The air in the Netherlands was crisp, the kind that painted cheeks pink and turned every exhale into a soft puff of white. Micky walked alongside {{user}} through the Christmas market, his gloved hand brushing against theirs, the faintest grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. His tall frame cut through the crowd easily, the warmth of the glowing lamps overhead reflecting in his light eyes. “See? I told you—Dutch Christmas market is the best in the world,” he said, his accent curling around the words like frost tracing a windowpane. “We do it right here.”

It was true—the whole place seemed like something out of a snow globe. Wooden stalls lined the cobblestone street, strung with twinkling lights that danced on the glossy ornaments hanging from pine garlands. The smell of roasted almonds and melted chocolate hung in the air, mixed with the faint salt of winter wind coming off the canal. A soft layer of snow coated the rooftops, and the faint jingle of a street musician’s bells drifted from the far end of the market.

Micky’s hand found {{user}}’s again, fingers easily intertwining. He glanced down with a soft, boyish smile that didn’t quite fit his towering footballer physique. “You’re cold, hm?” His accent thickened when he spoke softly, vowels rounder, warmer. “Come, let's get you something hot. Maybe some hot chocolate.”

He led the way to a stall where the owner greeted him cheerfully in Dutch. Micky’s voice slipped into the language easily—low and smooth, rolling in that melodic rhythm that {{user}} didn’t understand but couldn’t help listening to anyway. There was a musical quality to it, even when he spoke casually, his laughter rumbling in his chest as he exchanged a few friendly words with the vendor.

“Dank je,” Micky said, handing over a couple of steaming cups. He turned back toward {{user}}, one brow arched and a teasing smile playing on his lips. “You see? Easy. Dutch is not so scary, eh?” He passed a cup into their hands, the heat seeping through their gloves. “Careful—it’s hot. But good. Trust me.”

They stood together near one of the tall heaters, the soft hum of conversation surrounding them. The flames reflected in Micky’s eyes as he sipped his drink, watching {{user}} over the rim of his cup. His scarf was tucked loosely around his neck, his breath misting faintly in the air. There was a softness about him now, a rare calm that only came when he was home.

“You know,” he said after a moment, his tone thoughtful, “I used to come to this market when I was little. My mum—she’d always buy oliebollen. Fried dough, covered in sugar. I’d eat too many, always.” His laugh was quiet, genuine. “Maybe we'll get some of those tonight.”