Work Text:
It was their first Christmas together.
Not the first one spent in the same room, or at the office holiday party making small talk over store-bought cookies. This was different. This one had weight. It was the first Christmas as them, as Sharon and Andy, as a pair who had finally crossed that invisible but undeniable threshold between maybe and absolutely.
Things hadn’t rushed. The beginning had been slow, measured even. Sharon had been careful. Sometimes, achingly so. And Andy had gotten it. The complications weren’t hidden, they involved work, protocol, Rusty, and family, with a few extra knots for good measure. And beneath all that, there was a fear that refused to fade, no matter how much someone cared. After Jack, Sharon had learned to keep her walls intact, tidy and tall, every brick laid with reason. Andy never tried to scale them, he just waited on the other side.
Eventually, caution gave way. Trust began to slip through the cracks. And trust, well, it softened into something warmer. A tenderness that revealed itself whenever Sharon smiled at him without thinking, or when she leaned closer while he spoke, forgetting she hadn’t always done that.
One night, the usual goodnight kiss lingered longer than planned, long enough for her to forget she was still standing in the doorway with her heels half-off. The kisses that followed didn’t stop at the door. They happened on the couch, in moments when Rusty was out, between shared laughter and silences that spoke louder than anything they said aloud.
Eventually, that turned into a conversation about having overnight guests in the condo. Sharon had tiptoed into the topic with care, probably too much. But Rusty, bless him, had jumped to conclusions before she even finished the sentence. He’d thought she was talking about his guests, looked about ready to move out. When she clarified that no, she meant Andy, there’d been a pause, a blend of disbelief, mild horror, and eventual, grudging acceptance. After that, Andy’s overnights turned into entire weekends. And those weekends stopped feeling like visits. They started feeling like home.
Now, some months later, they’d settled into a steady ease. A life simple and shared, with coffee mugs left out, lively debates over the Sunday paper, and the same tired argument over who was cooking. And now, with Christmas looming on the calendar, Andy wanted to make it count.
Sharon adored Christmas. Anyone close to her learned that quickly. She had decade-labeled storage bins, ornament inventories tracked on a spreadsheet, and very strong feelings about garland placement that could put a city planner to shame. Her soft spot was angel ornaments, pieces that seemed ready to lift off the tree when the light caught them. So when Andy came across a half-buried ad for a weekend class titled “Make Your Own Christmas Ornaments!” he barely hesitated. Perfect, he thought.
Originally, he’d just meant to sign Sharon up.
It was supposed to be a sweet surprise, a little festive, a little silly, thoughtful in that low-key way she appreciated. But then the idea didn’t stop there. It grew roots. What if he went too? What if he actually made her something, a one-of-a-kind ornament she could hang on the tree every year and, maybe, smile at knowing he’d crafted it just for her?
He could already picture her face, that look she gave when she was both amused and secretly touched, the one that began with a small arch of her brow, a spark of teasing she let fade before it reached her lips. The one that, for reasons he never fully understood, made him feel like he’d finally done one thing right.
So, two spots it was. One for her. One for him.
At first, he figured they’d go together. He could almost see it, both of them sitting at one of those plastic tables covered in glitter and glue sticks, pretending not to care who’s ornament came out better, but very much caring. Laughing when one of them messed up, bickering about ribbon colors like it mattered more than it did. A moment light. Fun.
But then a second thought stuck in his head. What if he made it himself? He could work on the ornament alone, taking his time, putting a little of himself into it before finally handing it to her when it was done. Watching her face when she figured it out. That moment of surprise, of her seeing what he’d done and realizing the ornament held an intention of its own, a small gesture meant only for her. That was the version he wanted.
So, a few days later, he showed up at her place with a small envelope. He’d tied a thin red ribbon around it, maybe trying a little too hard, but not really caring. Sharon had been curled up on the couch, glasses slipping low on her nose, half her hair pinned back in that careful-but-not-trying way he’d grown helplessly fond of. She was reading a file she’d sworn she’d ignore until Monday.
When she opened the door and saw him there, her whole face shifted. The edges softened. She stepped aside without saying anything, and he stepped in, already feeling that quiet ease that only came from being welcomed without words.
They sat on the couch without hurry, wrapped in the easy silence that familiarity always allows. He kept the envelope on his lap for a while, fingers brushing the ribbon while she finally closed the file and pushed it away, her gesture suggesting it had never really mattered. There was something about her in these everyday moments that warmed his core in a way that left him unsteady.
He handed her the envelope, didn’t say anything. Just looked at her, a hint of a grin tugging at the side of his mouth, waiting to see what she’d do next.
She took the envelope with a familiar raised eyebrow, the look she gave whenever skepticism tangled with the suspicion he was up to mischief. “What did you do?” she asked, her voice light, its warmth tempered by the caution that comes from knowing him too well.
“Just open it,” he said, slouching against the arm of the couch, trying for nonchalance. He wasn’t fooling either of them. His pulse had already betrayed him.
She slipped the paper out, eyes narrowing for a split second in focus, and then he saw it. The shift. Her mouth curved first, just a hint at the corners, and then it bloomed, pulling the rest of her face into a brightness that reached everything. Her eyes — those ridiculously expressive eyes — lit up like the tree lights she’d already strung around her living room.
“Oh, Andy,” she breathed, and there it was. The smile he’d pictured, open in a way he loved. “You signed me up for this?”
He gave a little shrug, pretending he hadn’t already rehearsed the whole thing in his head. “Figured it had all the essentials, Christmas, structure, glitter explosions.”
She let out a soft laugh that rolled low in her throat, shaking her head as she studied the flyer. He watched her take it in slowly, her focus lingering on each word, careful in how she absorbed everything.
“It does sound fun,” she said, and just like that, the warmth in her voice wrapped around him, unasked for but unmistakable.
“I signed up too,” he added casually, watching her eyebrows lift again. Her gaze flicked up, her whole expression shifting as the pieces started to click into place. “Different sessions,” he continued. “You’re in the afternoon one. I’m going in the morning.”
That earned him a small crease between her brows. “Why?” she asked, mild curiosity in her voice. And maybe a little touched, though she didn’t say that part out loud.
He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. “I just thought... I’d make you something. You know. As a surprise.”
For a beat she remained silent, eyes steady on him. That long, quiet stare she gave when she was weighing things she didn’t have words for yet. And then her smile returned, slower this time, a smile that tightened his chest and set something fluttering inside him.
“In that case,” she said, her voice threaded with mischief, “we’ll make it fair. We exchange ornaments on Christmas Eve.”
He blinked, surprised by how easily she’d turned his gesture into a shared moment, one that belonged to both of them. “You want to?”
“Of course,” she replied, her smile tilting, knowing and bright. “If you get to surprise me, then I get to surprise you too.”
He laughed, but it came out quieter than he expected, more breath than sound. Underneath the joke was that same old rush that always hit when her eyes found his. He thought about how far they’d come, how naturally we rolled off her tongue now, and for a split second, he wondered if maybe this steady, ordinary sort of joy was what happiness was meant to feel like, calm, unhurried, and fully earned.
Which is how Andy Flynn ended up one Saturday morning surrounded by glitter, glue guns, and a roomful of surprisingly competitive retirees, all of them deeply committed to the fine art of holiday ornament-making. And him? Fully convinced he was about to create a heartfelt angel ornament for the woman he loved.
He’d be the first to admit, it was harder than it looked.
In his head, it had all seemed charmingly simple. A little ribbon here, a touch of glue there, maybe a snowflake sticker if he was feeling ambitious. But no one mentioned ceramic. Or molding tools. Or the fact that shaping something soft into something recognizable required a level of coordination he didn’t possess.
