Bella woke to laughter.
Not the sharp, startled kind—but soft, bubbling joy that slipped under her door and wrapped around her before she was fully awake. For a few seconds, she stayed still, listening. The cabin creaked faintly, settling under the weight of snow, and the fireplace popped gently somewhere down the hall.
Then Lily's voice rang out again.
"Daddy! She's still sleeping! Don't wake her yet!"
Ethan's reply came quieter, amused. "She'll wake up when she wakes up, peanut."
Bella smiled into her pillow.
Christmas morning.
She hadn't planned to wake up in a mountain cabin. She hadn't planned to spend Christmas with a man she barely knew two weeks ago—or his daughter, who now felt strangely important to her.
Yet here she was. Warm. Safe. Smiling.
She sat up slowly, heart light but cautious. Last night replayed itself in fragments: the firelight, Ethan's careful honesty, the kiss that had felt more like a promise than a spark.
A soft knock tapped at her door.
"Bella?" Ethan asked gently.
"I'm awake," she replied.
The door opened just enough for Lily's head to pop in, curls wild, eyes shining. She was wearing reindeer pajamas and clutching a small box wrapped in red paper.
"Merry Christmas!" Lily whispered loudly.
Bella laughed. "Merry Christmas."
Lily rushed in and climbed onto the bed without hesitation, handing her the box. "This is from me. Daddy helped a little, but mostly me."
Bella's chest tightened. "For me?"
"Yes," Lily said seriously. "Because you stayed."
Bella swallowed and carefully unwrapped the box. Inside was a small snow globe—simple, worn at the edges. A tiny cabin sat inside it, surrounded by glittering white flakes.
"Oh, Lily," Bella breathed. "It's beautiful."
Ethan appeared in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, watching. "She found it in the store yesterday. Said it reminded her of home."
Bella met his eyes. "It does."
She pulled Lily into a hug, holding her a second longer than usual. Lily hugged back fiercely.
"Okay!" Lily announced, hopping off the bed. "Now we eat cinnamon rolls."
"Priorities," Ethan muttered fondly.
⸻
The kitchen smelled like sugar and spice.
Ethan had clearly been up early—cinnamon rolls rested warm on a plate, coffee brewed, cocoa already prepared with extra marshmallows. The cabin glowed with soft holiday light, strings of white bulbs twinkling along the windows.
They sat together at the table—Lily swinging her legs, Bella still wrapped in a sweater, Ethan relaxed in a way she hadn't seen before.
"You didn't have to do all this," Bella said quietly.
Ethan shrugged. "Tradition."
Lily nodded solemnly. "Daddy always does cinnamon rolls. Even when it was just us."
Bella's gaze flicked to Ethan. There was a whole history there she hadn't touched yet. Loss. Adjustment. Love reshaped into something quieter.
"You're good at traditions," Bella said.
He smiled faintly. "I try to keep the good parts."
After breakfast, Lily disappeared into the living room and emerged with a small stack of presents.
"These are Daddy's," she said, handing one to Ethan. "And this one is yours."
Bella blinked. "Mine?"
Ethan cleared his throat. "It's… small."
Bella unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a scarf—soft, deep green, the color of pine trees after snowfall.
"I saw you looking at one like it in town," he said. "I hoped I got it right."
She touched the fabric, heart swelling. "It's perfect."
When she looked up, his eyes were searching her face—uncertain, hopeful.
"Thank you," she said, meaning more than the scarf.
They watched Lily open her gifts—books, a new sketch set, a stuffed fox she immediately named Snowball. The cabin filled with laughter, torn paper, and the quiet comfort of shared joy.
At one point, Bella caught Ethan watching her again—not like before, curious or cautious—but steady. Intent.
She felt it too.
This wasn't pretend anymore.
⸻
Later, Lily bundled up and ran outside to play in the fresh snow. Bella and Ethan stood by the window watching her build what looked like a lopsided snow fort.
"She's happy," Bella said.
"Yes," Ethan replied. "She's been happier this week than she has in a long time."
Bella's breath caught. "Because of me?"
"Because of us," he corrected gently. "Because things feel lighter."
Bella turned to him. "I don't want to disappear on her."
He nodded. "I know."
They stepped onto the porch, cold air biting. Lily waved enthusiastically.
"Bella! Daddy! Come see!"
They walked into the snow together. Lily proudly presented her creation—a snow family, three figures side by side.
"This one's Daddy," she said. "This one's me. And this one's Bella."
Bella stared.
Ethan went very still.
"It's just snow," Lily added, suddenly nervous. "I can change it."
"No," Bella said quickly, crouching. "It's wonderful."
Ethan swallowed. "It is."
Lily beamed and ran off again.
Bella stood slowly. "Ethan… I don't want to hurt her. Or you."
He took a breath. "I don't want to scare you away."
"I'm not scared of you," she said softly. "I'm scared of how right this feels."
He let out a small, humorless laugh. "Me too."
They stood close, snow falling gently around them.
"I need to know something," Bella said. "If I stay… what does that mean?"
Ethan thought carefully. "It means we don't rush. We don't pretend. We don't promise more than we can give."
"And if I leave?"
"Then I'll be grateful you were here," he said honestly. "Even if it hurts."
Her chest ached.
"I don't want to leave today," she said. "But I can't stay forever without knowing where this goes."
Ethan nodded. "Then stay a little longer. Let's see."
Bella studied him—this man who wasn't grand or flashy, but steady, thoughtful, and real.
"Okay," she said. "A little longer."
Relief crossed his face before he could hide it.
⸻
That afternoon, they took a walk through the quiet town. The streets were nearly empty, shops closed, wreaths hanging on every door. Snow crunched beneath their boots.
Bella linked her arm through Ethan's without thinking.
He stiffened—then relaxed.
They didn't talk much. They didn't need to.
At the edge of town, they stopped by a frozen pond. Lily skated clumsily near the edge, laughing every time she nearly fell.
Bella leaned into Ethan's side. "I never thought Christmas would feel like this."
"Like what?"
"Peaceful," she said. "Not perfect. Just… real."
Ethan looked down at her. "I didn't either."
As the sun dipped low, painting the sky in pale gold, Ethan reached for her hand.
This time, there was no hesitation.
No fear.
Bella laced her fingers through his.
And in that moment, she realized something quietly profound:
She wasn't just staying because of snow or kindness or a child's hopeful drawing.
She was staying because she wanted to build something—carefully, honestly, one day at a time.
Christmas wasn't the end of her story.
It was the beginning.