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There's somethin' 'bout falling snow that's always captivated Rio.
It's in the way the world seems like it goes silent and still. Calm and quiet in a way his life rarely matches.
It never fails to excavate long-buried memories. Not buried because they're bad, though he's got enough of those to go around, but tucked out of the way. Important, but not the kind of thing he needs clutterin' his mind on the day to day.
Shit like standing in his abuelita's old kitchen on Lansing, the linoleum squeaking under his sneakers and the scent of baked sugar heavy in the air as he carefully rolled hojarascas fresh out the oven in canela as fat flakes drifted down past the window. He's got the most vivid memory of bouncing back and forth from foot to foot, so jittery he was nearly dancing, impatient to get through it so he could deliver the damn cookies to the neighbors.
Rio's not sure how old he was—truthfully, it could've been any one of a handful of years and was realistically more than one—or what he'd wanted to do. Probably meet Mick behind in the church down the block and smoke some of the weed they'd started buying from Mick's sister's boyfriend behind her back.
What he remembers is the way Buelita smiled and snapped a hand towel at him. She was always tellin' him to slow down, that anything worth doin' was worth doin' right. That Mick'd still be waitin' if he took his time. This time she'd taken it a step further and pushed him out the back door with instructions to stop and breathe and take a minute to appreciate the beauty of God's creation.
Life's made of small miracles mijo, and freshly falling snow is one of the most beautiful.
He remembers standing out on that crumbling concrete stoop, shivering in just a hoodie, watching the fat flakes dance their way down to the ground. He remembers the hush, the way it seemed like the whole world was holdin' its breath, frozen and still and silent to give the snow its moment. He remembers thinkin' even his soft exhale was too much, too intrusive, even as he watched the wispy, gossamer cloud dissipate into the spun-glass winter night.
It's funny the shit that sticks with you. There wasn't anything particularly special about that night, not really. But after that, every year when the snow'd start to come down—really fall, not that half-assed dusting that'd come down in November—he'd find himself taking a moment, watching the flakes fall, lookin' for small miracles.
Which was real fuckin' hilarious a lot of the time, given his circumstances throughout the years.
But Buelita'd been right, she usually was; there's a kind of magic in the falling snow. It had a way of makin' even the most fucked up, run-down corner in Detroit seem serene and beautiful.
Mufflin' the rumble of the engine as him and his boys roll down the block. Bringin' in a cold front that'd steam up the windows, making the drop houses look downright cozy. Lending a crisp crunch to the ambiance when they stalked up the cracked and pitted concrete walks. Icy air prickling across their cheeks while they made the collection rounds.
Granted, now that he's fought his way up to the top of the ladder, he's traded in that particular set of small miracles for other, better ones.
The tears in his grandma's eyes when he took her to the cemetery. How she clutched his hand as he showed her the headstone he'd had carved and installed in the double plot where they'd buried Abue—where he'd be buryin' her before too many more years passed—flurries drifting around them, powdering the graves around them with a thick coat of sparkling white.
Mick's belly laugh as Rio'd pulled up in front of his house Christmas morning in a vintage Valiant—the same one Mick used to eye when they were kids, talkin' bout how he'd have one someday when they were rolling in dough. He'd tossed Mick the keys as he'd hopped out and gotten a snowball to the face in return, icy flakes tumbling down under Rio's collar, making him jerk before Mick pulled him into a bear hug, rumbling a thanks man in his ear.
Marcus' blinding smile the first time Rio'd taken him to see Santa at the zoo's light show. The way the steam from the hot chocolate—trash compared to Buelita's recipe, but he wouldn't make that for Marcus until the following year—curled around his cheeks, circling his dimple and highlighting the delighted spark in his eyes.
The way the shadows of the falling flakes ripple across the golden strands of hair spread across his chest. They're dancing in the soft morning light determinedly making its way through the picture window next to the bed in defiance of both cloud cover and the gauzy curtains in its path.
And shit, it's corny as fuck and not somethin' he'd ever say aloud, but maybe the fact that he's wakin' up Christmas Eve morning, his arms full of Elizabeth feels a lot like a small miracle too.
Hell, that might be more than a small miracle, given their history.
He runs a hand down her back, marveling, always marveling, at her soft skin, all the softer in the hollows of her curves—pockets of silk hidden in her nooks and crannies.
She shifts against him, burrowing in. He can feel her lips brush against his chest, moving like she's tryin' to say somethin' but whatever it is, it's too buried to break the early morning quiet.
He strokes his hand further down, trailing his fingernails along her spine the way he knows she likes. When she cants her hips, pressing herself against his leg, the banked ember of an idea sparks, sending a frisson down his own back.