Now, to be fair, he was good with his hands. Sharon, more than anyone, could vouch for that. Just... not in a way that translated into fine motor crafts. Gift wrapping, for example, always ended up a disaster, with torn corners and tape everywhere, pure chaos halfway through. Anything involving glue or symmetry generally ended with him swearing under his breath and reaching for the duct tape.
Still, this wasn’t about being flawless. It was about effort. About trying, and maybe failing a little, but meaning it anyway.
The ceramic was supposed to be forgiving. Instead, it fought him the whole way, clinging to his fingers, tearing in all the wrong places, and absolutely refusing to resemble anything angelic. He shaped what he thought might be a head, or at least a reasonably round lump, smoothed it out with the edge of his sleeve, and moved on to the wings. They came out uneven — one longer than the other, the left one flopped like it had given up halfway through — but he decided to call it endearing asymmetry.
A little glitter here, a dangerously hot glob of glue there, and by the end, he had something that, if you squinted and tilted your head, maybe sort of resembled an angel. Probably.
The older woman beside him had been watching with the sort of polite curiosity that hovered somewhere between amusement and concern. She was petite, almost birdlike, with hair like fresh snow and glasses that refused to stay put no matter how many times she nudged them back up her nose.
They’d exchanged a few words at the start. Her name was Margaret, she was making ornaments for her grandkids, and she’d given him a knowing look when he mentioned he was crafting one for his girlfriend. Her eyes had twinkled then, mischievous, a spark that hinted at a lifetime of stories.
Now, as Andy brushed stray glitter off his shirt and turned his creation toward her with a touch of pride, Margaret leaned in slightly. Her eyebrows rose. A small frown appeared as she adjusted her glasses yet again and squinted at the ornament, her gaze intent, probing for a hidden truth. Her lips pressed together, and for a second he thought she was trying not to laugh.
“Well,” she said finally, voice walking the line between diplomatic and gently teasing, “she’s definitely going to be surprised.”
Andy blinked, still grinning. He took it as a compliment. “Yeah,” he chuckled, turning the lopsided thing in his hands. “It’s not exactly perfect, but I think she’ll like it. It’s supposed to be an angel, see? Wings. Robe. Sort of.”
Margaret made a small noise, a polite hum of agreement that said bless your heart more than absolutely. She nodded, eyes dipping back to her own project, a delicate ceramic ornament that somehow looked effortless in its perfection.
“Oh, I see it,” she said, the corner of her mouth twitching, a hint of amusement suggesting she was in on a joke he hadn’t quite caught.
He didn’t dwell on it. Maybe she wasn’t a fan of abstract ornament design. Or maybe she was just remembering some holiday craft catastrophe of her own. Either way, Andy let it go. The thing was glittery, heartfelt, and most importantly, made with his own hands. That had to count for something. Sharon wasn’t the kind of person who measured meaning in straight edges and symmetry. She’d get it. She’d hang it up, tilt her head, give him that small smile she saved for moments like this, and probably make a joke about the wings.
By the time the workshop wrapped, he was glitter-covered, slightly glue-burned, and unexpectedly proud of himself. He wrapped the ornament in tissue, careful with every fold, tucked it into a small box, and later at home tied a red ribbon around it with surprising care.
He sat back and looked at it when he was done. Just a box, tied with a bow. Crooked, slightly off-center, but still his. It wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot, but it was for her. And that was the whole point.
He smiled to himself, already picturing Sharon’s face when she opened the little box on Christmas Eve. The way her eyes would narrow, amusement pulling one way and suspicion the other, followed by that familiar smile that always tugged at the corners of her mouth when she was both touched and trying not to show it. Maybe she’d even say “Oh, Andy” again, in that tone she had, equal parts exasperated and full of love. Whatever she did, whatever she said, he couldn’t wait to see it.
Christmas Eve showed up faster than either of them had noticed.
December had blurred past in a mess of work calls, late nights, and frantic dashes through crowded stores with half-formed shopping lists. But now, the city had finally exhaled. Lights blinked softly from porches, laughter drifted out of warm windows, and everything outside felt hushed, wrapped in a rare peace that didn’t happen often enough.
From the start, Andy and Sharon had known they wanted to spend the evening together, but neither of them could quite imagine skipping time with family. It was Nicole, predictably, who’d solved it with one phone call and a firm offer for Christmas dinner at her place, with plenty of space and no arguments. Turned out, it was the perfect middle ground.
The two families blended more easily than anyone might have guessed, laughter moving freely around the table, bouncing off glassware and stories, rising into a warmth that filled the room and softened the night.
Nicole’s house smelled of roasted turkey and cinnamon sticks, a scent that tugged at an old nostalgia and made even the tired, skeptical corners of Andy’s mind soften. Across the table, Rick and Emily traded playful jabs with Rusty, their teasing easy and affectionate, shaped by time and the steady work of becoming family.
Sharon sat quietly for a moment, her chin in her hand, watching the scene. Her lips curved in a soft smile that asked for no attention. For years, the holidays had held a kind of bittersweet weight, bright on the outside but with gaps only she could feel. This year felt fuller. There were no empty chairs. No silences needing to be filled. The room buzzed with conversation, and beside her, Andy’s steady presence anchored it all, a calm weight that held everything in place.
Of course, Sandra was also there.
Andy’s ex-wife had a gift for being outwardly polite while slowly draining the patience from a room. A sideways comment here, an expertly timed smirk there. It wasn’t overt. It never was. But Andy felt every nudge, every raised eyebrow disguised as civility. Still, it was Christmas, and he wasn’t going to let it touch him tonight. Not when Sharon’s hand brushed his under the table now and then. Not when Rick leaned in with a perfectly timed one-liner that made him laugh before he could stop himself. Not when he glanced across the room and saw Sharon’s family smiling, perfectly at home in the same photo frame.
He caught Sharon’s eye during dessert, just as the conversation had melted into that overlapping murmur that happens when everyone’s full and content and no one’s in a hurry to leave. She was already looking at him, affection steady in her gaze, and a fullness in his chest drew tight in response. He smiled. She smiled back. One of those wordless looks that said everything and nothing: We got it right this year.
Eventually, the night began to taper off. Jackets were shrugged on. Foil-wrapped leftovers changed hands. There were still half-finished stories bouncing between people, a few reluctant goodbyes. Nicole pressed an extra plate of cookies into their hands on the way out, saying “for later” in that you-don’t-have-a-choice tone, and Andy somehow ended up carrying it as they stepped into the night.
The air carried the Los Angeles version of winter, mild yet crisp enough to make you zip your jacket and pretend it felt seasonal. Christmas-adjacent.
“I’ll drive,” he offered, and Sharon didn’t argue.
The car was already warm, the interior still carrying the faint scent of cinnamon and pine from earlier in the week. The Christmas station hummed quietly through the speakers, her choice lingering from some previous errand. Andy and Sharon didn’t talk much, but the silence between them felt easy with the ease that exists between two souls who love and understand one another.
Sharon sat beside him, relaxed, hands folded loosely in her lap. Every few seconds, the passing streetlights skimmed across her face in soft gold ribbons. In the back seat, Rick, Emily, and Rusty talked in bits and pieces and easy laughter, their voices dipping in and out of drowsy conversation. The hush that filled the front seat felt earned, an unspoken agreement that the night had been good enough to deserve a little peace.
Andy glanced at Sharon more than once. Just sideways. Quick. He didn’t think she noticed. But she did. Of course she did. Every time, she’d turn just slightly toward him, her mouth lifting in a subtle, private smile that made everything around them seem to pause for a heartbeat.
By the time they pulled up in front of the condo, the building was glowing with its usual lobby lights. A couple of wreaths still hung crookedly in the windows, half-hearted decorations from neighbors who meant well but never quite followed through.
He eased the car up to the curb and turned off the engine.
