Page 125 of Hometown Touchdown
I grin. “You know it’s a tree and not a museum installation, right?”
She shoots me a look. “We’re building Christmas magic here. Don’t get in the way of greatness.”
God, I love her.
The room smells like pine and cinnamon. Soft music plays from the speaker on the counter—something jazzy with sleigh bells. Outside, snow drifts quietly under the porch light, and everything feels like it’s been gift-wrapped in stillness.
With a look of determination, she rolls up her sleeves before she reaches for the next ornament. And I know, without a doubt, that this is the moment.
This is the night.
I clear my throat and reach into the box beside me, pulling out the first ornament I had made.
“Here,” I say, handing it to her like it’s just like the others. Like I didn’t spend a week getting the font right.
She takes it, blinking. “I don’t remember buying these.”
“Read it.”
She lifts it closer, her brows pinching as she reads the words printed in soft script across the shiny red glass:
The first time I kissed you when we were teenagers, I knew.
Her head snaps up, eyes already softening. “Knox.”
I shrug. Casual. Cool. Dying inside.
“Next one,” I say, handing her the second.
She takes it slower this time. She reads it aloud.
You once cried watching a nature documentary. It ruined me.
She laughs, sharp and sudden, her eyes going wide. “Oh my God…You remember that?”
I smile. “I remember everything.”
She shakes her head, still smiling, and gently hangs the ornament beside the first.
The third ornament is green, glittering under the tree lights.
You taught me that home isn’t a place. It’s a person.
She doesn’t speak when she reads it. Just holds it in both hands like it’s made of something special. Then she lifts it carefully and hangs it near the top.
The fourth comes with a tremble in her fingers.
Loving you made me a better man. Losing you taught me how to fight for what matters.
Her eyes glisten, and this time, she doesn’t even try to hide it. She hangs it in silence, wiping her cheek.
The fifth is gold. Bold letters.
I don’t want a future unless you’re in it.
She swallows hard, lips parting. Her breath shakes as she hangs the ornament with slow precision.
I place the sixth in her hands, mine shaking.
