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He shifts. “I think it is.”

“Merry Christmas, Rafe.”

“Merry Christmas, Tess.”

“Do people talk about it?” I say. “After? The next morning?”

“I don’t know.”

I rest my head on his shoulder. He’s so bad at this. I’m so bad at this. We’re two people lying in a bed on Christmas morning who have no idea what the rules are.

“Did I do anything embarrassing?” I say.

“A lot.”

I smack his chest hard. He doesn’t even flinch.

“No,” he says, after a second. “You didn’t.”

Then he turns his head on the pillow and looks down at me. His face changes. The joking goes out of it.

“You okay?”

I think about it.

“Yeah,” I say. And I mean it. “A little sore.”

He goes still. His eyebrows come down. He starts to sit up.

“Rafe.” I put my hand flat on his chest and push him back down. “I’m fine. It’s normal. You don’t have to—whatever you’re about to do. Lie down.”

He lies down. He looks at me sideways like he’s not sure he believes me.

“Are you okay?” I say.

He looks confused. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

I shrug against his shoulder. “You looked like you were going to explode yesterday. The whole time.”

He gives me a look. A long, flat, unamused look, from about three inches away.

I smile at him.

And then, because he’s right there, and his morning hair is adorable, and I’m not nervous anymore, I kiss him.

It’s different from yesterday. Yesterday was every inch of it new. This is a person I know how to kiss now. I know where to put my hand on his jaw. I know which way to tip my head. I know that if I slide my fingers up into the back of his hair, he’ll breathe in through his nose, and he does, and I feel it, and I smile into his mouth.

“What,” he says, against my lips.

“Nothing.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I want to try something.”

He goes very still, and then very interested. His whole attention comes awake at once.

“Okay,” he says carefully.