As gently as he can, Rio slips out from under her, rolling her gently so she's on her back. He ducks under the tangled comforter into the warm cocoon they've made together. They'd fallen asleep naked the night before—a miracle in and of itself, the woman acts like she's on some kind of holy mission to wear every damn pajama set on God's earth—and he can still smell the tangy, earthy scent of them tangled together in the sheets.
It's deeper, richer down here by her cunt, and Rio takes a minute to rub his nose along the crease at the top of her thigh, letting himself drown in the heady, somehow faintly floral scent that seems to live under her skin.
When he parts her legs and strokes a fingertip along her lips, she's already wet. Not like he knows she can be, but enough that his fingers glide along her without resistance. He ducks his head, his tongue darting out, and the salty, sweet taste of her bursts across his tongue.
Elizabeth sighs, and he stops, waiting to see if she's waking up. But she only shifts, turning her leg out and giving him more room, and he dips back down and continues.
He sets a lazy pace, not in a rush to wake her or get anywhere in particular, content to enjoy himself.
There's somethin' extra about these unguarded moments. That Elizabeth trusts Rio enough to drop her guard completely and give him this completely unvarnished look at her. It's been over a year since he's been back in her bed, since the first time he'd slept here, but there's still somethin' tentative about it. Like there's a part of him that's never going to be all the way over the first time he'd been here, that can't fully believe how far they've come, that this isn't going to crumble, melt, drain away.
Truthfully, Rio doesn't mind it, that faint edge. He's well acquainted with the different flavors of loss, and the threat of it's a counterpoint that keeps him sharp. Lets him know this is real but not somethin' he'll take for granted.
Above him, Elizabeth makes a sleepy, mewling noise that cuts off with a gasp as he slips a finger into her. He crooks it, and the breathy sound forms his name, and his own hips buck in response.
Rio doesn't think he'll ever get tired of the sound of it on her lips, especially not thick and slow and fuzzy with sleep.
One of her hands creeps under the covers, letting in a shock of cool air along with it. Her fingers quest, searching then finding him, and she scratches her nails along his head in both greeting and encouragement. He adds another finger, and she hums, the sound cracking a little on the very end.
It doesn't take long after that to coax her over the peak. It never does, really. Rio's always wondered if it's him—them—that makes her so responsive. Keeps her so close to the edge that it never takes much to push her off.
But that's not the kind of thing he'd ask her. They haven't talked about it much, their pasts and histories—there's enough ground to cover between them, going back further felt like precipice that didn't need to hurry their way over. But even if they had, he isn't sure she'd know. Isn't sure she'd had the experience to determine and knows she wouldn't like the reminder of that particular inequity.
And either way, it's not important. Like so much between them, it doesn't matter what was, not in the face of what is.
After she's come apart, all warm and liquid on his fingers and tongue, he crawls back over her. He pops his head out from under the duvet and is greeted by deep, dancing blue peering down at him, sleep still gathered in the corners of her wide eyes. A bright, fond smile curves her lips, and Rio feels an answering one beat in his chest and tug at his face.
"Hi," Elizabeth says, her voice husky and low.
"'Ay."
"What time is it?" she asks, starting to roll to grab her phone off the bedside table, but he sits up on his knees, the covers falling back and pooling around him, and stops her with his hands on her hips. Instead of fighting him, she lets her legs fall open, and he slides his hands beneath her, lifting her and cupping her ass.
"We got time, ma," he says, dragging his cock, hard and heavy up her inner thigh, grinning as she shivers.
"The kids," she starts, reaching a hand down and wrapping her fingers around him, making him jerk and rubbing his head against her clit then down.
"It's early," he gasps as he slides into her in one slow, smooth stroke, the world blanking out for a beat as the hot, wet heat of her cunt welcomes him.
Rhea's got Marcus today. Christmas Eve was the bigger deal than Christmas Day for her family, so he hadn't fought her when they'd hashed out who got what holiday. Buelita was always equally excited 'bout either, and after she'd passed, Rio hadn't cared much one way or another, just happy to have the time with his kid.
Elizabeth's kids have been upstate in some cabin in the woods the past week. Their dad's supposed to drop 'em off early afternoon, but even without the snow still falling outside the window, Rio's got a suspicion it'll be later than that. He ain't about to tell Elizabeth that, though. She's always liked to figure shit out for herself.
Either way, he can tell from the angle of the light it's early enough that they have plenty of time. And even if they didn't, there's somethin' 'bout this morning, something hushed and soft and warm he doesn't want to lose, not yet. She seems to feel the same because she doesn't protest, just rolls her hips, and they both gasp at the change in angle.
Rio looks down at her, all spread out below him, round and luscious, with a truly spectacular pair of tits. He cups one, running his thumb over her nipple, loving the way her breath catches as it pebbles under his touch.
It's almost like she's glowing, a pale star against the midnight blue of her sheets, and it leaves him breathless for a minute: how much he wants her, how much he never seems to stop, the miracle of the two of them here like this.