Rick, Emily, and Rusty didn’t wait. They were already halfway out of their seatbelts before the tires had stopped rolling. The doors opened, and all that warmth, the laughter, the energy, the comfort of shared space, poured out with them. They tossed out thank-yous and goodnights as they headed inside, their voices trailing off as they disappeared into the building.
Then, silence again.
Just him and Sharon. The faint tick of the engine cooling. Christmas lights reflected faintly in the windshield like stars someone had glued in place. She turned to him then, her face expectant, the look she wore whenever she sensed there was more to be said.
“You’re coming up,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Andy let out a soft laugh, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “Sharon, maybe I’ll just give it to you tomorrow,” he said, hesitating at the end, caught in a moment of doubt. His voice was light enough, but there was a hesitation under it, subtly unsure.
The box sat between them, deceptively plain. Wrapped neatly, tucked in just the right way. It didn’t look like much, but to him, it held more than he knew how to explain, and suddenly the idea of watching her open it felt a little too big.
Sharon didn’t press, but she saw it, the flicker of hesitation. She knew how to read him by now, how he sometimes used casualness as a cover, how he pulled back a little when something mattered too much. It was never about fear, it was about care. About that part of him that wanted to get it right, with the gesture woven into the moment. And she’d learned, slowly, how to meet that part of him. How to ease the tension he never admitted was there.
She smiled, shaking her head just a little. “You promised me a Christmas Eve exchange.” Her voice was soft, teasing, threaded with affection that made it hard to argue. “And I honor my deals.”
He chuckled as he turned toward her. “Sharon, I don’t want to intrude,” he murmured. “It’s late, and I know this is your family’s night.”
She gave him that look, the one that could stop someone mid-sentence without ever being sharp. Her eyes held a steady certainty that eased Andy’s heart and a warmth that drew him in almost unconsciously.
“Andy,” she said, gentler now, “you’re not intruding. You’re part of this. You’re part of us.”
That last word, simple as it was, landed in his chest like a heartbeat. Maybe it was the way she said it, with certainty. Or maybe it was hearing it aloud, the sound of us finding a place to rest.
He nodded once, his eyes finding hers, his smile small but full of something solid. “Okay,” he agreed softly, his voice full of warmth. “I’ll walk you up.”
The elevator ride was quiet in the way late nights tend to be. Somewhere down the hall, someone’s apartment had Christmas music playing, muffled and far off. Rusty leaned half-asleep against the paneling, Rick and Emily whispering behind them about a movie for tomorrow.
Sharon stood next to Andy, her shoulder brushing lightly against his arm, her perfume warm in the narrow space. No one spoke. And still, it felt like more was being said than silence could usually hold.
When the elevator doors slid open, they stepped out into the hallway in a small, calm cluster. Andy trailed behind, balancing the plate of cookies as if it were more fragile than it probably was, while Sharon unlocked the door with familiar ease, knowing exactly how the key would catch.
Inside, the condo welcomed them with a soft stillness that only exists in homes late at night. The only light came from the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room, its glow spilling across the floor in flickers of gold and green. Andy paused for a beat, just looking. The tree was as he remembered, meticulously dressed, every ornament with its own story, especially the angels. Sharon had a thing for them, and it showed. Each one hung with care, placed as though it mattered. Because to her, it did.
Emily, Rick, and Rusty didn’t go to bed right away.
Instead, the evening lingered. They stayed in the living room, saying little at first as they eased into the slow rhythm of post-dinner calm. The five of them sat close, passing the cookie plate back and forth, eating Sharon’s signature batch, the ones her kids always claimed were better than any bakery’s, though she’d never admit she cared, and sampling a few of the ones Nicole had insisted they take home. Rusty had set up a speaker earlier, and now carols drifted out at just the right volume, background music for a scene that felt almost too cozy to be real.
The teasing started with Sharon, of course. Rick and Emily zeroed in on her “color-coded ornament storage strategy” and the spreadsheet she kept for tracking what went where. She took it well, sipping tea and rolling her eyes with that long-suffering mother smile. But it didn’t take long before Andy became fair game too. Something about his wrapping skills or lack thereof. The tone was affectionate, just enough ribbing to say you’re one of us now.
And he laughed along with all of it. Honestly, he liked being the target. The way Sharon glanced at him through it all — with a smirk that softened into a glow — it made him feel like he was exactly where he belonged. Her eyes held no distance or caution, only an ease that felt earned.
That was the thing. As he sat there, cookie crumbs in his lap, lights twinkling on the tree, surrounded by voices that weren’t his but had somehow started to feel like home, a feeling far beyond welcome. He felt claimed. He felt loved.
Rusty stood first, groaning theatrically that he’d eaten enough to qualify as a cookie himself. Emily pressed a kiss to her mom’s cheek before disappearing down the hall. Rick lingered, of course, spinning out a story halfway through a yawn until Sharon gave him a look that translated cleanly to go to bed before I drag you there. He obeyed.
And just like that, it was quiet again. Only the carols remained, playing softly, almost dreamlike.
The apartment had gone still, but not in a lonely way. Sharon could still hear muffled voices drifting from the bedrooms, soft laughter and low murmurs, those late-night conversations shared only when you’re too full and too tired to care what time it is. They were probably talking about dinner. Or the cookies. Or her. She didn’t mind. In fact, her chest ached with it, a soft ache that came from knowing everyone under her roof was safe, full, and most of all happy.
She turned, then, toward Andy.
He hadn’t moved. One arm was still draped lazily over the back cushion, his whole body relaxed, the tension gone in the rare moments he forgot to brace himself. The light from the tree played across his face, casting warm gold along the angle of his jaw, and for a moment, she just looked at him.
That pull was still there, the same connection that had always lived between them, finding its place now that she was ready to let it.
When she finally spoke, her voice came velvety-soft with that hint of playfulness she only ever used when they were alone, the rest of the world dimmed out of frame. “You know,” she said, head tilting just slightly, lips curving with that slow, knowing smile that never failed to undo him a little, “this might be my favorite part of the night.”
Andy’s smile came a little lopsided, a warmth flickering behind it. He turned fully toward her, catching the shimmer of the tree lights in his eyes. “Oh yeah?” he said, love softening every word.
She hummed in reply, the sound drifting out in an unhurried murmur. “Mmm-hmm.” Her gaze dropped briefly to his mouth. Then, without another word, she closed the space between them and kissed him.
It started soft, almost careful, a kiss unhurried, certain of its own direction. But then it shifted, gaining shape. Her fingers found the back of his neck, slipped gently through the short hair there, and he responded in that instinctive rhythm they’d been learning together all along. His hand moved to her waist, grounding her, drawing her in just enough.
For a few calm seconds, everything else faded, whatever remnants of laughter still drifted from the hall, the muted hum of the stereo, even the lingering cookie crumbs they hadn’t bothered to clean up. All Sharon felt was the press of him, the heat where their bodies met, the easy rhythm of his breath as it mingled with hers.
And God, he was beautiful. Not in the shiny, magazine-cover kind of way, but in something quieter that snuck up on her. In the softness of his smile, in how he looked at her kids, with patience, with humor, already part of the mess and unwilling to be anywhere else. He fit without ever trying too hard. That kind of beauty had a gravity to it. It pulled at her, made her want to stay right there in that moment for as long as life would let her.
She could’ve kissed him all night. Let everything else fall away. Let herself forget, just for a while, the boundaries she spent years holding in place for others, for herself. But this wasn’t the moment to surrender to that depth of vulnerability. Not with her children just down the hall.
Still... it was Christmas. And maybe, just this once, she could afford a little carelessness.
So she leaned in closer, her pace softening, her fingers gliding from his neck to his shoulder, each movement intentional, tender. He met her halfway, and the kiss deepened, warmth spilling easily between them.
And then he laughed softly, the familiar sound breaking their harmony and drawing a smile to her lips. The smile lingered as she sighed, unwilling, not quite ready to let the moment end.
