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When I asked about the sign the first morning we woke in Wales, she told me it had been a gift from her father. He’d hand-carved it for her fifteenth birthday.

And what did it mean? I’d asked, not even attempting the pronunciation.

Be strong, Little Dragon. A pet name he’d given her as a child.

In a house haunted by the absence of her father, I found the spirit of the words disheartening. Even ten years later, his presence—or lack thereof—was palpable. It could be felt in the empty space beside Jacqueline on the sofa. The chair left vacant at the head of the dining room table. The study door that never opened at the end of the hall.

There were no photos of him throughout the household. The first night in her bedroom, Dillon must have sensed I was looking for one as I scanned the various snapshots pinned on her wall.

“When my mam’s grief eventually transitioned to anger, she put all the photos of my dad away,” she said, unprompted, pulling out an unframed 5x7 from her desk drawer. In the picture, Dillon was in a race bib, her t-shirt plastered to her skin, her dad beside her with his arm around her shoulders. The two of them shared the same pale blonde hair and dimpled smile.

When I handed it back to her, she returned the photo to the drawer.

Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed the hour. Twelve strokes. Midnight. It was officially Christmas morning.

Careful not to wake her, I gently massaged the tense muscle in her back, kneading my knuckles into the fiery wings of the phoenix spanning her shoulders.

It had been exactly a year since I first slept beside her. Since the small hours of a misty bay morning had catapulted my world into the clouds. At the time, I’d had no sense of the future. No clue of what we were doing or the direction things would go. I’d known only that—when the holidays were over—I hoped to find a way to see her again.

So much had changed in a single rotation of the sun.

But nothing more so than how much I loved her—how much I could no longer imagine my life without her.

As her breathing deepened once more, I eased my body against hers, soaking in the comfort of her warmth, drifting to sleep with the smell of salt and sea, sunscreen and chlorine that never left her skin.

I woke the following morning with a start.

The fragments of an unpleasant dream faded with my return to cognition.

Dillon was up already, dressing in the dark.

My heart sank. Again, she meant to leave without me.

Last night, when she’d reached for me between the sheets, finding my mouth with hers, I promised myself to let that be enough. I’d known from the beginning our relationship was better off in shadows. The debacle with the photo had clearly shaken her—but it hadn’t scared her away. I knew if I wanted to keep her, I needed to give her her space. To be content with whatever parts of her she would give me.

But still, this morning I was disappointed. I wanted to tell her I could be more careful. I could wear my glasses. Change my clothes. Blend in better with the crowd. Hell, I could even shave my head—Britney circa 2007was fine with me—whatever it took. Just please don’t cut me out.

But as I heard her zip her jacket, I kept my eyes closed, not wanting to make it more awkward than it already was.

Instead of tiptoeing out the door, however, I felt the mattress shift beneath her weight as she sat on the edge of the bed.

“Happy Christmas.” The scent of Banana Boat sunblock filled my nostrils before she pressed her lips against my ear. “I know you’re not sleeping.”

“Nadolig Llawen,” I whispered, botching the impossible pronunciation ofMerry Christmasin Welsh, despite having practiced it for the past three days.

I felt her smile. “Your butchery of my language is charming, but it still doesn’t get you out of coming with me this morning.”

My eyes flew open. Without another word, I was out of bed, into the previous day’s discarded clothing, and stumbling into my Uggs before she’d retrieved her backpack from the closet.

I wasn’t being left behind.

It didn’t bother me that she walked a little further away from me on the sidewalk, or resurveyed our surroundings before kissing me as I unzipped her wetsuit, or that she changed our coffee spot to Valdi’s, all the way out by the pier.

She wanted me with her enough to risk the chance of another photo. Another fan post. Another chink in the armor safeguarding her from the world’s prying eyes.

It was the most meaningful gift she could give me.

Nadolig Llawen—however the hell it was pronounced—indeed.