were out in the pale morning light, leading two horses into the paddock. Austin glanced over at me as I adjusted my grip. “Still easier than Year Four?”

I considered it. “Marginally.”

He laughed, the sound carrying easily in the open air.

He clipped the leads to the fence and disappeared back into the barn for a minute. When he returned, he had two light saddles balanced over his shoulder.

He caught the look on my face.

“What?” he said. “You thought we were just going to walk them?”

“I was hoping you’d forgotten how this works.”

“Not a chance.”

He set them down and worked with quiet efficiency, lifting one into place and tightening the girth with practiced hands. There was something about watching him do it — the confidence of it, the way he didn’t have to think — that did something unfair to my concentration.

He guided the mare a little closer to the fence and turned to me. “Foot in the stirrup,” he said, taking the reins in one hand.

I slid my boot into place.

“Push up.”

“This feels suspiciously like a trust exercise.”

“Just don’t knee me in the face.”

I laughed, pushing up, then steadying myself with a hand on the saddle as I swung my leg over. The horse shifted beneath me and I grabbed the front of the saddle instinctively.

Austin looked up at me, amused. “You’re fine. She’s not going anywhere.”

He mounted his own horse without ceremony, settling into the saddle with that same unthinking familiarity.

“You good?” he asked.

“I think so.”

“Just let her walk,” he said. “She’ll follow.”

He moved first, slow and easy, and my mare stepped after his without hesitation. For the first stretch I concentrated on staying upright. He stayed alongside, close enough that our boots occasionally brushed. We made it halfway round before I realised I wasn’t thinking about every step anymore.

Austin glanced over. “There it is.”

“There what is?”

“You relaxing.”

“I was relaxed.”

He raised an eyebrow.

I rolled my eyes back at him. The mare picked up a little energy beneath me and I stiffened automatically.

“Hey,” he said, voice lowering slightly. “She’s fine.”

I nodded, forcing my shoulders down.

We reached the far end of the paddock and turned back toward the barn. This time I felt the rhythm instead of fighting it. The reins didn’t feel like lifelines anymore.

I glanced over at him. He shortened the reins slightly as we turned, guiding his horse with an easy shift of his weight. It looked effortless. Irritatingly so.

“What?” he said, catching it.

“You look very convincing.”

“At walking?”

“At… this.” I gestured vaguely. “The whole rancher thing.”

I let my eyes travel over him deliberately this time — the way he sat in the saddle, loose, reins held easy in one hand.

He caught it.

“Oh,” he said.

“Yeah.”

We rode a few more strides.

I tilted my head slightly. “What’s that phrase?”

He drew in a breath.

I didn’t rush it. “Save a horse…”

He closed his eyes briefly.

“…ride a—”

He barked out a laugh before I finished. “If you finish that sentence,” he said evenly, “I’m not responsible for what happens next.”

I smiled. “I’m just appreciating the view.”

His mouth curved a fraction more at that, but he didn’t rise to it. He nudged his horse forward instead, and I followed, the two of them settling into an easy line toward the gate. The mare’s stride rolled steady beneath me, and this time I moved with her without thinking about it. The barn came back into view ahead of us, sunlight catching on the roofline.

His granddad stepped out, wiping his hands on a rag, and leaned against the fence, watching as we came round. I felt it, that quiet observation, and instinctively straightened a fraction, keeping the mare steady as we slowed.

Austin glanced over at him. “She’s a quick study.”

His granddad’s eyes moved from him to me. “Well,” he said after a moment, “she’s sitting it right.”

That did more for me than any teasing ever could.

Austin slowed his horse near the gate and mine followed, copying the movement more than responding to anything I did. He dismounted first and came around to me. This time, when I swung down, I did it properly — no scramble, no grabbing. His hands settled at my waist anyway, steadying me until both boots hit the ground.

He didn’t let go straight away. “Better than a Lime bike?” he asked.

I smiled. “Different league.”

He huffed a quiet laugh and stepped back, unclipping the reins, then glanced at me again before turning away, the hint of a smile still there.

The house was louder when we came back in. More people awake, more voices layered on top of each other, the kitchen busier than when we'd left. Someone had put Christmas music on — low enough to talk over, loud enough to notice.

Tracy pressed a fresh coffee into my hands before I'd even sat down. “Good timing. We've been stalling them.”

The kids were arranged around the tree with the kind of barely contained energy that meant they'd been told to wait and were reaching their limit. His granddad took his time getting settled — hat off, coffee accepted, a brief word with David about something outside — and then nodded, just once, and the whole thing started.