She kept her eyes half-closed, her body still leaning into the warmth that remained. “What?” she muttered, her voice caught somewhere between teasing and mildly annoyed.
Andy’s laugh came warm, a little apologetic. His hand was still resting gently against her side, fingers just barely moving. “Sharon,” he said, tipping his head slightly toward the hallway, “your kids are right there. We’re in the living room.”
She blinked at him, then let out a disbelieving laugh that curled up from her chest. “You’re kidding,” she said, her tone slipping into that sultry drawl she only used when she was amused or irritated, sometimes both. “You’re pulling the brakes? The great Andy Flynn suddenly turning cautious? Since when do you follow rules?”
He gave her a smile that came with a little shrug, a little guilt, and a lot of charm. She hated how effective it still was.
She narrowed her eyes, mock-suspicious. “I swear, if Provenza were here to hear this, he’d say I’m a bad influence. Or worse, that I’m ‘domesticating’ you.”
Andy chuckled, easing back a fraction to put a breath of space between them, though he didn’t go far. “Domesticating?” he repeated, laughing under his breath. “Says the woman trying to make out on the couch with her grown kids three rooms away.”
Sharon raised a brow, unbothered, her expression steady. “For once,” she said, her voice syrupy, “I’m not entirely opposed to letting your recklessness rub off on me.”
She leaned in slowly, lips parting in a smile that promised more than a kiss, and Andy felt his pulse skip, a response that had become familiar whenever she was near. Just as she got close enough to touch, he tilted his head and kissed her, gentle in its restraint.
She pulled back with another sigh, dramatic enough to make her point, her eyes narrowing in mock disapproval, though the tiny quirk at the corner of her mouth gave her away. He was playing her game now, and damn it, he was starting to get good at it.
He looked at her, eyes unguarded, that helpless smile tugging at his mouth again, slowly unraveling the composure she struggled to keep.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” he said gently, “and unless I imagined it, there was something said about exchanging ornaments.”
Sharon’s gaze dipped for a beat, and her expression shifted just a little. The smile that followed was slower, still trailing hints of heat but grounded now in something sweeter.
“There was,” she said, voice touched with amusement, still a little breathless.
Andy tilted his head toward the door, a little sheepish now. “Mine’s in the car.”
They’d agreed the ornament exchange would be just for them, something private between the two of them. A tradition tucked away inside the bigger, messier whirlwind of family, food, and holiday noise. A small thing, but theirs. And they wanted to keep it that way.
Andy’s grin turned boyish then, full of that spark she never quite managed to resist. “Alright,” he said, already shifting like he was about to stand, “I’ll go grab it.”
But before he could get up, Sharon’s hand slid into his. Her thumb brushed gently across his knuckles, and when he looked at her, her gaze didn’t ask so much as decide. He saw in her that resolve, that unshakable certainty she seemed to carry in her bones.
“In that case,” she said softly, her tone firm but full of affection, “bring your bag too.”
Andy froze for a second, his brow creasing slightly. “My bag?”
She nodded, still holding his gaze. Still smiling. “You’re not going home tonight,” she said simply. “Might as well unpack.”
He went still for a beat. Surprised, but not totally. Over the past few months, his things had started creeping into her space in quiet, practical ways. A toothbrush in the cabinet. Shaving cream by the sink. An extra shirt folded neatly in a drawer that hadn’t been empty for long. And his overnight bag, always in the trunk, always packed, just in case work gave them a night they could claim.
Still, hearing her say it so matter-of-fact, as though it were already decided, hit him somewhere deep, in a place that had stopped hoping for this kind of certainty a long time ago. A home. Someone who wanted him there. A woman who could love him simply for who he was.
He smiled then, slightly stunned, a smile he saved for her alone, as if he still couldn’t believe his luck. “Sharon,” he began, voice low. “I don’t want to get in the way. I know you’ve had your own Christmas routines, you and the kids—”
But she cut him off with a gentle shake of her head, her voice soft, carrying conviction. “You’re not in the way,” she said, her eyes steady on his. “You’re here. With me. That’s what I want.” Simple as that.
He didn’t answer right away. He just sat there, letting it land. Then he laughed, barely more than a breath, and nodded. “Okay,” he said finally, voice full of something real. “Then I’ll stay.”
“Good,” she murmured, her smile widening just a bit. “I’ll be waiting in the bedroom.”
She said it lightly, treating it as just another part of the plan. But her eyes lingered, full of that heat that never shouted, staying steady and impossible to ignore. And he felt it again, the pull and the promise that lived in her.
As Andy stood and reached for his keys, Sharon leaned back into the couch cushions, her hand still warm where his had been. In the soft glow of the room, he thought he saw an echo of the holy there, a presence that didn’t need wings to feel divine. All those angel ornaments on the tree, and still, none of them could touch her.
He glanced back once, caught her eyes, and that was enough to carry him to the elevator.
And as he disappeared down the hallway toward the elevator, she turned her gaze toward the tree. The lights blinked gently, casting soft golden flares against the glass ornaments, some flickering with the faint tremor of remembered moments. The room felt full, even now with just her in it. Not cluttered, full. Of sound. Of laughter that hadn’t quite faded. Of warmth that hadn’t had time to leave.
She thought of the night ahead. The promise of it. The comfort of knowing that when the sun crept in tomorrow morning, he’d still be there, sleep-warmed, probably snoring, definitely hers.
It was Christmas Eve. And for the first time in a long time, Sharon Raydor felt the truth of something she hadn’t dared to hope for. Everything was where it belonged.
Outside her door, the sound of the elevator closing broke the quiet. Andy rode down alone, the soft hum carrying him through a moment that felt suspended. He crossed the lobby, stepped out into the cool night air, and headed for his car. The little box waited exactly where he’d left it, tucked between the seats, its red ribbon still holding the careful knot he’d tied earlier. He picked it up, grabbed his bag from the trunk, and let out a slow breath.
Sharon was upstairs. Waiting.
He stepped back into the elevator and hit the button for her floor. As it climbed, his pulse climbed with it, nerves humming under his skin in a way that had nothing to do with uncertainty and everything to do with anticipation. By the time the doors opened again, the hallway was hushed, the night holding its breath as he walked toward her door, fingers steady on the handle and his heart anything but.
Inside, the apartment was dim, the tree’s golden lights still glowing faintly from the living room, casting soft shapes across the floor. The music had stopped, and the stillness that followed seemed to wait for him.
Andy closed the door gently and turned the lock, his chest giving that now-familiar flutter. Not because he was spending the night at her place, that had become part of their rhythm, but because it was Christmas Eve, the lights outside still shining, and somehow Sharon made it all feel a little more magical.
He followed the low light down the hallway, its glow stretching into a soft path toward her bedroom. The door was half-open, light spilling into the hall in an open invitation.
He stepped inside, pushing the door closed behind him with a quiet click. His bag dropped to the floor by the wall. Sharon was already there, sitting on the bed, back straight, one leg crossed neatly over the other. In front of her, a small black box wrapped in a red ribbon waited.
Her hair was down, loose, a little wavy at the ends, an effortless beauty that hit him harder than she probably knew. She looked up as he entered, and everything else — boxes, ribbons, even the breath in his lungs — fell away for a second.
“Hi,” she said, voice warm, the edges of her mouth curling. Her tone blended playfulness with invitation, as she tapped a spot on the bed in front of her. “Come here.”
Andy smiled, that tightening smile that lived somewhere just behind his ribs. God, he loved when she used that tone, so completely herself, stripped of pretense.
He toed off his shoes at the door, crossed the room slowly, and climbed onto the bed. He sat across from her, mirroring her posture without quite meaning to. Between them were two boxes, two bows, and something else lingering in the space between their knees.
The lamplight gave the whole room an amber sheen, a glow that made everything feel a little softer. They didn’t speak right away. They just smiled at each other, completely unguarded, the silence between them doing all the talking.
