A Series of Clato One Shots and Short Stories

I'll Be Home For Christmas

             It was two AM on December Twenty-fifth, the air outside raw and bitter, the sky shrouded in a haze as flakes of downy, soft snow floated to the frozen soil.

            Twenty-three-year-old Clove Kentwell was curled up on the couch in the dim living room of her small apartment. The only source of light in the entire place was the tiny string of Christmas lights dangling on the wooden mantel. She hadn't bothered to decorate a tree.

           Her sister had purchased her a small evergreen tree with vain hopes that it would cheer up her sister, but it merely sat in the corner bare of decoration, serving no purpose but to deposit pine needles on the rug, where they remained, accumulating into heaps of green. Clove hadn't done much to commemorate the holiday; she just didn't have the heart for it. Her mother had come by after Thanksgiving and hung some lights in various spots, perhaps a wreath or two here or there. She gave up when her daughter broke into tears over the mistletoe that had been hung insensibly above the doorframe.

           Cato, Clove's husband of six months, was deployed two months after their wedding in June, leaving her with a vacant apartment and the promise that he'd be home for Christmas. She'd lost all belief in his word by Labor Day when the letters stopped arriving in the mail.

          So there she was, alone on Christmas Eve, drained but rejecting sleep, her only company, the lost thoughts of her spouse and the Christmas before, when he was there with her.

          A knock sounded at the door, startling Clove; she certainly wasn't expecting anybody to come banging at her door, especially that late at night.

          She got off of the couch and flicked on the light switch in the hallway, blinking her eyes to adjust to the gold light as it saturated the apartment. Her fingers latched around the bronze door handle, and she pulled the door open, the sudden rush of frigid air dispersing goosebumps along her arms. She glanced up, opening her mouth to address the person in front of her, but she froze when she noticed the sparkling blue eyes and green army fatigues.

           For a moment, she stared, unable to believe her eyes, her brain unable to comprehend that he was really there, standing on her doorstep, alive and well and with her. It was when he spoke that she snapped back to reality.

           "Merry Christmas, Clove,"

           "Oh my God..." Her knees gave out beneath her as her hand rushed to her mouth, the reality of it all crashing down upon her shoulders with the weight of a freight train.

             Her husband drew her into his arms as she sank to her knees, dropping down with her and pulling her close, holding her as if it were a privilege to have her in his grasp once again.

             Clove grasped the fabric on his shoulder and pressed her face against the skin of his neck, taking in the warmth of his body against hers as the frigid air bled through the open doorway. She almost forgot what he smelled like; freshly cut wood and pine. Home.

             "I-I thought..." Her words, muffled against his neck, were cut off by the sob that seized in her throat.

             "I know," Cato whispered in response, his fingers pressing her closer as if he was terrified that if he let her go, he'd lose her again. "But I'm here, baby."

            "I love you," her lips lifted in a slight smile as she could finally breathe again because he was home; She was home.

            "I love you too," he raised his head just enough to press his lips against her cheek and then her lips in a kiss so soft, yet so perfect, so invigorating after months of lost intimacy.

             "Merry Christmas, Cato." She whispered, leaning her forehead against his, her eyelids drifting shut as she took it all in, his arms and his kiss, the feel of him beside her, the sound of the softly falling snow, and the brisk air; it was all so perfectly real. He was really home.

            Cato lifted his hand to her cheek and tilted in to place a kiss as gentle as the falling snow on the tip of her nose.

            "Merry Christmas, Clove."