On New Year's Eve, Grace Barron traveled with Oakley Ponciano, who had just wrapped up a commercial shoot, heading toward the Ponciano family home.
Every Spring Festival brought the same strange contrast: city streets lay deserted, hushed and hollow, while train stations and airports swelled with humanity—crowds surging like tides, vast enough to drown the silence.
The plane skimmed the clouds and landed. Grace collected her luggage and followed Oakley out into the crisp air, where the Ponciano family driver waited patiently by the curb.
After a polite nod to the driver, Grace turned to Oakley, her voice low, almost tentative.
"Do you think your dad will like me?"
The question slipped out before she could stop it. Meeting someone in person was different from a video call—more real, more vulnerable. And with that reality came a flicker of nerves.
Oakley's brows arched, her tone teasing as she corrected:
"What do you mean my dad? Isn't he our dad now?"
Grace blinked, then laughed softly, quick to amend:
"Right. Our dad. What's he like?"
She had heard bits and pieces before, but Oakley rarely spoke of him. Her stories leaned toward her mother, leaving Grace with only a vague impression: stern, perhaps a little intimidating. Enough to make her wonder.
So many couples stumbled after marriage, tripping over family ties they couldn't untangle. Grace didn't believe that would happen to them—but still, she hoped for harmony.
Oakley's eyes gleamed with mischief.
"Oh, he's terrifying," she said solemnly. "The kind of man who settles arguments with a baseball bat. Used to carry a machete when he was young—there's a scar on his back like a lightning bolt."
Grace froze.
"What?" Her voice pitched higher. "Are you serious?"
Oakley nodded gravely, her expression a perfect mask of sincerity.
"He even keeps a giant oil cauldron at home. For frying people he doesn't like."
From the front seat came a muffled laugh—the driver, failing to contain himself. Oakley was clearly up to her old tricks, spinning tales with the ease of a born storyteller.
Grace exhaled, realization dawning.
"You're messing with me."
Oakley patted her shoulder, adopting an exaggeratedly wise tone.
"Sharp girl."
Grace chuckled, shaking her head.
"If I'd fallen for that, I'd be an idiot."
"Doesn't matter," Oakley said breezily. "Even if you were an idiot, I'd still love you. Super, super much."
She sounded so certain—so utterly sincere—that Grace couldn't help but smile.
"If I were an idiot," she countered, "you wouldn't have met me."
"Why not?" Oakley tilted her head.
"Because idiots don't browse forums," Grace said, deadpan. "And they definitely don't add you on apptalk."
Oakley let out a mock gasp and smacked her shoulder lightly.
"Ugh, you're impossible."
Their laughter filled the car, warm and bright, chasing away the winter chill.
When the mirth ebbed, Oakley sobered slightly.
"Don't worry," she said gently. "My dad's fine. Honestly, he's mellowed a lot. Used to have a temper when he was younger, but that didn't last. Now he's calm, steady. No tyrant vibes."
Grace nodded, relief loosening the knot in her chest.
"That's good."
An hour later, the car rolled to a stop before the Ponciano estate. Grace stepped out—and the cold struck like a blade, slicing through every seam of her coat. Gooseflesh prickled her arms as the wind scoured her skin, sharp as ice shards.
She lifted her gaze—and stilled.
The house rose like something out of a period drama: a modernized courtyard mansion, its architecture steeped in old-world grace. Dark timber beams framed sweeping eaves, the symmetry dignified, the lines serene. Nestled among evergreens, it exuded a quiet grandeur—a place that seemed to hold centuries in its bones.
Beautiful, Grace thought. A home that could anchor stories.
She followed Oakley through the courtyard, gifts in hand, and stepped into the main hall. Warmth enveloped her, along with the sight of Oakley's parents approaching.
"You're home!" Mrs. Ponciano's smile bloomed like spring sunlight.
"Yes!" Oakley darted forward, laughter spilling as she flung her arms around her mother.
"Mom, I missed you so much!"
She clung like a child, swaying side to side, her joy unrestrained. Mrs. Ponciano laughed, smoothing her daughter's hair with tender fingers.
"I missed you too."
"Let me look at you," she said, drawing Oakley back to study her face. Her eyes softened.
"Much better. You look so much healthier this year."
She remembered last winter—the hollow cheeks, the brittle hair, the shadowed eyes dulled by exhaustion and grief. Oakley had seemed like a ghost of herself, worn thin by relentless storms online.
Now, she was radiant again. And Mrs. Ponciano knew why.
"That's Grace's doing," Oakley said, her voice bright with pride. "She keeps me in line."
Grace smiled faintly. It was true—Oakley had grown more disciplined since they met. No more chaotic sleep cycles, no more skipped meals or binge feasts. She still had her quirks, but the wild pendulum had steadied.
Mrs. Ponciano turned to Grace, her gaze warm.
"And you must be Grace."
Grace lifted the gift bag, her tone respectful yet soft.
"Mom, Dad—thank you for having me. These are just a few things I picked out. I hope you'll like them."
Mrs. Ponciano accepted the gifts, her eyes sweeping over Grace with quiet appraisal before her smile deepened.
"My, aren't you lovely," she said. "Even prettier than on video."
Grace flushed lightly.
"Thank you. And you—you look amazing. Honestly, I'd never guess your age."
It wasn't flattery. Mrs. Ponciano carried her years like silk—graceful, uncreased, her serenity shining through.
Mrs. Ponciano laughed, pleased.
"Such a sweet talker. And you've taken good care of our Oakley. She looks like herself again."