Tags were read out, things passed around the room. Austin opened something from Ashley that made him groan and her laugh so hard she had to put her drink down. His grandma sat near the back, not rushing with her own, just watching the room with that quiet pleasure of being surrounded by people she'd raised. At some point one of the kids handed me a chocolate coin from their stocking without being asked, and I thanked her so seriously that she looked pleased with herself for the rest of the morning.

The energy came down gradually. Paper collected, people spreading out through the house. Austin settled beside me on the sofa, his arm finding its usual place along the back behind my shoulders, thumb tracing the nape of my neck without thinking about it.

“I'm going to ring Mum,” I said, leaning into him. “Before it gets too late over there.”

“Course.” He kissed my temple. “Tell her happy Christmas from me.”

I grabbed my phone and slipped out through the back door, the light on the porch was golden and warm, the sun high enough now that the chill had burned off entirely. I settled onto the top step and called Mum.

She answered almost immediately. She was on the sofa, feet tucked up, a glass of wine in hand, the living room behind her lit up and busy. Auntie Sue appeared over her shoulder within seconds, cheeks flushed in the way that said the wine had been flowing for a while.

“Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas, Ange. Oh — where are you? What's behind you?”

I turned the phone and gave them the slow pan — the sweep of the paddock, the barn, the horses standing quiet in the sun, the mountains low and hazy on the horizon.

“Bloody hell,” Auntie Sue said.

“I know.”

“That's not real. That's a screensaver.”

I laughed. “I keep staring at it and waiting for it to stop being impressive and it hasn't yet.”

Mum shook her head slowly. “It's gorgeous. What time is it there?”

“Morning still.”

“Morning! We've already had pudding. You're behind.”

“How's it been?” Mum asked. “Tell me everything. Have you been on a horse yet?”

I laughed. “First thing this morning, actually.”

“You're joking.”

“I'm not. Austin's granddad took us out before presents. He feeds them every morning so we went down to the barn to help, and then he had us take two of them out round the paddock.”

“And you actually got on one?”

“I actually got on one.”

“Look at you,” Mum said, shaking her head. “I can't picture it.”

Auntie Sue leaned back in. “How's his family been with you?”

“Really lovely. His grandma's great — really warm, no fuss. And his dad's been so welcoming. It's a lot of people but it doesn't feel overwhelming, if that makes sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Mum said.

The back door opened behind me and Austin stepped out, two mugs in his hands. He paused when he saw I was still on the phone, eyebrows raised in a question. I waved him over. He came and sat beside me on the step, handing me a coffee, and leaned into frame.

Mum's face did that thing it does — the barely contained delight she tried to pass off as casual warmth. “Austin! Merry Christmas. Are you looking after my girl?”

“I'm trying,” he said, grinning. “She doesn't make it easy.”

“You let her on a horse?”

“My grandpa's idea, not mine. But she took to it. He was impressed, and he's not easy to impress.”

Auntie Sue reappeared. “Did she fall off?”

“No, I didn't fall off. Why are you even asking that?”

“Because we've seen you on a bicycle,” Mum said.

Austin laughed — properly, the kind that creased his eyes — and I shoved his arm lightly, which only made him laugh harder.

“His granddad said I was sitting it right,” I told her, trying to reclaim some dignity. “That's basically a five-star review around here.”

“They've adopted her,” Austin said. “I'm not sure they'll let her leave.”

Mum laughed, and I caught the way she looked at him — fond, assessing, pleased with what she found.

We talked for a few more minutes — Mum filling us in on their day, the dinner they'd just finished, the fact that my uncle had burned the pigs in blankets and nobody was letting him forget it. I could hear the noise of the house behind her, Sue's kids in the background, someone clattering in the kitchen. It sounded warm and full and far away.

Eventually Mum said she'd let us go, and the goodbye stretched the way phone calls with her always did — one more thing, then another, then love you, then one more thing.

“Love you, Mum.”

“Love you, Ange. Speak to you soon.”

I put my phone down and sat there for a second, the sun warm across my shoulders.

Austin nudged my knee with his. “You wanna call Cal?”

“Yeah, let's do it before he's too far gone.”

Austin pulled up Callum's number and propped the phone between us on the step. Callum answered looking exactly how I expected — slightly rumpled, paper crown on, something fizzy in his hand, his mum's living room bright and loud behind him.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, grinning wide when he saw both of us. “About time. I've been sat here for ages.”

“Merry Christmas, Cal,” I said.

“Merry Christmas,” Austin said, leaning into frame.

“Look at you two. All sun-kissed and smug. How's it going over there?”

