Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree is already playing by the time I come back into the living room, the familiar upbeat melody bouncing softly off the walls. The speaker’s perched on the counter, lights blinking, like it knows exactly what kind of night this is supposed to be. The Christmas tree glows in the corner, half-decorated, branches uneven and charmingly chaotic.

And she’s right in front of it.

{{user}} is kneeling on the floor with a box of ornaments spread around her, hair falling into her face as she concentrates way too hard on spacing them out perfectly. I stop in the doorway for a second, just watching her, letting the music and the warmth of the room settle into my bones.

This — this is my favorite kind of night.

“Are you going to help,” she asks without looking up, “or are you just standing there again?”

“I am helping,” I say, strolling over. “Emotionally.”

She snorts. “That doesn’t count.”

I crouch down beside her, rummaging through the box until I find the most obnoxiously sparkly ornament in there. Pink, glittery, completely off-theme. I grin to myself and hang it right at eye level.

She gasps. “Harry! That doesn’t go there.”

“It absolutely does,” I argue. “It’s bold. Expressive. Daring.”

{{user}} shakes her head, smiling despite herself, and gently moves it to another branch the second she thinks I’m not looking. I catch her in the act.

“Ohhh, sneaky,” I tease.

The chorus of Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree kicks in again, and without warning, I grab her hands and tug her to her feet.

“Nope,” I say. “You don’t get to decorate to this song and not dance.”

“Harry—”

Too late. I start swaying dramatically, spinning her clumsily as she laughs, nearly colliding with the tree. We both freeze, staring at it like it might fall over. When it stays upright, we burst out laughing, breathless and giddy.

She presses her forehead to my chest. “You’re going to knock it over one day.”

“Worth it,” I say easily.

We keep decorating, the song looping again in the background. She hums along quietly while handing me ornaments, occasionally correcting my placement like she’s managing a very unqualified assistant. I deliberately hang one too low just to hear her sigh.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” she accuses.

“Me? Never.”

At some point, I sneak tinsel around her shoulders like a scarf. She glares at me for half a second before laughing and chasing me around the living room, ornaments clinking as she moves. When she finally catches me, she wraps the tinsel around my neck instead.

“There,” she says proudly. “Now you match the tree.”

“Rude,” I laugh, pulling her closer anyway.

When Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree starts up again, I wrap my arms around her from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder, and sway gently with the music. The room smells like pine and cinnamon, the tree lights reflecting softly in the window.

“This is nice,” I murmur.

She leans back into me, fingers lacing with mine. “Yeah. It really is.”

We finally step back to admire the tree. It’s not perfect — some ornaments are crooked, the lights are uneven, and there’s glitter everywhere — but it feels full. Warm. Lived in.

I kiss her temple softly. “Best decorating partner I’ve ever had.”

She smiles up at me. “Even though you’re terrible at it?”

“Especially because of that,” I say.

The song keeps playing, the lights keep glowing, and I can’t imagine being anywhere else.