Page 149 of His Tesoro

“Okay, it might be a little bit too cropped,” she said, tugging at the bottom of the sweater. “But you look great.”

I eyed her Christmas sweater. It was pale blue with snowflakes on it and looked decidedly store-bought. “You didn’t make one for yourself?”

“I didn’t have time.” She brushed her hand down the front of her sweater. “Sienna got this one for me.”

“Well, you look stunning, as always.”

“Such a flatterer. I need to get started on breakfast.”

Sofiya had insisted we have cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning just because they were my favorite.

My sister, Romeo, and I usually got Chinese takeout on Christmas Day and got drunk while watching whatever shitty holiday movie Sienna forced on us. Sofiya had never had a real Christmas and said she wanted to create new traditions for our new family. It wasn’t like I could refuse her anything, so we’d gone all out—a real tree, a shit-ton of presents, and Christmas music playing through the speakers.

Sofiya took the cinnamon rolls she’d started last night out of the fridge. “Will you get me the powdered sugar, miliy?”

I grabbed the canister out of one of the upper cabinets and set it on the counter, giving her a kiss on the top of her head. She leaned back against my chest.

“Are you feeling alright?” I asked. “I can finish this if you tell me what to do.”

I wouldn’t mind if she just stayed in my arms until she had this baby. And then for several months after.

“I’m feeling good, promise.”

There was a knock on the door and Sienna poked her head in. “Are you two done with your morning lovemaking?”

“I swear to fucking God,” I said, running my hand down my face. “Why did we invite them?”

“Come in!” Sofiya shouted before fixing me with her fierce gaze. “Because they’re family and we’re all going to have a cozy Christmas morning together.”

Sienna came into the living room, her arms filled with Christmas packages. “Romeo is bringing the rest.” She set them all down under the tree—the tall, magnificent tree that rivaled the one at Rockefeller Center with ugly homemade decorations Sofiya had insisted we all make over the past weeks. The endless hot glue and glitter had all been worth it when I heard she’d turned Angelo’s poker night into a Christmas crafting evening. It was impossible to say no to my wife. They’d never stood a chance.

At least craft night had prevented her from adding more to her considerable poker debt. I kept forgetting to ask Angelo how much Sofiya owed. She still didn’t realize the chips represented actual money, and I didn’t want to ask Angelo in front of her and upset her. I would give everything I owned to make her happy, and if poker night was it, I would pay whatever it took.

Romeo and Angelo walked in, arms laden with presents. They dropped them by the tree, and Sienna told them off for their “lack of finesse and style.” The two of them rolled their eyes and joined us in the kitchen while Sienna rearranged the gifts.

Angelo rubbed his hands together as he peered at the cinnamon rolls in the oven. He’d put on at least ten pounds since I married Sofiya. Not that I had a leg to stand on—I’d been forced to add an extra workout to my week with all the sweets my wife made.

“What are you wearing?” Romeo asked me, a glint of laughter in his eyes.

“A beautiful sweater made by my wife,” I said before he could say another word. No one would insult my Sofiya.

“Oh, don’t be jealous, Romeo,” Sofiya said. “Miliy, can you get those three packages from the top of the pile?”

I did what she asked, grinning as I handed Romeo and Angelo packages that felt suspiciously like sweaters. The third package had a tag on it that said “To Noodle, from Mama.”

Fuck, she was cute.

“Come here, Noodle,” I called out. The dog looked at Sofiya as if asking permission before leaving her side and trotting over to me. I gave him the present and he took it gently in his mouth, looking at me with a confused expression. “You’re supposed to tear it open,” I told him. He just wagged his tail. I took the gift back with a huff and then unwrapped it. “What the fuck?” I stared at the sweater Sofiya had crocheted for the dog.

“What’s wrong?” Sofiya asked.

I took the dog sweater and headed into the kitchen. “Why does the dog’s sweater look absolutely perfect?” It was dark green with white trim and even rows of pom-poms sewed onto it.

Sofiya gave me a mischievous smile. “I made his last, so I’d had a lot of practice. But… are you saying you think your sweater is bad?”

“Don’t even start with me,” I said, prowling towards her. She was sitting next to the oven on her rollator, her cheeks rosy, the smell of cinnamon heavy in the air. “I think you did this on purpose because you know I’ll never refuse to wear something you made for me.”

“I would never be so diabolical, husband.” There was a little glint in her eye.

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