After a moment, Sharon let out a quiet “okay,” a small word that didn’t really mean anything, spoken only to ease the space that had grown too full between them.
Andy answered in kind, his voice low, unmistakably tender. They both laughed, a mix of embarrassment and wonder at how easily they could lose themselves in each other.
Then Sharon tilted her head, that signature half-smirk tugging at her mouth. “Are you ready?” she asked, her voice light, but with that spark she got when she was having a little too much fun being in control.
Andy laughed under his breath, running his thumb along the ribbon on his box. “I think I’d rather you go first,” he said, tone soft. “You must go first, remember?”
He could still remember one of those early sparks between Chief Johnson and Sharon, a moment that ignited and spread through the department as gossip tends to do. He hadn’t been there himself, but the story got passed around for days. Supposedly, Brenda had pushed Sharon just far enough to crack that legendary composure, in front of Taylor, no less, back when he still thought every half-baked story needed an audience.
Sharon rolled her eyes, though the laugh that followed was fond. “You remember that?”
“Of course I do,” he said, leaning back a little, his smile settling into something sly. “I took it as a rule to live by. You must go first, in every possible way.”
That earned him a quieter laugh, mild self-consciousness slipping through. She tilted her head just slightly, a faint flush blooming on her cheeks, and he loved when he could get that reaction. Just a little crack in the armor, just enough to see her laugh like that.
Her smile deepened. “All right then,” she murmured, voice low, touched by that anticipation of whatever surprise waited for her.
She reached for the small box in front of her, lifted it gently, and held it out to him. The red ribbon caught the light, tied into a bow so precise it looked printed, pure Sharon, polished down to the last detail.
Andy took it slowly, fingers brushing against hers on the handoff, and that familiar jolt passed through him again. It was ridiculous how often that happened, that low-voltage spark that hit just from touching her, even now.
He untied the ribbon with care, unwilling to let haste steal meaning from the moment. Sharon watched him closely, trying to look casual about it. He still noticed the slight lean forward, the way her hands stilled in her lap, how her breath snagged just a little when he lifted the lid.
He peeled back the tissue paper, and paused.
Tucked inside was a Christmas ornament, part baseball, part snowman, and somehow unmistakably both. The ceramic sphere still carried the familiar red stitching, the curves of it looping around the sides like a half-hidden grin. Sharon had painted a face on the front, two uneven black dots for eyes, a lopsided carrot nose in bright orange, and a thin, slightly off-center smile that gave the whole thing a kind of playful charm. A narrow green ribbon circled the top like a crooked little crown, finished with a single red bead that shimmered just enough to catch the light and hold it there.
It was sweet. And silly. And somehow completely perfect.
Andy stared at it for a long second, silent. Then a small laugh slipped out, barely a breath, more surprise than sound. “Wow,” he murmured, his voice a little scratchy. “Sharon, this is…” He trailed off, words suddenly out of reach. When he looked up at her, his eyes were stunned, caught off guard by how deeply it hit. “It’s beautiful.”
That drew a smile from her, wide and a little self-conscious, a rare moment when she chose not to keep that genuine smile to herself. Lately, though, those smiles had started slipping out with surprising ease, and most of them were for Andy.
“You like it?” she asked, and there was teasing in her tone, but only just. She already knew the answer.
“Like it?” He gave a breath of a laugh, still turning the ornament over in his hands. “I love it. It’s…” He paused again, thumb brushing lightly over the crooked carrot nose. “It’s us.”
She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Us?”
“Yeah.” He nodded, looking up at her with that boyish sincerity that always undid her composure. “You, because it’s perfect. Every detail thought. Wrapped just right. And me, because, well…” He grinned, amusement flickering across his face. “It’s a baseball trying its best to look festive.”
That made her laugh, a bright, unguarded sound that filled the room like sunlight. “Andy,” she said, his name slipping out drenched in affection, her head tilting with fondness. “I made it because of you. You love baseball. And I just thought…” Her voice dipped, her smile settling into a gentle sort of love. “I thought you might like something that reminded you of it. Of the things that make you, you.”
Andy looked at her for a long moment, his expression warm, a little raw. “You couldn’t have gotten it more right,” he said, steady. He glanced back down at the ornament, then up at her again, the smallest smile tugging at his mouth.
And just like that, something in her softened too. Her eyes found his, full of tenderness he felt before she even spoke.
That was the thing. He didn’t just love her for who she was, though God knows that would’ve been enough, he loved her for how she saw him. For how she loved every part of him, the impulsive, the messy, the baseball-loving, no-filter version of himself. She didn’t try to fix him or shape him into someone easier. She just loved him as he was, and that, he thought, was the truest kind of love.
For a while, neither of them said anything. Andy just kept turning the ornament over in his hands, the little snowman staring up at him with that slightly crooked, painted grin. It was simple, yeah, but it felt like more than just a gift. It felt like her. Thoughtful. Quietly full of love.
He eased it back into the box, careful with every movement. Then, without much thought, or maybe too much, he leaned in and kissed her. Just once. Soft and slow, needing the closeness more than any words he could have spoken. When he pulled back, his voice came out rough at the edges.
“Thank you,” he said.
Her eyes softened, a familiar flicker of amusement glinting through affection. “For the ornament?” she asked, pretending she didn’t already know the answer.
He shook his head, eyes steady on hers. “For loving me.”
She didn’t say anything right away. She looked at him, her smile unfolding slowly until it reached her eyes. The look was pure Sharon, steady in its conviction, all heart beneath the grace.
“You make it easy,” she said softly.
And every time Andy thought he couldn’t possibly love her more, she found a way to prove him wrong, always with something simple, like those few quiet words. Love with her was never loud, it lived in the pauses, in the calm after laughter, in the steady certainty shining in her eyes when she looked at him. And that, somehow, always took his breath away.
Then Sharon leaned back a little, her smile pulling into a sly curve, teasing at the corners. “So,” she said, head tilting just slightly, “are you ever going to give me my present, or has it been reclassified under top secret?”
Andy laughed, a sheepish sound that made him rub the back of his neck. “Right, yeah. No. Not classified.” He reached for the box, suddenly far too aware of how serious the bow looked. It was too neat, too deliberate, an effort to compensate for what the ornament inside could never be. He handed it over, not quite meeting her eyes. “Just… don’t expect anything fancy. It’s not perfect, but I tried my best.”
Her expression shifted immediately, a familiar smile easing back into place as she took the box from his hands. “Andy,” she said gently, her tone the same calm warmth that softened him every time, “I’m sure I’m going to love it.”
He gave a nervous little laugh, half under his breath. “You don’t have to say that yet,” he mumbled, but he didn’t look away as she began to untie the ribbon, careful now, her fingers practiced.
She lifted the lid, peeled back the tissue paper... and then stopped.
For a few seconds, she didn’t move. Her brow tightened, her head tilting just slightly as her eyes narrowed in confusion, or maybe concern. Inside the box sat a small ceramic ornament, glossy and... unfortunate. It was lumpy in a way that didn’t feel intentional. The paint shimmered, but not helpfully. And the shape — oh, the shape — defied defense, and it wasn’t remotely Christmas-themed.
A rounded base. Two distinct orbs. And rising from there, a slightly curved, elongated center that ended in a smooth, rounded tip. The glitter, meant to be festive, had instead created a kind of... spotlight effect. Sharon blinked. Oh. She slowly tilted the box, trying to find an angle that made sense. It didn’t. The longer she looked, the worse it became.
Andy watched her, expectant and completely unaware of the direction her thoughts had taken. “So?” he prompted, leaning forward a little, his voice hopeful. “What do you think?”
Sharon didn’t look up. Her eyes stayed locked on the ornament, her brow still furrowed as she turned it gingerly between her fingers. She didn’t answer right away, still processing, still searching for a more innocent interpretation.
