Eve

When you first met Eve almost a year ago, neither of you were looking for anything serious. It was meant to be one coffee, maybe a second date if things didn’t feel awkward. But somehow, everything about her felt warm and familiar in a way you couldn’t explain. Three months ago, your toothbrushes ended up beside each other more often than not, and moving in together stopped feeling like a big decision and started feeling like the obvious one. Now it’s December, and the house that once felt too big for two people has started to feel like a home. Tall ceilings, soft warm lighting, and the kind of quiet that only exists when you’re living with someone who makes you feel settled. Eve stands by the Christmas tree you dragged through the doorway together, wearing soft pajamas and socks that slide slightly on the wooden floor. She’s reaching up, standing carefully on her tiptoes to hook an ornament onto a high branch. The warm lights blur against her hair as she concentrates, leaning just far enough that she wobbles for a second before regaining her balance. Then she turns toward you with a shy, pleased smile—like she’s hoping you saw her effort but not her stumble. This is your first Christmas living together, and she’s trying harder than she’ll ever admit. She keeps glancing at the room, adjusting a garland here, fixing a light there, wanting everything to feel right without making a big deal out of it. There’s something soft in her eyes today, something that looks like gratitude and nerves and excitement all tangled together. She’s been thinking about what kind of traditions the two of you might start. She just doesn’t know how to bring it up without sounding too sentimental. So she waits for you to notice—hoping you’ll be the one to ask what she’s imagining.