And maybe she feels it too because there's something just as awed in her eyes as she reaches for him, something in the tremble of her hand as she runs it along his cheek, then down his neck. Then her touch firms and turns urgent as she tangles her fingers in the chain of his St. Christopher medal, using it to tug him down to her.
She gasps into his mouth as their lips meet, and he thrusts into her, short and shallow, then again, deeper, harder, as her tongue tangles with his.
He gets her there twice more with his fingers and cock before he comes, spilling into her with a hoarse groan. He presses her name into the delicate skin beneath her ear at the hinge of her jaw, and she strokes her hands along his sides, spreading her fingers wide and palms flat against his skin like she wants to feel as much of him as she possibly can.
When he rolls off of her, he expects her to pop up, figures her mind's already whirring, tallying up the items on her to-do list, and arranging them in the most efficient order. But she surprises him by rolling with him, fitting herself into his side like she'd been when he first woke up. She drapes an arm across his waist and resting a hand on his chest, her fingers nearly but not quite touching the ridged white skin above his heart.
Elizabeth doesn't say anything, so neither does Rio; he just reaches up and slots his fingers between hers, and the two of them breathe together, watching the shadows of the snow still steadily falling drift across the bed.
———
Eventually—or maybe more like ten minutes later—Elizabeth starts squirming, makin' noises about startin' the day. Right around when she actually gets a hand on her phone, mumblin' 'bout how she's gotta call the car man and figure out when exactly he's bringing the kids back, Rio rolls out of bed and heads to the bathroom to take a shower.
He can't fuckin' stand bein' 'round when Elizabeth deals with that dumbass. It ain't jealousy—as far as he's concerned, there ain't shit Dean's got that Rio wants, not anymore. Yeah, okay, maybe he knows a lot about Elizabeth, and they have all that history, but Rio's always been more concerned with the here and now.
'Sides, history ain't all it's cracked up to be. Sometimes history means falling back into old patterns, pickin' up old habits. Like the way Elizabeth makes herself small whenever she has to deal with that fuck. It ain't her, and it makes him feel some type of way whenever he sees how instinctively she does is. When he thinks 'bout how many years it'd take to make it such a seamless habit.
When he gets out of the shower, she's off the phone but still sittin' on the bed. At some point, she must've got up because she's got one of her robes on, accessorized with that flushed, pinched expression she gets whenever she talks to her ex.
"When's he bringin' the kids by?" Rio asks, crossing to the tallboy and fishing around in the drawer Elizabeth cleared out for him a few months ago for boxer briefs and a fresh t-shirt.
"Tomorrow," she says, her voice thick, and when Rio turns around, he sees her cheeks are blotchy, and her eyes have a bit of a sheen to them.
"The snow," Elizabeth continues, gesturing towards the window. "I guess they got hit pretty hard up north. They're waiting for the plows to get through and dig them out, but Dean doesn't think it'll be for a while, so he's talking about staying another night and bringing them back tomorrow morning."
She swallows hard, looking away, and Rio bites back a curse. Fuckin' figures that idiot would get himself and the kids snowed in.
The thing is, today was supposed to be a whole production. Ridin' the high of Thanksgiving and how well it'd gone with the happy families shit, she'd wanted to try again but smaller this time. Just him and her and the kids, no buffer.
They were gonna start small. Elizabeth was supposed to have her brood today, and he was going to come over—well, be over, but they were gonna skirt around that with the ex. She'd had a whole day planned full of shit like bakin' cookies, sleddin', the works. Knowing her, some kind of extravagant meal too, even though he knows she's plannin' something over the top for tomorrow night.
"I want them to get used to us, but not—" She'd faltered when she'd tried to explain, but she hadn't needed to finish it; he got it.
It was a lot, the holidays, especially for kids. Hers more than Marcus. This was only their second Christmas since the divorce, and while she hadn't gotten into specifics, she'd said enough that Rio gathered last year'd been a whole fuckin' mess.
So, they were taking it slow. Easing Rio into the picture on Christmas Eve, up until he had to meet Marcus and Rhea and her parents for midnight mass. They'd do Christmas morning separate, then he and Marcus'd come over for dinner tomorrow afternoon.
It's a fuckin' trip, truthfully, that they're even workin' this kind of shit out at all. If someone'd told him two years ago it'd come to this, he'd—shit. He doesn't know what he'd have done back then, but he definitely wouldn't have believed it.
But the point is, today'd been kind of a big deal for Elizabeth, and seein' her twisted up over it falling through sits funny in his chest.
"What do you want to do, then?" he asks, grabbing his jeans off one of the decorative chairs she's got cluttering up the corner of the bedroom.
Elizabeth's head whips 'round, and she blinks at him. "What do you mean?"