When she finally spoke, her voice was measured. “Andy,” she began slowly, carefully, “is this…” Her lips pressed together before she looked up at him, utterly serious. “Is this a penis ornament?”
Andy’s face blanked for a beat. Whatever spark had been in his eyes flickered, stuttered, and nearly died as her words landed. For half a second, he wondered if he’d imagined it, misheard her somehow, but then she looked up at him, straight on, deadly serious, and nope, she absolutely hadn’t. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, his brain scrambling for words that refused to show up. Disbelief pushed past the shock, chased by a blush he was pretty sure he couldn’t hide.
“What? No, Sharon, come on,” he said at last, his voice cracking up an octave, equal parts wounded and baffled. “Seriously?” He leaned forward, eyebrows drawing tight, confusion all over his face. “Why would I give you—why would anyone give anyone a penis ornament?” The question tumbled out faster than he meant, words spilling in a rush of indignant disbelief that had been waiting for release. He gestured vaguely at the box, voice still climbing. “It’s an angel. Obviously. It’s supposed to be an angel.”
Sharon blinked once. Then again. The corner of her mouth twitched, but not quite enough to be called a smile. “Oh,” she said, carefully blank. The single syllable managed to acknowledge the chaos, his feelings, and still buy her a little time. She glanced back down at the thing in her hand, brow creasing tighter. “An angel,” she repeated under her breath, hoping that saying it again might trigger a visual breakthrough.
Andy let out a short breath, caught between frustration and the need to be understood. He could tell she wasn’t seeing it. Her head tilted slightly, her eyes narrowed, her mouth tightening in concentration, willing the ornament to make sense under her gaze.
“I’ll show you,” he said, already shifting closer, his tone steadying, charged with the stubborn resolve of a man desperate to prove that his good intentions had gone horribly wrong.
The mattress dipped as he sat beside her. Sharon didn’t resist when he reached for the ornament. She handed it over, though her expression made it clear she was bracing for whatever explanation came next. She didn’t look skeptical, more open to interpretation.
“Look” he said, leaning in, his voice certain. He held the ornament up at eye level, pointing carefully with his index finger. “These are the wings.”
Sharon tracked his finger, eyes narrowing. Two rounded... somethings... jutted off the back. Uneven. Soft-edged. Anatomically unfortunate. She tilted her head one way. Then the other. God help her, she tried. But the longer she looked, the less angelic it became. Her lips parted slightly, and a soft, barely-there exhale slipped out, a sort of muffled laugh, all affection.
“Ah,” she said at last, as diplomatically as possible. It was the sound a person made when presented with a child’s art project that had clearly gone off course. Polite, encouraging, and dangerously close to losing it.
Encouraged, Andy kept going, completely unaware of the storm building behind Sharon’s composed face, her amusement curling inward, barely kept in check. “Okay, and here,” he said, tapping the top of the... column, “this is the head. I mean, I get it, it’s not super defined, but it’s there. You see it, right?”
Sharon leaned in again, ever the patient observer, eyes tracking his finger with meticulous focus. She squinted. Tilted her head. Looked harder. There was no head. None. Pure ceramic, smooth and continuous, and absolutely no angel head anywhere.
“I... think so,” she said at last, her voice noncommittal, careful enough to keep a laugh from slipping through.
Andy lit up, mistaking diplomacy for agreement. “And then this part here,” he went on, enthusiasm unshaken, “that’s the body. The robe. See? Long shape, kind of flows down. And down here—this curve? That’s the hem. Adds movement.”
Sharon followed his gestures again, slower now. The so-called robe looked suspiciously phallic from every angle. And the “hem”? That curve he was so proud of? It looked like a head, though definitely not the angel’s.
She inhaled sharply through her nose, lips pressed together in a futile attempt to keep a smile from breaking free. And it was starting to feel like a losing battle.
Andy turned to her then, beaming, the ornament held up between them like a prize. “See?” he said, with all the joy of a man convinced he’d made a point. “Totally an angel. Not a penis.”
She stared at him for a beat, just long enough for the silence to turn into its own kind of joke. Her lips trembled. Her eyes flicked from the ornament to his face and back again, trying to decide which was more ridiculous, the object or the absolute sincerity radiating off of him.
And that was the thing. He meant it, every chaotic, glitter-covered inch of it. And somehow, that made it oddly beautiful. Because Andy never hesitated to do something new for her, to love her, to surprise her. He had no real talent for crafts, not even the slightest, but he’d still ventured into it for her. And even though it had gone spectacularly wrong, the failure only made it clearer how much he loved her, how much he cared, how hard he tried. And that, more than anything, made her love him even more. Made her see him as even more beautiful. And, somehow, impossibly, even more irresistible.
Finally, she nodded once, her voice soft, her expression carefully composed. “Right,” she said, lips curving at the edges. “Totally an angel.”
Andy still held the ornament, waiting for it to explain itself if given a few more seconds. They both stared, the silence stretching longer, heavier, more charged with every breath. Sharon’s calm “Totally an angel” echoed through his head on repeat, but now it didn’t sound calm anymore, it sounded like mockery wrapped in grace. The words twisted, warped, took on shape, and suddenly there was no going back. It was all he could see. The thing wasn’t transforming into anything innocent. It wasn’t even trying.
Heat started crawling up his neck, embarrassment arriving by elevator instead of stairs.
He let out a breath, too loud in the quiet, and sagged a little under the weight of it all. “Okay,” he said, the words coming out emptied of breath. His mouth twitched into a grimace as he finally looked up. “My God, you’re right. It’s a penis.”
“I know, sweetheart,” Sharon said, her voice soft, her hand moving in slow circles between his shoulder blades, a fragile attempt at comfort while laughter pressed hard against her composure.
He stared at the thing again, newly horrified now that he could see it for what it was. “We cannot put this on the tree,” he whispered, afraid that saying it any louder might summon witnesses. “Not out there. Not in the living room. Not anywhere Rusty or Rick could lay eyes on it. Sharon, look at it. It’s... it’s a penis. Rick would never let it go. He’d make it a Christmas card. He’d quit his job just to torment me full time.”
Her composure cracked, a hairline fracture at first, a breath snagged in her throat. Then it burst. A laugh broke through, full and messy and alive, shaking her shoulders until she had to fold forward, one hand flying to her mouth, the other still warm on his back. Her face flushed red, not embarrassed, but joyful, that full-bodied joy that starts deep and takes over everything. Tears gathered in her lashes as she tried, failed, and tried again to rein herself in.
Jack had once told her she was hard to crack. Andy? He never had to try.
He looked at her with wounded dignity, utterly betrayed. “You’re laughing at my shame?” he asked, brows raised, voice rising with every word. “This is how I go down?”
She shook her head, still gasping through her grin. “I’m laughing,” she said, managing the words between waves, “because you tried so hard. Because it’s awful. And because you made it with your hands, and it turned out to be… this.” She glanced at the ornament again and barely choked back another cackle. “And because you’re the only man alive who could hand me a penis ornament and somehow make me love you more.”
Andy let out a low groan, dragging a hand down his face, trying to physically wipe the memory off his skin. Then he groaned again, deeper than before, the sound pulled straight from his soul.
“I should’ve listened to Margaret,” he muttered, mostly to himself and to the glittered monstrosity in his lap. “She gave me a look. I thought it was admiration or something. It was not admiration.”
Sharon pressed her fingers to her lips, grinning so wide it softened every sharp edge in her face. “That poor woman,” she whispered, still catching her breath. Then she nudged in closer, her shoulder bumping against his, the laughter in her body slowly settling into a gentle hum that lived just under her skin. “Okay,” she said gently, “we won’t hang it on the tree. Not in the living room, anyway.”
He turned toward her, blinking, relief washing through his eyes. “Thank you.”
