Red and green lights lazily blinked, reflecting off the ornaments and the walls. Glass bulbs of varying colors and sizes hung from the branches, and the scent of pine filled the air. A few plaster ornaments hung there too, all messily painted by a child’s hand.

My hand.

As soon as I was old enough to paint, my mom had put a brush in my hand and let me make my own ornament. It hadn’t mattered that I’d painted the dog purple or hadn’t separated its mouth from the ball it held. It’d been about the memories we were making. That’s what they said. My parents. Decorating the tree was as much about memories as it was about how pretty it was when we were done.

This year, we hadn’t painted anything. We made snowmen instead. Mom let me use a hot glue gun for the first time, and I burned my fingers, but it’d still been fun. Three cotton balls, one on top of the other. Two googly eyes and three buttons. We made scarves and hats from some flannel material Mom had bought.

They hung right in the front of the tree, all three of them. Mom, Dad, and me.

The presents were piled under the tree: Dad’s gifts were wrapped in red, Mom’s in green, and mine in purple. Mine were always in purple. It was hard to find purple holiday wrapping paper, but Mom always managed to do it.

They weren’t up yet, but that was part of the tradition. I’d wake up and tiptoe downstairs, trying not to wake them up. Not until I made them breakfast. Every year, I got a little more ambitious. Last year, I made toast and cut up some grapefruit. This year, I was going to make cinnamon rolls. Mom had bought frozen ones for me to put in the oven. This was the first year I’d been allowed to use the oven by myself, but I still wasn’t ready to make the rolls on my own.

Maybe next year.

It was the smell that pulled me out of my dream and into reality. Or maybe it had been the smell that had made the dream. It was true either way. That Christmas had been one of the best I’d ever had.

The cinnamon rolls had been perfect, and the pride on my mom’s face when I’d taken them into the bedroom had made me happier than any of the gifts under the tree. They’d been great gifts too. A new softball glove to replace the one I’d outgrown with my last growth spurt. Tickets to a Pacers game for Dad and me. A few DVDs I’d wanted.

The scent of cinnamon rolls brought it all back.

I rolled over, letting sleep slough away naturally instead of forcing myself awake. It was Christmas morning, and I wasn’t sure if today would be able to top yesterday. It had been the best Christmas Eve I’d experienced since before my mom died. Uncle Anton had done his best to keep the holidays from being awful, and he’d done a great job, but the shadow of what happened had always been there. Last night, however, it had faded behind everything else.

“Good morning.” Jalen smiled at me as he brought in a tray of cinnamon rolls. “I figured we could have breakfast in bed.”

“If those are any good, we’ll make a mess of these thousand-thread-count sheets,” I warned him. “Sticky is what makes them good.”

His eyes darkened from their normal turquoise to a color halfway between sapphire and emerald. An exquisite shade that turned my insides to mush.

“I think that’s a good rule of thumb about anything,” he said, his lips curving into a wicked smile.

I laughed as I pushed myself up into a sitting position. He came toward me, and I wasn’t sure what made my mouth water more, the food or the sight of him wearing only a pair of low-slung pajama bottoms. I’d taken the matching shirt last night after we’d cleaned up, but he apparently hadn’t grabbed another one before heading to the kitchen.

“I’m serious about the sheets,” I said as he set down the tray and climbed onto the bed next to me.

He shrugged. “I think I can afford a new set if these are ruined.” He cut off a bite of the roll and held the fork out to me. “I can’t take credit for making these, but the bakery I got them from is amazing.”

I opened my mouth and let him feed me. He was right. They tasted amazing. Ten times better than the frozen ones I’d baked all those years ago, but the taste still made me remember. Except this time, I was able to remember without the grief, and even without the emptiness that sometimes took the place of the sadness. The nostalgia was bittersweet, but I could feel the difference. I wasn’t moving on, but I was ready to build a life, and this was one of the steps to doing that.

“What’s the schedule for today?” I asked as we shared our breakfast.

“Nothing specific,” he said. “My mom and I talked yesterday before I picked you up. She and Armando did a quiet Christmas in Barcelona. Today is all about us. Whatever we want to do.”

“Whatever?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

He made a ‘why not’ gesture as he finished the bite of cinnamon roll he’d just put into his mouth.

“Can we open presents next?” I asked, aware that my question made me sound more like a child than an adult.

He licked frosting from his lips, a smile curving his mouth. “We can.”

“And then make love in front of the fireplace?”

He moved the tray and then rolled over me, pulling me beneath him. “Mind if I amend that to making love in every room? They’ll get jealous if we don’t.”

I slid my hand down his chest, my eyes on his as I moved below the waistband of his pants. My fingers wrapped around his cock, and he sucked in a breath.

“This is a pretty big house,” I said, stroking him. His cock swelled under my hand, and I wet my lips. “Are you sure you’re up for the challenge?”

He laughed. “Sweetheart, you have no idea how up I am?”

I gave him a not-so-gentle squeeze. “I have a decent idea.”

When his mouth came down on mine, I could taste the cinnamon and sugar on his tongue, and I arched up against him. His fingers made their way between my legs, probing and finding me more than ready. Without breaking the kiss, I shoved down his pants and pulled him to me. We groaned as we came together, bodies aligning effortlessly. I was already sensitive from yesterday, and by the end of today, I knew I’d be sore, but I didn’t plan on holding back.

We were going to make it a Christmas to remember.