"Got a day off, yeah?" She nods, still lookin' at him wide-eyed like he's slipped into Spanish or some shit, and she's barely following. Figures the concept of a day with nothing to do would spin her out. "So, what do you want to do?"
Rio pauses, hands on the button of his jeans. "I got some ideas if you're lookin' for inspiration."
Now she laughs, flushing a little, and Rio grins.
"I need to take a shower," she says, pushing up off the bed and wrinkling her nose. "I'm all sticky."
Pausing on the bathroom threshold, Elizabeth turns back to him, somethin' tentative in her face.
"Are you—" she breaks off and swallows, flushing a little like whatever she's about to ask is ridiculous. "You're staying?"
The question catches Rio off guard. Not that she's asking it, but what the asking calls out. He hadn't even thought about it. He'd cleared his schedule, tied everything up to hold through the holidays, planning to spend the day with her, so why would he change it up now? But now that she's asked is suddenly seems...heavier, somehow, the two of them spending Christmas Eve together.
It isn't like this is the first time they've spent the day together alone, but something feels different about it, now that the question's out there.
"You want me to go?" Rio finds himself asking, rubbing a hand over the back of his head, not sure what exactly he's feeling.
"No!"
Something in him unknots at the immediacy and vehemence of her response.
"Alright then." He nods, and she nods back but doesn't move, still leaned up against the doorway watching him.
The silence stretches.
In the mirror hanging over the dresser next to the bathroom door, he can see the snow still softly drifting down outside.
"You want some company or what?"
Rio mostly says it to make her blush and smile. He knows at this point that tryin' to derail Elizabeth once she's decided to start her day is a largely fruitless endeavor unless he puts some effort into it.
But today's a day for small miracles because instead of shoving him away, telling him to make coffee, Elizabeth's eyes sparkle as she grins and reaches for the tie of her robe.
She takes a step back into the bathroom, and what's there for him to do besides drop his pants and follow.
———
By the time they finish in the shower, it's stopped snowing.
Elizabeth takes one look out the window and starts making noises about going out and clearing the driveway. She gets as far as pulling a giant parka out of the mudroom closet before Rio takes it from her, softly nudging her back towards the kitchen.
Outside, the air is crisp and clear. There's an icy bite to it that nips at this inside of Rio's nose every time he inhales, making him wish he'd grabbed the scarf he'd seen hanging on a hook next to the door. Luckily, Elizabeth's driveway's short, and it doesn't take him that long to shovel it clear. Though, by the end, his shoulder and chest are aching more than they would've three winters ago.
And ain't that some shit? How time seems to stretch or speed up. That time he'd spent laid up in that hospital bed seems like it happened so long ago, it might as well've been another lifetime. But on days like today when the world's blanketed in white, and the sun beams down, making the rolling waves and drifts sparkle, it seems like all of five minutes ago he was out in the driveway shoveling the snow with Abue while Buelita made dinner.
Rio shakes his head, clearing the memories. Something 'bout freshly fallen snow just takes him back.
When he slips back in the back door, kicking his shoes clean but still slipping them off anyway, a familiar sweet and spicy scent greets him. It mingles with the fresh, cold smell of the snow, and for a split second, his socked feet are sliding across bubbling linoleum, not hard stone tile. When he walks into the kitchen, a cellophane bag bearing a label he hasn't seen in years is torn open, flakey sticks of cinnamon spilling out onto the island.
"What's that?"
"What?" Elizabeth spins around from the mixing bowl she's measuring flour into, her brow creasing at the sharp question, gaze darting around before landing on the target of his attention. "Oh! The cinnamon?"
She stops, her mouth working like she's trying to find the words before she swallows, tipping her chin and shaking back her hair. "I was going to make hojarascas—"
Elizabeth trips a little over the pronunciation, and it'd be cute if Rio weren't suddenly suffocating, the memories surrounding and overwhelming him like walls closing in.
"—I know...I know Marcus likes them; Rhea told me when we—so I thought…"
Elizabeth trails off, flushing a little, knotting her fingers together. She gets like that whenever Rhea comes up. Guilt eating her up from the inside out plain as day.
They'd talked about it once, what she did while he was gone. He'd known what she was up to—of course he did, like Mick wasn't checking in with Rhea damn near daily and reporting back—but that didn't change the fact that that wasn't a period of time either one of them liked to revisit.
Rio should say something, he knows he should, to put her at ease, let her know that's not what's twisting him up inside. Tell her why Marcus likes those cookies, where Rhea got the recipe. But some memories are too tangled up in everything else to come out cleanly. Not without dragging a whole lot of baggage out along with them, and none of it's the kind of thing he wants to get into.
Not now.
Not yet.
"I should—I'll make something else," Elizabeth mutters, reaching for the canela.