But she wasn’t done. Her voice dipped into a softer register, threaded through with mischief and affection both. “Although,” she added, tilting her head, eyes dancing, “I should probably be the one thanking you.”
He looked at her, wary. “Why’s that?”
Her smile widened, playful now, laced with faux reverence. “I got a penis for Christmas,” she said, still processing the absurdity of it all. “That makes me a very lucky woman.”
It came out like a joke and a truth all at once, and Andy made a strangled noise, part groan, part horrified laugh. He dropped his face into his hands again, fingers pressing hard into his temple, desperate to undo the last twenty minutes of his life.
“God,” he muttered through his palms, “I actually gave you that? I can’t believe I gave you that.”
Sharon’s laugh returned, quieter, rounded out by affection. It wasn’t a mocking laugh but one filled with warmth, saying you’re ridiculous and I love you anyway. She reached over and touched his knee, grounding him. “You did,” she said, her smile soft now. “And you tried so hard.”
He peeked at her from between his fingers, squinting, unable to decide whether to laugh or crawl under the bed. “Next year,” he said, voice thick with mock gravity, “I’m buying a real gift, something that doesn’t require glue and might actually be worth keeping.”
She didn’t let go of his knee. Tilting her head slightly, her gaze stayed steady, filled with the same calm that always made him stop and listen. “I like this one,” she said, her voice barely above a breath.
He lowered his hand, skeptical. “You can’t be serious.”
But she was. He could see it plain on her face as she reached for the ornament in his lap, studying it with a small smile, a stillness beneath it, the weight behind her words.
“I am,” she said, looking down at the ornament again, turning it gently in her fingers, thoughtful. “It’s completely unique. You went to a craft class and made it for me. That matters more than you realize.”
He looked at her and didn’t say anything at first. There was a weight in her words, honest in a way that hit harder than anything flowery might’ve. It caught him off guard, lodged right under his ribs, and for a second he couldn’t do much more than blink through the tightness in his chest. Damn it, she had this way of pulling gravity into the lightest moments, even now, holding a glitter-covered disaster between them.
He leaned back slightly, gave a soft shake of his head, and smiled, surrender softening the edges of his face. “You really mean that?” he asked, voice touched with reverence, uncertain he deserved the answer he already knew.
“I do,” she said, and she meant it. Her smile didn’t shift much, but something in her eyes softened, less laughter now, more of that steady affection she never needed to raise her voice to show. And then, of course, she couldn’t resist. She tilted her head just a little and added, voice feather-light, “And, well… it is a penis.”
The noise he made was somewhere between a groan and an unholy sigh. “Oh, God,” he muttered, dragging his hand down his face again. But the smile had broken through now, tugging at the edges of his mouth even as he tried to fight it. “All right, smartass,” he said, the warmth sneaking back into his voice. “I’m taking a shower before you hit me with another penis joke.”
Sharon leaned back on her palms, the bed shifting slightly beneath her as she settled, her grin refusing to go anywhere. “Don’t worry,” she said, her tone sweet with trouble. “All my jokes will still be here when you get back.”
He paused, halfway up, giving her a long, theatrical look. “When exactly,” he asked, raising an eyebrow, “did you become a stand-up comic?”
Her laugh came genuine. “I learned from the best,” she said, playful but sincere, and it landed exactly where she knew it would, right in that part of his chest that so easily ached when she said things like that.
Andy rolled his eyes, defeated. “Great,” he muttered as he crossed to the door and reached for his bag. “First I ruin sculpture class, now I’m corrupting you. Fantastic.”
Sharon just smiled, not saying a word, watching him as he disappeared into the bathroom, still half-grumbling about glitter and wings and poor, traumatized Margaret. And she kept smiling even after the door clicked shut, because somehow, this, all of this, felt like the happiest kind of mess.
Sharon glanced down at the ornament still resting lightly in her hands. The absurd little thing glinted under the warm lamplight, all glitter and good intentions, ridiculous and weirdly charming. Her fingers ghosted slowly over the lumpy surface, searching for something in its uneven form. Her expression softened, eyes warm, and a small, foolish smile tugged at the corners of her mouth before she even realized it was there.
When she spoke, it wasn’t really to anyone, more a soft murmur into the room, words meant for her alone. “Yeah,” she said, a little amused, “definitely keeping this one.”
Beyond the closed door, the sound of running water filled the quiet. Steam thickened against tile and mirror, curling into the air until even his reflection vanished. Andy stood with his hands braced on either side of the sink, head bowed, letting the heat work through him, willing the water to rinse away the memory still clinging to his skin.
It should’ve helped. Should’ve rinsed the humiliation from his skin, or at least dulled the edge of it. But nope. Every time he closed his eyes, there it was again, the horrifyingly phallic curve of ceramic, the glitter that somehow made it worse, Sharon’s face crumpling into that beautiful laugh that had tipped her forward and lit her up from the inside.
He groaned, hopeless, the sound echoing off the tile in cruel imitation. God, he’d actually given her that. Handed it to her, proud of it, no less. Wrapped it, tied a goddamn ribbon, probably looked smug while doing it too. He’d meant well. That was the worst part.
Next year, he promised himself as the spray hit his shoulders. Next year would be normal. Simple. A real gift, one that couldn’t be misinterpreted or accidentally obscene. A book, maybe. Or tickets to a show. Or a sweater, she loved that green one she always wore in December. Something safe. Elegant. Something that wouldn’t get him gently mocked for the rest of their lives.
And still, as the room filled with the soft scent of her shampoo, that familiar floral note curling through the steam, another thought nudged its way in. It came softly, stripped of pride.
He’d made her laugh, and not the practiced kind she gave the world. This one was real, breaking through before she could stop it, lighting the whole damn room. She’d laughed like she hadn’t in a long time. Honest and helpless and loud. And yeah, maybe that hadn’t been the goal, but wasn’t that something?
Maybe, without meaning to, he’d given her a different kind of gift. One she didn’t get often. One she didn’t always let herself have. The freedom to be ridiculous. To not hold the line. To just laugh. And in its own weird, crooked way, maybe that was worth something too.
Andy let his forehead rest against the cool tile, eyes slipping closed. The heat of the water had started to fade, but he didn’t move, standing there, caught in that strange space between embarrassment and a softer feeling.
She was especially cautious when a case brushed against anything remotely sexual. Words became deliberate then, her phrasing measured, modesty woven into her discipline. Andy remembered one particular moment, long before they were together, when he’d been reading aloud a piece of explicit fan writing tied to a celebrity case. She had cut him off right before the risqué part, her composure slipping just enough to make him grin. For all her confidence, there was something endearingly reserved about her refusal to say certain words, a kind of gentle embarrassment that made her seem all the more human, and to him, impossibly more magnetic.
Of course, since they’d started dating, slow at first, Sharon hadn’t been the least bit puritanical. But that was different from saying certain words out loud. She had her own way of seducing, subtle and devastating, turning even the dullest words in the dictionary into something worth listening to.
But tonight, with him and only him, she’d looked him straight in the eye, a grin curving at the edges of her mouth, and said penis with a teasing ease that turned the moment into pure mischief. She’d toyed with him, pushed his buttons on purpose. And she’d glowed while doing it.
He smiled into the tile, eyes still shut. Because that version of her, loose, mischievous, just a little wicked, was his. She didn’t show it often. Maybe didn’t even know how brightly it shined when she did. But it lived here, in moments like this, and it was his to witness.
And if the price of admission to that side of her was a glitter-covered ceramic disaster and a lifetime of bad innuendo? He’d pay it. Twice.
“All right,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand across his face as the spray began to cool. “Not a total loss, Flynn.”
The water hissed off. He reached for the towel, rubbed it over his hair, then down his arms and shoulders, trying to scrub away the last film of humiliation. He wrapped it low around his waist and cracked the door open with one finger hooked through the handle.
