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“My baby girl,” I’m moaning. “My sweet girl. Sophie.”

I collapse onto her back, my cock still twitching, and catch my breath. Jesus Christ. I’m so dizzy I practically can’t move.

When I’ve finally recovered, I pull out carefully, and she straightens, turning in my arms and kissing me.

We clean up. Sophie pulls her leggings back on and rearranges her shirt. I dispose of the condom and wash my hands at the sink. Then we pick up the charcuterie tray and take it into the living room.

Through the window, I can see that even more snow is coming down. It’s one of the snowiest winters I can ever remember—but we have nowhere to be and nothing to do. The whole day stretches ahead of us, and I hope enough snow falls to bury the whole house, the whole town, so that nothing can burst the bubble that we are in.

By late afternoon, we’ve made a respectable dent in the charcuterie board and settled in front of the fire with a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. It’s a winter scene of a little New England village, and Sophie has already declared it impossible.

“Look at all that snow,” she complains, studying the picture on the box. “It’s just white.”

“It’s challenging,” I correct her.

She throws a piece at me. It bounces off my chest and lands on the rug. I pick it up and set it on the table, then begin my system. Edges first, sorted by straight sides and corners. Then color families—whites and grays for the snow, blues for the sky and ice, and so on.

Sophie rolls her eyes at my method. “Of course you’d have a system for a jigsaw puzzle,” she says, grabbing pieces at random.

She starts putting pieces together without much success, while I gradually assemble the border. After a while, she looks over at my progress and scowls.

“This is bullshit. Your system is bullshit, and it works, and I hate it.”

I grin smugly, but say nothing. She abandons her approach and starts sorting through the blue pieces while I finish the border.

Sophie’s phone buzzes on the coffee table, an interruption from the outside world, and she picks it up, reads the message, and smiles.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Just Maddie. My friend from school.” She types a quick reply. “I feel so bad for her. She had to spend Christmas alone.”

“Really? Couldn’t she get home?”

“Her parents couldn’t afford the airfare this year, so she stayed in residence.”

“That’s rough. Did you at least get to talk to her yesterday?”

“Yeah. We video-called. And I sent her a care package with some presents and chocolates, so she had something to open.”

“You did?” I look over at her, surprised. She’s been looking forward to Christmas for weeks, and somewhere in the middle of all that excitement, she was thinking about making it special for someone else, too. “That was really thoughtful of you, Soph.”

She shrugs, picking up another puzzle piece. “I just thought it would suck waking up on Christmas morning with nothing.”

Of course she did.

I watch her as she works, absorbed in trying to find the church steeple. There’s something amazing about Sophie that I don’t think she even recognizes in herself. She pays attention to people, remembers what matters to them, and goes out of her way to make them happy without expecting anything in return.

I remember our first Christmas together, just a couple of months after Elena and Sophie moved into the lake house. Among the mountain of presents Elena bought was a beautiful winter coat for Sophie. She was thrilled with it, putting it on immediately and wearing it around the house for the next hour.

But a couple of weeks later, I noticed she was wearing her old coat again. When I asked about the new one, she reluctantly admitted she’d given it to Hannah, a friend whose mother had recently lost her job. Sophie was embarrassed, worried that I’d be upset with her for giving away such an expensive present.

What astonished me was that she’d genuinely loved that coat. But when she learned that Hannah needed a warm winter coat, she’d given it away without a second thought. Elena would have made a spectacle of that kind of generosity, expecting admiration and gratitude from everyone involved. Even then, when I thought Elena was the love of my life, I recognized that difference.

Looking at Sophie now, bent over the puzzle, I feel the same rush of pride I felt that first Christmas. She’s a genuinely good-hearted person. And I know, with an absolute certainty, that I’d do anything to protect her. I’ve seen what happens when the people Sophie depends on let her down. I never want her to feel that kind of abandonment again. Whatever else changes between us, she’ll always have someone she can count on.

“This is a border piece,” she says, holding it out to me.

I take it from her and fit it into place. “Soph, can I ask you something?”