"Nah." Rio steps forward, stilling her with a hand on her arm. "You got somethin' to crush it up with?"
She blinks up at him, eyes flicking back and forth like she's searching for something in his.
Whatever it is, she finds it because her shoulders curve as she relaxes back, gently tugging her arm free and twisting to dig through a cabinet under the counter. When she stands back up, she's got an honest to god mortar and pestle because of fuckin' course she does, she's got every other damn thing in this kitchen. Rio laughs, soft and fond, and the smile the steals across her face in response is almost shy before it widens, that pointy-ass tooth of hers peaking out.
Something warm spreads through him at the sight, clearing away the ache in his chest and giving him room to breathe again.
He doesn't have to tell her to share it with her.
———
Once the cookies are spread out across the island to cool, their cinnamon sugar coating gleaming in the early afternoon sun—already starting to cloud back over, a sign of more snow to come—Elizabeth starts getting that gleam in her eye. The one that says she's lookin' 'round for somethin' else to do.
Even on a day off from everything, kids, the business, her life—a fuckin' miracle if there ever was one—the woman'll run herself ragged without someone to stop her. So Rio grabs her wrist, tugging her towards the couch, telling her to pick out a movie. It's not exactly his preferred activity, but his shoulder's still aching from shoveling the snow and 'sides, if he can get her to lay down with him, it's more than likely it'll end up goin' somewhere more interesting.
Except once she starts flipping through her Netflix, she gets a funny look on her face, like she swallowed somethin' wrong. She's nibblin' at her lip, flickin' little glances at him already sprawled out on the couch. He's debatin' whether or not to tell her to spit it out—even odds whether it'll work or clam her up further—when she seems to come to some kind of conclusion. Squarin' her shoulders, she turns to look down at him already sprawled out along the length of the couch behind where she's perched on the edge of it.
"Have you seen this?"
Rio peers at the screen. It's some black and white somethin' or other. A clean-cut white dude smilin' down at a pretty dark-haired woman, a pack of children surrounding and hanging off of him.
"It's a wonderful life?" Rio gives her a long look, arching an eyebrow, and she flushes, smiling a little.
It's become somethin' of a running thing between them, how few movies he's seen. It's not a particular aversion, they've just never really been a priority; there's always been something' else he'd rather be doing. And of the few he's seen, he's never really gone in for the classic Hollywood thing, so the odds of him havin' seen this are slim to none, and she damn well knows it; Elizabeth just wants him to say it out loud.
Or maybe not. She's still got that complicated, hesitant look on her face, her eyes fluttering to his, then away, like she can't look at him head-on, and if there's one thing she's never backed down from, it's an opportunity to claim a victory over him.
So Rio waits. Whatever Elizabeth's turnin' over, she'll either say it or she won't. If it's somethin' she feels fragile enough about that she's passin' up an opportunity to point out what she's taken to callin' the gaps in his cinematographic education, pushin' her on it'll just have her up and off the couch before the words are all the way out.
"My, uh—" she starts and stops, licking her lips before she tries again, talkin' to the space over his head. "Annie and I used to watch this every Christmas. It was our dad's favorite, before he...before he left."
Rio blinks, stunned.
They've been doing this for almost a year and a half now, and he can still count on one hand the amount of shit he knows about her childhood with a finger left over and none of it direct from her. That she'd done most of the raising when it came to Annie, and she's known Ruby since they were kids. He's put together two more fingers himself: that Dean's been around probably since high school—he knows Elizabeth was a child bride, and based on what she has told him, he can't see her jumping into that particular institution with anyone who hadn't put in some years first—and that she doesn't like to talk about any of it.
"We stopped when Kenny was born," she continues, her voice low, like she's tellin' him a secret, and in a way, she is. "Dean never liked it—"
Rio doesn't snort, but it's a near thing.
"—and after the kids, it seemed like there was never enough time," she finishes, finally looking at him, eyeing him like she knows what he'd held back.
"You didn't reclaim the tradition last year?" he asks, keeping his voice light, and she sags back against him just enough that he knows it was the right choice.
"No," Elizabeth says, shaking her head. A curl breaks free of the sloppy ponytail she'd pulled her hair back into at some point in the baking process, and he reaches up, twining it around his finger. "Everything was so crazy last year with Dean, the kids. You."
She looks away at that, and he drops his hand, rolling his shoulder to work out some of the leftover ache.
"So turn it on," Rio says. He'd have gone along with it either way, but it still feels like a peace offering. An attempt to make up for something they'd already settled.
"You sure? It's long."
Elizabeth still isn't looking at him, and Rio sighs. He shoves himself up with his good arm and wraps the other around her waist instead of answering. She squeals as he hauls her back down with him, plucking the remote out of her hand and hitting play.
