Christmas didn’t start with alarms or excitement.

It started with warmth.

You woke slowly, wrapped in it—Chan’s arms around you, his chest rising and falling steadily against your back. The room smelled faintly of clean sheets and last night’s candles, sunlight slipping in through the curtains in thin, lazy streaks. Outside, the summer heat was already awake, but inside, everything felt hushed and gentle.

Chan stirred when you shifted, instinctively pulling you closer.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

“Hey,” you replied softly.

He pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder, then another, unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be. His hand rested over your heart, thumb brushing slowly, grounding you there.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered.

You smiled. “Merry Christmas.”

He stayed quiet for a moment, just holding you. Chan was like that—never rushing, never forcing words when silence felt kinder. When he finally spoke, it was soft.

“Stay in bed a little longer?”

You nodded, turning to face him. His curls were a mess, eyes still heavy, but the smile he gave you was pure warmth. You tucked your fingers into his shirt, and he immediately leaned in, forehead resting against yours.

The kiss he gave you was slow and familiar. No rush. Just love.

Later, the two of you moved around the apartment together, still half-asleep. Chan padded into the kitchen barefoot, putting on coffee while you leaned against the counter, watching him. He hummed quietly to himself, something soft and barely recognizable.

“You look happy,” you said.

He glanced back, smiling. “I am.”

Breakfast was simple—toast, fruit, coffee—but Chan insisted on cutting everything neatly, sliding your plate closer to you like it was the most natural thing in the world. When you sat on the couch afterward, he pulled you into his lap without thinking, arms secure around you as if you belonged there.

And maybe you did.

You watched an old Christmas movie neither of you paid attention to. Chan played with your fingers instead, tracing over your knuckles, pressing small kisses to your hand whenever he thought you weren’t looking.

At one point, you rested your head on his shoulder. He kissed your hair.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

“For what?”

“For making today… gentle.”

Chan tightened his hold just slightly. “Always. You don’t have to love Christmas,” he said quietly. “Just let me love you through it.”

Your chest ached in the best way.

Outside, the world kept moving. But inside that small apartment—under blinking lights and soft laughter—Christmas was no longer loud or lonely.

It was warm. It was quiet. It was Chan.

And it was perfect