Hi Jules, love your work so much! Was wondering if you could write this prompt "there is tinsel. everywhere." [laughing] "i think you got more of it on yourself than the tree" from page 2 with Simon Benoit?
Thanks queen, hope the blog keeps growing every day 🥹🥰🫶🏼
okay so i made them parents again and im really liking the domestic dad! simon benoit — may have to explore that more in the future 🙂↕️❤️
the sound of milo’s little giggles can be heard from down the hall, and as you make your way towards the laughter, it only makes you gently join in. you round into the family room, anticipating what’s got your son so humoured, but before you can ask—you see it.
“there is tinsel. everywhere.” you announce, surveying the scene unfolding in your living room. “I think you got more of it on yourself than the tree.” you tell milo, but he’s not paying attention to you. too busy covered in silver strands of glitter, running back and forth to the pile of tinsel on the coffee table and the tree.
you turn your gaze towards your husband, and snicker. “so are you.”
simon looks down at his own sweater—now sporting a glittering safety vest of tinsel draped across his chest—then at the floor, where milo has created what can only be described as a festive explosion.
your four year old is in his own little world still, humming a tune only he knows, fists full of tinsel as he tosses handfuls of it into the air like confetti. every landing spot is fair game. the couch, the cat bed, the coffee table, even simon’s socks.
he lets out a quiet, resigned huff that’s really just his version of a laugh. “he’s thorough,” simon says, ruffling your son’s hair as the boy scampers past him with yet another roll of tinsel.
“he’s a menace,” you correct affectionately. “just like his dad.”
“but festive menaces,” simon counters, reaching down to snag milk around the waist mid run. he squeals, giggles vibrating out of him once again as your husband lifts him with one arm like it’s nothing. “oi, little man. thought we were decoratin’ the tree.”
milo, dangling upside down in simon’s grip, declares proudly, “I am decorating! daddy said we need lots!”
as you sit down on the couch, you give your husband a look over the ornament box. “did he?” milo giggles some more and then nods. you sigh, but you’re not annoyed. not really. “alright then. I think lots means that we need to do some more work.”
simon lifts a brow, a silent question in your direction—asking if you actually want to let your christmas crazed son loose with the tinsel again. when you smile with conformation, he moves. “you heard the boss,” simon murmurs, shifting milo right side up and setting him on his feet. “more tinsel baby.”
and just like that, your son is back to chaos.
you snort. “at least he’s enthusiastic.”
“enthusiastic,” he repeats, watching milo wrap tinsel around the cat, who is sitting stoically like this is the price of living with humans. “that’s one word for it.”
but despite the chaos—the glitter, the holiday music slightly too loud, the half hung lights dipping unevenly in the middle—the room feels warm and full in a way that makes your throat go tight.
your husband sits down beside you with a tired groan. he brushes a bit of tinsel from your hair with gentle fingers. “you’re enjoyin’ this,” he says, but it’s not a question. it’s an observation.
you look up at him, letting yourself lean into the moment. “of course I am.” subconsciously, you let your hand fall down to your belly. there’s barley a bump there—barley any signs of the new life you’ve just started growing—but it still makes you giddy. you’re almost 15 weeks.
simon watches you with a smile, eyes creasing at the corners with anticipation—that tiny, precious smile he saves for the two of you. “good,” he murmurs, hand covering yours. thumb stroking the tiny swell. “‘cause I like seein’ you happy.”
you feel your cheeks warm, and he notices. of course he notices. with his free hand, simon lets his thumb ghost along your cheekbone. but your bubble is shattered when a stray ornament rolls along the floor and falls at his feet. he bends to pick it up.
milo bounds over to you both, little matching sweatsuit still covered in tinsel. he tugs on both your hands at once. “tree! tree! tree!”
simon scoops him instantly, settling him on his hip. “alright, baby. let’s do the star.
hours later, and a good :0 minutes past his bedtime, milo fights sleep like it’s a personal rival—wriggling and giggling and insisting he isn’t tired, even as his eyelids droop dramatically every thirty seconds. you finally convince him to climb into his tiny bed after a quick bath and wrestling him into his red pyjamas—his bedsheets decorated with dinosaurs and superheroes. but the moment he settles, simon spots a family sparkle.
there is tinsel in milo’s hair. still. somehow.
“how’d you get more tinsel in your hair baby?”
your eyes naturally search until you spot what your husbands seeing as well.
your son shrugs under the covers, a little grin pulling at his rosebud lips.
simon mutters, “christ,” under his breath. then, milo yawns so wide that his eyes water, and that’s when your husband gives up entirely, kneeling beside the bed and gently carding his fingers through milo’s hair. every few seconds, another tiny piece of silver or gold tinsel works its way free and flutters down onto the blanket.
that’s when you know he’d gotten into the tree again after bath time.
you sit beside them, plucking out stray pieces simon misses. It’s a slow, quiet little ritual. his big hands careful, and your touch light and soothing—milo’s breaths growing deeper as the room settles.
“think we got it all,” you whisper after a while.
“no chance,” he murmurs. “kid’s a walkin’ ornament.”
you nudge his shoulder, and he smirks, eyes softening as he watches your son finally drift off. small hand curls around one of simon’s fingers—instinctive, trusting and something he’s done since he came out of your womb.
simon still, just like always does when milo grabs him like that. it’s like your husband forgets how to breathe for a second, and you swear he falls in love with fatherhood all over again each time.
you lean your head lightly against his shoulder. “you’re so good at this, y’know.” his kiss him over the material of his hoodie.
he scoffs under his breath. “I spent half the day covered in tinsel.”
“and he adored every second of it.” you smile, “and I can’t wait to grow our family and watch you do it again.”
simon glances at you then, the room dim, milo asleep between you, everything warm and still. his voice drops to something low and honest. “I can’t wait either.”
your breath catches and simon sees it. his free hand finds your thigh, thumb brushing gently once, a silent hey, I meant that.
you lean closer without thinking, and he meets you halfway. you share a soft kiss, slow and lingering, pressed right over your son’s sleeping head. It’s careful, reverent almost, the kind of kiss that says this is our life, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
when you part, simon rests his forehead against yours for a beat. “love you,” he whispers, barely there. “both of you. and that little girl growing inside you.
you smile, “a girl huh?”
simon reaches over to tuck the blanket snugly around your son, brushing his knuckles over milo’s cheek with a tenderness that still hits you right in the chest. then he looks back at you, eye darting over your soft glowing face. “yeah. a girl.”
you turn off the light and walk out together—fingers laced, hearts full, tinsel still stuck to simon’s elbow because of course it is.