"We don't have to," she insists, but she's already scooting back, snuggling herself up against his chest and fitting her hips against his in a way that's a lot more interesting than the illustrated credits coming up on the screen.
"Shut up," he says, warm and fond, laughing as she reaches over and pinches his arm.
———
The snow's coming down again, heavier than before by the time the whole town's burst into Auld Lang Syne, and the closing credits roll.
Elizabeth's snuffling a little and tryin' to play it off like she's got somethin' in her eye, and he lets her, content to lay back and wait her out. He'd tabled that hip wiggle when he'd realized how much watching this meant to her, but he hadn't forgotten. He strokes a hand down her side, smoothing down her sweater. He's just reached the hem of it, about to slip his thumb underneath and drag it up when she abruptly sits up.
"What time is it?" she asks, groping around on the floor for her phone.
Rio shrugs, adjusting course and hooking a finger in the back of her pants, tugging lightly. "Got somewhere to be?"
Elizabeth stands up, and his hand falls. She turns, looking past him to the kitchen and biting her lip, then down at him. "I want to get the chicken started so you can eat before you have to go."
"Leave it, ma," he says, reaching for her, but she steps back out of reach.
She takes a step like she's going to head around the couch, and he surges up, grabbing her by the waist, spinning them around, and pushing her back down on the couch. He leans over her, bracing a hand on the back of it on either side of her, bracketing her in. Their faces are close together that her breathy laugh brushes lightly against his cheek, and he runs his nose along the line of her jaw, then nipping at the hinge of it. He leans in, pushing her back against the cushions, inhaling deep and letting the velvet floral smell that lives in her skin, lives inside him, wash over him, flourishing and taking deeper root.
Rio lets go of the couch, wraps his fingers against her wrist, lifts it, and places her hand in her lap between her legs.
"I'll make it," he says, and Elizabeth's head jerks back. She blinks at him, her big Bambi eyes wide and blue, surprise making her mouth go slack. "You get started."
He flattens his hand over hers, pressing down and curling his fingers, so he's cupping her, her hand trapped beneath his. Under his palm, he feels her mimic the motion and grins, sharp and delighted, before he stands up.
"You don't cook, though," she says, already slipping her hand beneath the waistband of her leggings.
"No?' Rio looks down at her and arches an eyebrow. "'S that someone else in the kitchen with you last month?"
"Yeah, but—" Elizabeth pushes her hand lower, and when she pulls it back out, he can see the tip of her fingers gleaming. She offers them to him, and he ducks down. Her tiny gasp as he licks them clean makes his cock twitch, and he straightens up, heading for the kitchen before it can get the better of him.
Somethin' 'bout Elizabeth takes him right back to middle school. Poppin' boners every other fuckin' minute and losin' every scrap of control along with 'em.
"If you look over by the cookie jar, there's a lemon and some thyme, and—"
"Nah," he cuts her off and bounds over to the cabinets he knows she uses as a pantry and flings them open, scanning to see what he can work with.
"What do you mean, nah?"
Rio grins. He fuckin' loves when she imitates him. He spies a familiar-looking jar on the shelf and frowns, reaching for it, an idea taking shape.
"Why you got this?"
He turns, and she's repositioned herself on the couch. She's leaned back against one arm of it so she's facing the kitchen. One leg's flung over the cushions, her ankle hooked on the back of it to give herself room to work and him a better angle to watch her stroke herself. She's still got her leggings on, but the tight, stretchy fabric means he can see every movement of her fingers, her knuckles tenting it out as she plays with her clit. His cock twitches again, more insistently this time, and he turns back to the cabinets, trying to stay focused.
"Adobe peppers?" Her voice's got a little bit of a breathy edge to it. "I was trying out a copy cat Chipotle recipe—"
She breaks off, gasping a little and Rio nearly knocks a jar off the shelf, quickly rifling through her spices to see what she's got.
"There's too much—" Another gasp. "—Salt. It's bad for the kids."
"That why you got this, too?" Rio holds up a bottle of powdered ancho chili.
He's trying not to look at her, but when she doesn't answer, he glances over, and she's waiting for him. She's pulled her fingers out of her pants again, and he can see from all the way over here they're wet. Her lips curve into a sly smile as she nods and sticks them in her mouth, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks on them. He nearly groans but holds it back, keeping his face blank.
"Baking chocolate?" Rio asks, clipped, and she points with her free hand.
Right. He knew that. He's been in her kitchen probably close to hundreds of times by now when she's been making cookies for some bake sale bullshit waste of time.
"Slow cooker?" He should know this one too, but she's got her hand back down her leggings, and this time he can see her fingers going lower, pushing into her cunt, and he's rapidly losing interest in making dinner.
She jerks her head towards the stove and right. Bottom cabinet. By the mudroom. Bigger appliances. Food processor will be in there too.
