He eyed his homemade mead. It bubbled reassuringly at him.
Low holiday music drifted from the living room, simple and instrumental and graceful. He’d put some nineteenth-century recreations on the playlist in honor of Steadfast, historical and memorable, making him smile. This was their first holiday season, him and Jason, him and Jason and his friends: he’d wanted it to be magical, and it was, so far. He’d met Jason’s family, and that’d gone well, he thought; he and Jason were happy, he thought.
More than happy. Wonderful. Even if he’d forgotten to mention this small detail to Jason.
Curling bronzed bookends, framing his cookbooks, caught his eye; a sailing ship danced over waves, forever leaping and bounding over handcrafted metal waters. He had to smile.