After dinner, the house settled into a kind of hush that only came in the dead of winter — a hush made of full bellies, sleepy limbs, and the gentle crackle of the fire.
It was Amelia’s idea, of course. Movie night. Pajamas required. Marshmallows mandatory. No grown-up exceptions.
By eight-thirty, the living room had been transformed: the couch was a fortress of pillows and throw blankets, twinkle lights blinked gently along the mantle, and a large bowl of popcorn sat forgotten in the middle of the floor, half-eaten and rapidly becoming a casualty of enthusiasm and tiny, buttery hands.
Isabelle wore soft joggers and one of Sebastian’s old sweatshirts — stolen ages ago, rescued from the back of a closet, and now worn unapologetically for comfort. Amelia had claimed her lap with authority
