Nicholas Pov
Eight Years Ago
The smell of cinnamon and pine lingered in the air, mixing with the faint crackle of the fireplace. The tree in the corner glowed softly, lights twinkling against the glass ornaments Mom insisted on rearranging every year. A few wrapped gifts sat neatly beneath it, the ribbons catching the morning sun.
By the time I joined everyone in the kitchen, the house already felt alive. Mom hummed along to an old Christmas song while flipping pancakes, still wearing her Santa-patterned apron. Bailey had traded yoga for stealing chocolate chips off the counter. Nathan, fresh from his run, leaned against the island, sipping his protein shake and pretending not to judge him.
Greg sat at the table, coffee in hand, looking surprisingly at ease despite the chaos. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up, a faint smudge of flour on his forearm courtesy of Nonna, who'd roped him into helping with cookie dough the moment he walked in.
