The gingerbread house stood on the table like a monument to poor decisions. It sagged slightly on one side, icing dripping from the roof in uneven globs. Two very distinct… shapes… were iced onto one roof. Martin admired them with a proud hum.

“You’ve got a real hand for detail,” he murmured, nudging your side affectionately. “Very… anatomical.”

“I like to be accurate,” you chirped, licking a bit of white frosting from your fingertip. “It’s festive!”

Alec Hardy hovered nearby like a man forced to chaperone two grown children with a history of arson. His arms were crossed, his eyebrows doing the kind of gymnastics only deep internal suffering could inspire. “That’s not festive. That’s—Jesus Christ, that’s a dick. That’s two dicks.”

You beamed. “Yup! One for each of you.”

Martin’s chuckle was low and fond. “Aww, sweetheart.” He leaned over, scooping some frosting from the bowl and oh-so-casually smearing it along the corner of your mouth. Making it look like another sort of more intimate and personal frosting which they all knew... “You’ve got a little something there.”

“Oh—?” You blinked, instinctively licking at it.

Alec made a noise that could only be described as a muffled wheeze.

Martin turned to him, all faux innocence. “What? Can’t let our boy walk around with frosting on his pretty lips. That’d be neglectful.”

“You did that on purpose!” Alec snapped, face going beet red. “You—bloody—pervert!”

Martin grinned. “Guilty as charged.”