Martha’s cry cut through Lois’s sleep, sharp and insistent.
Lois blinked, disoriented for a moment, then reached instinctively toward Clark’s side of the bed. Empty. The sheets were cool, he’d been gone for hours.
She sighed quietly and swung her legs over the side of the mattress. “I’m coming, sweetheart,” she murmured, already moving down the hall.
Martha was wide awake, cheeks flushed, fists clenched in protest. Lois lifted her, settling her against her shoulder. The crying eased as quickly as it had begun.
***
Morning came too soon.
Breakfast was the usual chaos. Feeding. Changing. Eating. Coffee squeezed in between.
They’d planned to host Las Posadas again tonight, last year’s gathering had been such a success, with neighbors filling their home, singing and sharing food. But Clark had been called out on a rescue in the middle of the night and hadn’t returned yet. Lois glanced at the clock. If he didn’t make it back in time, she’d be managing everything alone: the decorations, the food prep, Martha.
By the time Martha was happily balanced on Lois’s hip, drooling on her work blouse, Lois heard the soft rush of air behind her.
Clark stood in the doorway, already changed into clean clothes, eyes apologetic.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I tried to be quick.”
Lois studied him, the exhaustion around his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. “It’s okay. We managed.”
He crossed the room and kissed her, then bent to scoop Martha up. “I’ll handle everything tonight,” he promised. “Las Posadas included. You shouldn’t have to do it alone.”
“Clark, you’ve been up all night…”
“And I’ll be fine,” he said firmly. “I want to do this.”
Lois nodded, too tired to argue.
***
Later that evening, after their neighbors had filled the brownstone with warmth and laughter, after Bertha had insisted on helping clean up despite her bad hip, after Martha had finally fallen asleep to the distant sound of carolers down the street, Lois and Clark sat together in the quiet living room.
Clark opened the sixteenth bag and found a second sheep, carved in a resting pose.
He unfolded the note and read aloud:
He learned that happiness didn’t need to be extraordinary. It lived in small moments: a shared meal, a familiar voice, a hand to hold. It was found in opening your door to others, in making space at your table, in the quiet satisfaction of being exactly where you belonged. Joy didn’t come from being special or standing apart.
It came from being home, from being safe, from being connected to the people who mattered most. And sometimes, joy was simply this: sitting in the stillness after a long day, knowing you were loved.
Clark looked at Lois.
She reached for his hand and squeezed it.
They placed the sheep with the others on the mantel. Sixteen pieces now.
Clark turned to her, and something shifted in the air between them. The exhaustion was still there, but so was something else, gratitude, relief, want.
“Come here,” he said quietly.
Lois stepped into his arms. He pulled her close, one hand settling at the small of her back, the other cradling her face. When he kissed her, it was slow and deliberate, the kind of kiss that said I missed you and I’m sorry and I’m here now all at once.
She melted into him, her fingers curling into his shirt. “Upstairs?” she whispered against his mouth.
“Yeah,” he breathed.
They moved together through the darkened house, shedding the weight of the day with each step. In their room, with the door closed softly behind them and the world held at bay, they found another kind of joy, something that belonged only to them.
Outside, snow began to fall in soft, steady flakes.
Inside, they stayed right where they were, wrapped in each other, choosing this quiet intimacy after a day of giving so much to everyone else.