“Really good,” I said.

“Yeah, it's been amazing,” Austin said. “I forget how much I love it out here until I'm back.”

“I can see the sky behind you and it's making me feel personally attacked,” Callum said. He took a sip of his drink. “So what's the vibe? Big family thing?”

“Everyone came in last night,” Austin said. “Cousins, kids, the whole deal. My grandma's been cooking since dawn.”

“Sounds brilliant. We had a full house too — Mum went all out. I've eaten so much I might not move again.”

“What did she do?” I asked.

“The works. Turkey, all the trimmings, a ham that was genuinely the size of a small child, four different puddings. I've been on the sofa since about half three. It was good though. Really good. She's happy.”

“How is your mom?” Austin asked.

“She's great. She keeps asking when you're both coming to visit. I think she likes you more than she likes me at this point.”

“Probably true,” I said.

“Almost certainly true,” Austin said.

“Wow. Merry Christmas to me.” But he was smiling. “So what have you done today?”

“Presents this morning,” I said. “Before that we went out to the barn with Austin's granddad — he looks after the horses every day, so we helped him feed them and then took a couple out round the paddock.”

“Wait — you rode a horse?”

“Yeah.”

Callum looked at Austin. Austin nodded.

“Were you scared?”

“A bit, at first. But it was really fun once I stopped overthinking it.”

“That's your problem with most things,” he said, but gently. He shook his head. “Fair play though. I mean, I saw him on a horse in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood.” He nodded at Austin. “Anyone who can ride a horse like that — I’m surprised you made it to breakfast.”

Austin ducked his head, laughing. I kept my face very, very neutral — considering how the morning had actually gone. “Moving on,” I said.

The conversation drifted after that, both of them falling into that easy, overlapping rhythm they'd built on set. I sat between them, shoulder pressed against Austin's, chipping in when I had something to add or when Callum said something that deserved pushing back on, but mostly just enjoying the sound of them together — this thing they had that existed alongside me but didn't depend on me. They'd found each other and built something real, and it still made me quietly glad every time I saw it.

“Right," Callum said after a while, glancing off-screen. “I should probably go and be sociable. Mum keeps walking past the door and sighing.”

“Go," I said. “We'll talk properly when I'm back.”

His face softened for a second — the real one, underneath everything else. “Happy Christmas, Ange. I'm glad it's going well.”

“Happy Christmas, Cal.”

He looked at Austin. “Happy Christmas, mate. Take care of each other.”

“Always,” Austin said.

Callum blew a kiss at the screen and hung up.

The meal, when it finally came together, was enormous. Plates were passed in every direction, chairs squeezed closer to fit everyone around the table, elbows bumped and apologies waved away. I lost count of how many dishes there were. Austin loaded my plate before I could protest, and when I raised an eyebrow at the quantity, he just shrugged. “It's Christmas.”

Conversation flowed easily — stories told over each other, someone's glass refilled before they'd noticed it was empty, kids excused and un-excused from the table in waves.

Afterwards, the table was cleared with the same efficient chaos it had been set. Dishes stacked, leftovers wrapped, someone running water in the kitchen while the rest of the house sank into that post-dinner heaviness where everyone swears they'll never eat again.

It was David who got up first. He crossed to the cabinet in the den with the deliberate energy of someone performing a tradition, and came back carrying a stack of boxes that had clearly seen years of use — corners battered, lids held on with elastic bands, the cardboard soft with age. The room recognised them before he'd set them down.

Teams formed with the speed of long experience — a quick negotiation of ages, abilities, and grudges from previous years. Austin and I ended up together with two of the kids and one of the older cousins.

The first game out of the pile was one of those word-guessing ones — describe the thing on the card without saying the banned words underneath. The box looked like it had been through a war. Half the cards were dog-eared. The timer had been replaced by someone's phone.

Ashley's team went first and set a decent pace — nothing spectacular, a few cards lost to arguments about whether a clue counted or not. Anthony's team did about the same, one of the kids carrying them through a round that the adults fumbled.

Then it was us.

One of the kids took the cards first. He was quick, confident, clearly a veteran. “It’s the thing on the side of the road that people walk on —”

“Pavement,” I said.

“No.” He looked at me like I’d answered in a completely different language, which I suppose I had.

“Sidewalk!” Austin and the cousin said at the same time.

“Oh right. Yeah. Sorry.”

“Okay — you put it on a cut when you're bleeding, it's small and sticky —”

"Plaster,” I said.

Same look.

“Band-aid,” Austin said.

“That's a brand name,” I said.