Moving fast, Rio pulls it out and assembles his ingredients. She doesn't have everything, but she's got enough that he can make some substitutions, and he's pretty sure it'll come out alright. He pulls out an onion and chops it faster, sloppier, than he thinks he ever has in his life. It's pure luck more than anything else that lets him keep all his fingers intact.
Dumping everything other than the chicken into the food processor, he turns it on, the loud whir drowning out Elizabeth's soft gasps and tiny whimpers, giving him room to think. Mole sauce was one of the first things Buelita taught him. He's made it for Marcus countless times. Mick, a few. Rhea, once or twice. No one else though, he realizes with a jolt. It seems like he would've; it's easy, just takes time to cook and come together.
Maybe that's it. He's always been in and out, always keepin' an eye on the next thing. There are so few people he spends that kind of time with.
Rio shuts off the food processor right as Elizabeth moans, long and loud. Her head's thrown back, hips bucking and legs jerking as she comes, and he has to reach down and adjust himself.
He damn near throws the chicken into the slow cooker, only years of habit sending him to the sink to wash his hands before he touches anything else, then pouring the sauce in on top, putting the lid on, and cranking up the heat. He turns it to high. It'd be better to give it more like six or eight hours on low, but he's going to have to go meet Marcus and Rhea for mass, and it'd be cutting it close.
He looks out the window, eyeing the snow, falling thicker now. He twists the dial down. He can always turn it up later.
Turning on his heel, Rio nearly slides in his socked feet as he comes around the island, and when he vaults over the arm of the couch, Elizabeth's waiting for him, her arms and legs outstretched to pull him in.
———
Somewhere in the early evening, after they'd sprawled out on the couch, thoroughly fucked out, and watched another movie—some weird-ass Christmas horror thing Elizabeth thought was funny as fuck and Rio mostly didn't get the point of—Rhea called to confirm what Rio'd figured would happen. The snow's still falling, the plows aren't keeping up, and they were forgoing midnight mass in favor of going in the morning.
It gave him a pang, it always did, not seeing his kid when he'd planned to, but truthfully, Marcus' havin' more fun with all his cousins anyway, and he'll see him in the morning.
Eventually, Elizabeth stops letting him distract her and makes her way to the kitchen, oohing and ahhing 'bout how good it smells. She ain't wrong, but it makes Rio's throat thick, the tangy smell of the chicken mixing with the lingering sweetness of the cookies. If he closes his eyes, h's right back on Lansing, Bing Crosby crooning from the battered radio that lived on the counter. Buelita always loved that damn song, White Christmas. Whenever the opening bars would start to play, she'd sigh, a hand over her heart, and Abue'd stop whatever he was doing and pull her to him, and they'd sway 'round the kitchen, his hand on the small of her back, her head resting on his shoulder.
Elizabeth insists on making a rice pilaf to go with the chicken, batting Rio away when he tries to help, instructing him to make a salad instead. She makes some noise about setting the table, but Rio talks her down, and they eat, sitting side by side at the island.
Outside the kitchen window, the snow keeps falling, and Rio can see there's somethin' close to two feet of it piled up on the picnic table, nearly entirely obscured out in the yard. He can hear the rumble of plows makin' their way down the street but still makes a note to get up early and make sure the driveway's clear before he leaves in the morning. Not give that dumbass ex of hers any reason to keep the kids longer than he already has.
After they wash the dishes and set the kitchen back to rights, Elizabeth makes up a little plate of cookies and heads off to the living room. Rio pads softly behind her, two mugs of hot chocolate liberally doctored with rum clutched in his hands.
Throughout the rest of the house, Elizabeth's mostly restrained herself when it comes to Christmas decorations. She's left it at evergreen boughs along the banisters, tied up with red velvet ribbon and strewn with little white lights, poinsettias tucked up on shelves, and those electric candles in every window. But the living room? That's where she's gone all out.
There's the tree, stretching so tall the brightly lit star on top nearly scrapes the ceiling—and hadn't that been a nightmare, tryin' to get her to understand she needed a bigger tree stand. That there was a reason her tree'd toppled over several years running with the tiny tree stand car man kept using. It's strung with strands and strands of colorful lights and nearly bursting with ornaments: sparkly balls, tacky tourist mementos, lopsided handmade ceramics, she had 'em all and wasn't gonna stop somethin' as trivial as physics stop her from gettin' them all up on the tree.
Underneath is piled with mounds of presents, every one lookin' like it's been professionally wrapped except for the four lopsided ones front and center. Rio'd tried to stick those in the back, but Elizabeth's eyes had gone glassy, and she pulled them forward, rearranging the rest to frame them with an insistency that told him arguing was pointless. Hers, he stuck in one of the stockings hung over the fire. Four of them were filled to the bursting, but the one on the end had only two lumps: an oblong shape that said jewelry clear as day and a smaller, squarer one. Flatter than a ring box but about the same size.