Warm light spilled into the bedroom, inviting him closer, drawing him out of the haze that lingered after the shower. He stepped into it, smoothing the towel with a hand, bracing himself for whatever crack she might throw his way next, something quick, clever, merciless. He’d take it. Grin and bear it. Let her win. Hell, she deserved to win.
But what waited for him wasn’t a punchline.
Sharon sat on the bed, legs crossed neatly at the ankle, posture relaxed yet poised, her elegance effortless, something she carried without even trying. Her back rested against the headboard, and the smile she wore now wasn’t sly or teasing. It was gentle. And when she looked at him, it wasn’t mischief in her eyes, it was affection, so steady that the whole room seemed to fall silent around them.
And beside her, on the nightstand, stood a little tree. Just for them. A few soft white lights, a ribbon tied loose at the top, nothing flashy. But from one of the branches, perfectly at home, hung two ornaments. His snowman baseball, cheerfully crooked. And right beside it, his infamous angel, lopsided, unholy, accidentally explicit, glittering in blissful ignorance. She’d hung it. With care.
He stood in the doorway, towel forgotten, his breath catching in that familiar, ridiculous ache that only she ever managed to pull from him. It was so her to take a flawed piece, nearly laughable, and make it beautiful by loving it anyway.
“This one can live here,” Sharon said, her voice quieting, the smile on her lips softening into a gentler warmth. “Maybe not the living room. But here... here works.”
While he’d been in the shower, she’d gone to the hall closet and pulled out a little tree that had lived, forgotten but never discarded, for years. When the kids were small, she used to set it on a dresser every December, letting them pick a “goodnight ornament” before bed, a tradition that faded as they got older, swallowed up by late homework and teenage indifference.
Still, she’d kept the tree. Some things you just didn’t let go of. And tonight, without really deciding, she’d brought it back. Lights threaded with familiar ease, a loose gold ribbon, and on its front branch hung two ornaments side by side, the slightly smug baseball-snowman she’d made for him and his lopsided, utterly indecent angel. Their tiny, ridiculous beginning.
Andy stepped closer, to her side of the bed, drawn by the soft glow and whatever had settled in the room. The tree lights caught on the glitter scattering little stars across the wall. He smiled, a smile that began in his chest before it ever reached his mouth.
“Thank you,” he said, voice hushed, afraid that anything louder might shatter the moment. “For saving my dignity. For this. For... making space for me.”
Sharon shifted onto her knees, turning toward the tree, her body aligning with his until her shoulder brushed his. A second later, her head found its place against his, a steady, certain lean she only did when she’d settled completely.
“This can be ours,” she murmured. “Our own Christmas tradition.”
He dipped his head until his mouth grazed the curve of her ear. “What? You mean... our very own Tree of Balls?”
She cracked completely. Her laugh broke open against his neck, muffled only by the way she dropped her face into his shoulder to hide it. She shook with it, completely undone, and he couldn’t help it, he laughed too. Hands sliding to her waist, he pulled her in as she curled toward him, both of them dissolving into happy laughter.
He tucked his face into her hair, breathing her in, shampoo and warmth and Sharon, and beside them, the tiny tree winked, two ridiculous ornaments catching the light just right. Somehow, against all odds, the whole thing looked beautiful.
The laughter faded slowly, but it didn’t leave. It quieted, settling into the space between them. The air between them changed. Sharon was the one to pull back first, only slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. The tree light caught her cheekbones, smoothed their sharp edges, turned her eyes gold.
She didn’t say much. She smiled slowly, stripped of performance, a smile free of pretense and full of truth. And Andy felt it land, right where he kept the most fragile parts of himself.
She tilted her chin just a little, and when she finally spoke, her voice barely rose above a whisper. But somehow, it filled the room anyway.
“Merry Christmas, Andy,” she said, her voice warm, the words infused with calm joy and a steady certainty that needed no embellishment.
He exhaled on a soft laugh, the sound shaped by wonder more than humor. His hand moved instinctively, brushing a few stray strands of hair back behind her ear with a reverence that needed no name.
“Merry Christmas, Sharon,” he echoed, his voice low, full of that unguarded affection she had learned to trust.
She leaned in then, gaze flicking briefly to his mouth before her lips found it, a light press, barely more than a breath. But the stillness between them didn’t hold. It pulled. And the next kiss came fuller, moving through the space with effortless grace. Her breath hitched. His hand found her waist, a slow, grounding sweep.
By the third kiss, there was no more teasing softness. It was real now, layered with everything they’d spent years building, patience, tension, and restraint with heat always simmering underneath.
Her fingers curled gently into the towel at his waist, tugging him closer without ceremony or the need to ask. The shift downward came easily, guided by trust alone. The bed caught them, giving a little under their weight, and then Sharon was on her back, the sheets cool against her skin. Andy followed, one hand braced near her shoulder, the other settling at her hip. The space between them vanished like it had never existed.
The kiss stretched, deepening by degrees, the space between them dissolving until there was nothing left to navigate but closeness itself.
Her laughter had faded, melted into a sigh that found its way to his mouth. She felt the heat of him through the towel, the tiny stutter in his breath each time her fingers grazed the center of his chest. She loved how present he always was, fully aware of her, of this, of what it meant to be held so simply after everything.
When she drew back just slightly, her lips brushed his cheek, then his jaw, her voice slipping out against his skin, amused and still threaded with leftover laughter. “We’re not in the living room anymore,” she whispered, a statement dressed as a secret.
Andy opened his eyes slowly, heavy-lidded and full of something rare. His mouth curved into a lopsided smile. “Right,” he murmured, voice caught slightly as her hand moved to the back of his neck.
Her thumb brushed the base of his throat, lingering just long enough to draw a breath from him. “Which means,” she said, voice full of play, “we can make out for as long as we want.” Her smile deepened, a spark flickering behind her eyes. “And you know,” she added, her tone dipping, velvet around the edges, “I tend to get a little… enthusiastic around Christmas.”
Andy’s mouth curved into a grin. “Oh yeah?” he said, brushing a quick kiss against her lips before pulling back just far enough to look at her. The hunger in his gaze was unmistakable, threaded with amusement and a deeper warmer.
“Mhm,” she hummed, her voice a near purr. “That ornament of yours might’ve left me feeling… inspired.”
He laughed, the sound rough, desire slipping through the amusement. “Then maybe I didn’t mess up the gift after all.”
“Not even close,” she said, her smile curving slow. “You just made Christmas even better.”
She leaned up to kiss him again, her mouth finding his with easy familiarity now, unhurried. The certainty of knowing exactly where he was, where they were. Each kiss folded into the next, soft edges blurring together until she was smiling mid-press, until her breath hitched on a laugh and tangled between them.
Her fingers drifted to the edge of the towel, playful now, her touch light but purposeful. Intentional in a way that made his pulse skip just a beat.
“It’s a good thing you’re only in a towel,” she murmured, her voice amused, the words gliding over his skin, soft as fabric. “That’ll make my job easier.”
He let out a laugh, a real one, unfiltered, pulled straight from somewhere deep in his chest. She felt the vibration of it under her hands where they rested on him. The sound wrapped around them, loosened something in the air, and gave way to another kiss, softer, slower, a full stop at the end of a ridiculous night.
And then they just stayed there, tangled in warmth, the lamplight soft around them, the tree beside the bed casting a glow that flickered in time with a heartbeat. Two ornaments swung gently from a low branch, one charmingly perfect, the other unintentionally obscene, both catching the light in turn, both claimed.
The room settled around them, and in that slow fade, between laughter and breath, between the absurd and the sacred, both of them felt that this night, strange and glitter-covered and deeply human, had become something neither of them could’ve planned, and neither would ever want to change. It was ridiculous. It was theirs. And somehow, impossibly, it was perfect.