“That's what it's called.” He looked at me and smiled.

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep a straight face. “It's called a plaster.”

“Next card,” David called from across the room, tapping the timer.

The kid kept going. “The thing in your kitchen where you keep all the cold food —”

“Fridge!” we all said at once. He nodded, relieved to have one without a language barrier.

The kids did well — got us through five. The cousin managed four. Solid, nothing special. Then Austin took the cards.

He flipped the first one. “You wear it on your wrist, tells you the time —”

“Watch!” half the room shouted.

He turned the next card, glanced at it, and looked straight at me. “What you put too much of in everything we cook.”

I burst out laughing. “Garlic.”

He flipped the next card and his face lit up. He cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and dropped his voice about three octaves. “I’ll be back.”

“Schwarzenegger,” I said.

“Arnie!” the cousin said at the same time.

One of the kids frowned. “Who?”

“The Terminator,” Austin said.

“Oh! Do it again!”

“We’re on the clock.” But he was grinning. He flipped the next card, read it, and immediately stood up. “Okay — it’s what you do in the ocean on a board —” He planted his feet wide apart and bent his knees, arms out, swaying side to side. “— and you balance, and you go like this —”

“Surfing!” about four people yelled at once.

He sat back down, entirely unbothered. “I could’ve gone pro.”

“At surfing?” I asked.

“At this game.”

I took the cards from him and Austin sat back, arms folded, ready.

“Okay,” I said, flipping the first card. "Cold. White. Falls from the sky.”

"Snow.”

I flipped. “You write with it, but not a pen.”

“Pencil.”

Flipped. “Big grey animal, long trunk —”

“Elephant.”

“This is too easy,” Ashley said from across the room.

I flipped the next card. “Cut potatoes, you put salt and vinegar on them.”

“Fries.” Austin said.

“No, not fries. The chunky ones. Like, proper ones. With fish.”

“Thick-cut fries!” the cousin tried. “Steak fries!”

“No —” And then it hit me. Chips. American chips. Crisps. The card meant crisps.

“Oh shi—” I caught myself. “Sorry.”

One of the kids on our team was giggling. Across the room, Ashley had her hand over her mouth. His granddad looked quietly entertained from his armchair.

I tried a different angle. “What you bet with at a casino —”

“Chips?”

“Yes!”

“Wait, why did you describe fries if the word was chips?”

“Because in England fries are chips and chips are crisps. I can’t believe I’ve just wasted about thirty seconds describing something that doesn’t exist in this country.”

Austin was properly gone now, head tipped back, the kind of laugh where no sound comes out for a second.

By the time the timer went, we'd cleared eleven.

“Eleven?” Anthony said.

“Even with subtitles,” Austin added.

“Eleven is obscene,” Ashley said. “That's — no. That's not allowed. You two barely speak the same language and you still got eleven.”

Austin caught my eye and I could see it — the delight, warm and private, underneath the competitive glow. We were good at this. Not because we spoke the same way, but because we thought the same way. The words didn't matter if you already knew where the other person was heading.

His granddad leaned back in his chair. “Split 'em up.”

“What?” Austin said, turning.

“Too good,” his granddad said simply.

Anthony was already nodding. “You two — you're too good together. It's not fair on anyone else.”

“It's fun for us,” Austin said.

“Exactly. That's the problem.”

David reshuffled the teams without waiting for further debate. Austin went with Anthony and a couple of the kids. I went with Ashley, David, and the rest.

Austin looked at me across the rearranged room. I looked back.

“Scared?” I said.

Something shifted in his face. Warm, competitive, completely alive.

“Not even slightly,” he said.

David dug deeper into the boxes after that and pulled out what looked like years’ worth of accumulated Christmas challenges — cards with instructions, a stopwatch, a bag of random supplies. The kind of thing a family builds up over time without ever throwing any of it away.

The rounds came fast. Whatever the challenge was, Austin and I ended up matched against each other every time — whether by design or because nobody else wanted to get between us. And every time, it got worse.

He cheated first. I want that on the record. The very first round, his elbow came across into my space before David had even said go, blocking me out before I’d started. When I shoved it back he looked at me like he had no idea what I was talking about.

After that, all bets were off.

I blocked his hand during a grabbing round and he just picked mine up and moved it. I leaned into him to throw off his balance and he leaned back harder until I nearly fell off my chair. He started reaching across me before the timer even began, and when I tried to push his arm down he grabbed my wrist and held it against the table, grinning, answering something with his free hand while I tried to wrestle free.

“That is cheating,” I said.

“That is multitasking.”