Grace's lips curved, her voice gentle but firm.
"She loves me. I love her. When there's love, everything thrives."
Mrs. Ponciano's heart warmed at that. Words could be rehearsed, but a daughter's glow could not. Oakley's happiness was proof enough.
"Just promise me you'll care for yourself too," she said, squeezing Grace's arm.
Mr. Ponciano added, his tone gruff but kind:
"Yes. You're too thin."
Grace smiled.
"I will."
The tension she'd carried melted away. They weren't difficult people—not the kind who wielded authority like a weapon. Mr. Ponciano looked stern, his features carved in strong lines, but beneath that reserve lay a dry humor, a quiet respect. Even his advice on career matters came without pressure, offered like a hand rather than a chain.
Mrs. Ponciano was warmth incarnate—her laughter, her thoughtfulness, the small gifts she'd prepared after their video call. Grace felt it in every gesture: this was a family that cared.
Later, they gathered around the dining table for the New Year's feast. Dishes gleamed under golden light—steamed fish, garlic-laced seafood, braised sea cucumber in saffron broth, roasted wings lacquered in glaze. Aromas curled through the air, rich and inviting.
Grace listened as Oakley and her mother bantered, their voices lilting like music. The bond between them was effortless, threaded with humor and affection. Even Mr. Ponciano's rare interjections carried a wry twist that made Grace smile.
So this is where Oakley gets it, she thought. That spark, that charm—it was written in her blood.
After dinner, laughter spilled into the living room. The television bathed the space in crimson glow, variety-show skits drawing bursts of mirth. Grace slipped away for a moment, phone in hand, and dialed a video call.
Her grandmother's face bloomed on the screen after a brief pause—framed by a red cap and a festive Tang jacket, her smile as bright as lantern light.
"Happy New Year, Grandma," Grace said softly, leaning against the window.
"Happy New Year, darling." The old woman's voice was warm, her first question instinctive:
"How are they treating you? Are you happy?"
Always her priority—Grace's comfort, her joy. Never herself.
Grace glanced toward the laughter in the hall, then back at the screen, her smile tender.
"They're wonderful. Mom bought me gifts. Dad's not scary at all."
She felt lucky—blessed, even. To have found Oakley, and through her, this haven.
"That's good," Grandma murmured. "Good families are rare."
The words stirred something deep, and suddenly Grace's throat tightened.
"I just… wish I were with you," she whispered. "It feels strange, not spending New Year's together."
Memories unfurled—her grandmother bustling in the kitchen, laying out her favorite dried beef, fussing over hats in the mirror, asking which color made her look lively. Love, woven into every small act.
On the screen, the old woman chuckled softly.
"Don't fret. I planned to sleep early anyway. You belong there now—with them. That's your future."
Grace winced at the phrasing.
"Don't say that," she pleaded. "You'll always matter to me."
"I know," Grandma said gently. "And that's enough. I only want to see you happy. For years, I worried—your parents, your loneliness. Now you have someone good. A home. Even when I'm gone, I'll rest easy."
"Grandma," Grace whispered, her heart twisting. "Don't talk like that. It's bad luck."
The old woman laughed, chiding herself.
"You're right. Forget I said it. Just promise me you'll love well."
Her eyes, though clouded, brimmed with affection—an endless, patient tide. To her, Grace would always be that fragile fledgling, needing shelter from the storm.
Grace swallowed hard.
"I love you," she said simply.
For a beat, silence. Then her grandmother's smile deepened, soft as dawn.
"And I love you."
When the call ended, Grace returned to the living room, her face still warm with emotion. Oakley looked up from a slice of apple, curiosity sparking.
"Where'd you go? You look… happy."
"Called Grandma," Grace said, her voice light.
Oakley's eyes widened.
"You should've let me join!"
Grace laughed softly.
"She's asleep now. But after the holiday—we'll visit her."
"Deal," Oakley said, mollified.
An hour later, midnight struck. Bells tolled, and the familiar strains of Auld Lang Syne swept through the room, mingling with the glow of fireworks on the screen. Oakley sprang to her feet, eyes alight.
"Come on! Let's set off the fireworks!"
She had ordered boxes in advance, eager for this moment. Her parents declined—the cold was too sharp—so the task fell to the two of them.
In the bedroom, they bundled up in crimson scarves and hats, their reflections blooming in the mirror like figures from a vintage holiday card—bright, festive, impossibly well-matched.
Oakley slid her arms around Grace from behind, chin resting on her shoulder.
"Guess what we look like," she murmured, voice sticky-sweet.
Grace's lips curved.
"What?"
Oakley grinned, eyes dancing.
"A lovely perfect couple."
Grace burst out laughing, tipping her head back against Oakley's.
"You know… you're not wrong."
She studied their reflection—their closeness, their glow—and felt a rush of quiet awe.
"We really do fit," she whispered. "Like we were made for this."
"Of course," Oakley said, smug and tender all at once. Then, after a beat:
"Tell me—if I weren't pretty or cute, if I had no good points at all… would you still love me?"
Grace turned, her gaze steady, her voice soft as silk.
"That's impossible."
"Why?" Oakley challenged, eyes bright.
Grace smiled, tracing her fingers over Oakley's knuckles.
"Because you're my wife."
Then she pulled Oakley close—arms wrapping tight, chin resting on her shoulder like a loyal hound curling around its kitten. Her breath brushed Oakley's ear as she whispered:
"My wife is the best thing under heaven."
And outside, the first firework bloomed—gold and jade against the velvet sky.