Marcus'd wrinkled his nose when he saw what Rio'd snapped inside. At eight, he'd developed very specific ideas of what was and wasn't appropriate to gift a girlfriend, and in his mind, a set of keys ain't it. He was much more in favor of the other box, had helped Rio pick out the delicate gold necklace with the five tiny, glittering stars linked along it. Rio wasn't about to explain to him that keys to the warehouse they were running the massively expanded print operation out of were a lot bigger than the diamonds.
It was a mostly symbolic gesture anyway; Elizabeth was already more or less running the opp all by herself. Handing over the keys was basically just a formality, but he figured she'd get it.
Besides the tree, it seemed like damn near every ledge and surface was strung with more pine bowers, and Elizabeth'd replaced all of the pillows on the couch with red and green and gold ones. She'd swapped out the throw that was usually draped over the back with something red and plaid and lined the mantel with a shitton of nutcrackers that were, quite frankly, creepy as fuck.
Elizabeth sets the cookies on the table and crouches in front of the fire, grabbing the long matches and a handful of the newspaper she's got tucked off to the side. Rio drops down next to her and nudges her out of the way. She tsks as he sets to work, tucking the paper into the pile of logs and kindling she's already got arranged in there.
He hears her shuffling around behind him, and some music starts up. It's something slow and twangy, all acoustic guitar and soft snares, not his usual thing, but there's something worn in and familiar feeling about it that fits the mood. By the time he's got the fire going and stands, some guy's singing about swaying evergreens and holy things. A part of Rio wants to roll his eyes, but when he turns around and sees Elizabeth curled up on the couch, the soft, flickering light of the fire dancing across her face and making her hair glow, something in him catches and yeah, okay, maybe he gets the sentiment.
He drops down on the couch next to her, and she's curling into his side almost before he's lifted his arm to invite her.
Neither of them says anything for a long while. The fire's crackling, and the music's switched over. Now a woman's singing, her voice sweet and low and lulling.
Elizabeth sighs, long and slow, and Rio feels himself relax along with the sound, the last of the tension—the stuff he always seems to carry no matter how calm he feels—draining away.
"The chicken was amazing," Elizabeth says, soft and almost shy, like she's talking 'bout somethin' secret, and he snorts.
"Told you I can cook."
He feels her nod against his chest. "Can I get the recipe?"
"Sure." Rio swallows. "It was my abuelita's. Same with the cookies."
Burrowed against him, Elizabeth goes still as stone.
"She made them every Christmas. The smell…" he trails off, watching the fire. "It reminds me of her."
Elizabeth doesn't respond for a long moment, and he swallows again, trying to clear the lump in his throat and ignore the faint ache blooming in his chest.
"They're really good," she says eventually.
He nods, his chin brushing the top of her head. "She knew what she was doing."
The song switches over again. It's still slow, and this time a piano accompanies the simple guitar melody. When the singer starts up, Rio realizes it's a take on Auld Lang Syne.
"My dad—" Elizabeth breaks off, clearing her throat before she tries again, the words tumbling out almost on top of each other. "At the end of the movie, when this song played—well. Not this song, but that version of it?"
Rio nods again, stroking a hand along her back.
"He used to stand up when the town started to sing and pull me up and then dance with me. Waltz me around the living room. Then when the credits play, and it speeds up, he'd do this sort of Charleston jazzy thing I think he made up, swinging me all over the place."
She pauses, and when she inhales, he can hear it's thick and a little wet. "It used to make me and my mom laugh so hard."
Out of the speakers, the guy is back, crooning about a cup of kindness.
Rio gently slides out from underneath her, ignoring her tiny protest, and stands, holding out a hand.
She pushes up, blinking at him like she doesn't get it. He doesn't say anything, just raises his eyebrows, and he sees it, the way her lips part and the shaky breath she takes as it clicks. Then she's pushing herself up and taking his hand, her small fingers wrapping around his. He pulls her to him, wrapping an arm around her waist, his hand on the small of her back, and she leans into him, molding herself to him like they're puzzle pieces slotting together.
He starts to sway them in a circle, and the woman's voice joins the man's. The two of them sing about finding and holding the things they've sought, and Elizabeth's hand comes to rest on his chest, her fingers lightly tracing the scar beneath his shirt.
The heat of the fire's fogging up the windows, just a bit, and between that, the warmth, the music, the smells of Buelita's cooking still lingering in the air, and the woman in his arms, it feels like he's slipped into a memory during the making of it.
Small miracles, Rio thinks. He doesn't feel the ache in his chest, his shoulder so much anymore.
And as he holds her closer, Elizabeth's head settles onto his shoulder, and they sway together, the snow gently falling outside.