By the third or fourth round we’d given up on any pretence of playing fairly. He’d nudge my shoulder right as I was concentrating. I’d put my hand over his eyes. He stacked something out of my reach and when I stretched for it he held me back with one arm, casual as anything, like he was leaning on a fence. I kicked him under the table and he kicked me back and neither of us stopped smiling the entire time.

The kids thought it was the greatest thing they’d ever seen. Ashley kept saying she was going to film it and neither of us cared. Anthony gave up keeping score somewhere around round five. David kept trying to referee and kept getting ignored.

At one point — I don’t even remember what the challenge was — we both went for the same thing at the same time and his hand landed on top of mine and I tried to pull it away and he held on, laughing, and I was laughing too, and the whole room was laughing, and nobody was playing the game anymore. We were just two people trying to win something that had stopped mattering about ten minutes ago, too stubborn and too happy to stop.

His grandma appeared in the kitchen doorway eventually, drink in hand, and surveyed the wreckage with the resigned expression of a woman who had seen every version of this for decades.

His granddad hadn’t moved from his armchair. But he was watching. And the look on his face was one I hadn’t seen from him before. Like he was satisfied with the shape of things.

The house wound down after that. Games packed away, more drinks distributed, the kids drifting to the floor in front of the TV. The day had finally caught up with everyone.

Austin pulled me onto the sofa beside him, arm around my shoulders, my legs tucked up against his side. The room was warm and dim and full of the kind of noise that doesn’t ask anything of you.

“Good Christmas?” he murmured against my hair.

I leaned into him. “The best.”

Taglist:

♡ Jaafar never lets you pay. It doesn't matter what it is: coffee, dinner, movie tickets, random snacks you grabbed while walking around. The second you reach for your purse, he's already paid for it. At some point, you stop trying because you know you're not winning that argument.

♡ Jaafar is a complete gentleman. Opening doors, pulling out your chair, helping you take off your jacket, walking on the outside of the sidewalk closest to the street. Not because he's trying to impress you, but because that's how he was raised.

♡ He was so nervous before your first date. Scared, nervous, desperate to impress you, he kept changing outfits, overthinking every little detail, and asking for advice from jermajesty that he was probably going to ignore anyway.

♡ Gym dates are very common. Sometimes you're both actually working out. Most of the other times you're spending more time talking and joking rather than exercising.

♡ Food dates are one of his favorites. Trying new restaurants, finding little spots, ordering way too much food for just two people, and stealing off of each other's plates even though you both ordered your own food. (loves to buy different types of pizza each and split it)

♡ Family day dates are a huge thing for him. Whether it's spending time with his family, attending family events like barbecues, or just hanging out together (family movie night), he loves including you in that part of his life.

♡ Movie dates are incredibly romantic with him. You're cuddled up watching something sweet and making commentary through the entire movie.

♡ He knew he wanted to marry you in the middle of your first date. He'll deny how quickly it happened if anybody asks, but years later he can still remember every detail from that night.

♡ He takes anniversaries VERY seriously. One month. Three months. Six months. One year. He remembers all of them. 

♡ He loves matching outfits or color coordinating with you. He'll pretend it's an accident, but somehow the two of you always end up looking like a Pinterest board.

♡ He remembers everything. The first thing you ordered together, the first movie you watched, your favorite snacks, random stories you've told him months ago. When you ask him about it the first time, he said, “Everything about you is worth remembering” (oh lord why can't I have him) 

♡ His phone is full of photos of you. Not because he wants to post them. He just likes capturing little moments that make him happy so he can look back at them. (I just thought about his ass while writing that line)

♡ His love language is quality time. He doesn't need some huge date every week. Sometimes his favorite dates are the small ones where it's just the two of you relaxing together.

Extras ♡

♡ If you're a Michael fan, he thinks it's so funny. The first time you start talking about Michael with so much excitement, he's trying so hard not to laugh because you're sitting there talking about his uncle.

♡ He smells amazingly good. The type of cologne that stays on hoodies, jackets, and car seats even days later, no matter how many people use it or wear it after him.

♡ He only lets you touch his hair and only you; everybody notices and won't stop teasing him about it, especially his brothers. 

♡ Jaafar, who loves having you sit on his lap whenever the two of you are alone. At first, it starts innocently enough. You're playing with his hair while he's scrolling on his phone, your legs in his lap, his arms around your waist. Then he starts pressing kisses against your neck. One. Then another. Then another. Lower than the last. And every single time he feels you pause for a second with your hands still in his hair, he gets this little smile on his face because he knows exactly what he's doin." ♡

Mood-board

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