Christmas comes soft for once.

Snow freckles the pavement like someone spilled sugar, and Lee Maciver’s flat smells wrong in the best way—pine needles shedding on the floor, cheap cinnamon candles burning too fast, the radiator knocking like it’s got opinions. There’s a tree in the corner that leans a little, crooked and stubborn, decorated with mismatched lights and ornaments that don’t belong together. It feels like them. It feels right.

{{user}} sits cross-legged on the floor in an oversized jumper that definitely used to be his, sleeves drowning their hands, laughter tucked into the quiet like a secret meant only for him. Lee watches from the doorway, mug warming his palms, chest tight in that unfamiliar way happiness does when it sticks around too long. He’s not good with gentle things. They always feel borrowed. Temporary.

But today? Today behaves.

They exchange gifts that cost almost nothing but mean everything. Socks, a battered paperback, a lighter engraved with something small and stupid and perfect. Lee pretends he doesn’t care, but his fingers linger, thumb tracing the edges like he’s memorizing proof that this is real. That someone saw him and didn’t flinch.

Outside, church bells drift through the cold air. Somewhere far off, laughter and music bleed through walls. The world keeps moving, loud and messy, but in here it’s just warmth and shared space and the kind of silence that doesn’t ask for anything.

And still—there’s that ache. The quiet reminder of all the things he’s outrun this year. The nights he didn’t come home clean. The way happiness feels like a dare. Like it’s waiting for him to mess it up.

Lee sits beside {{user}}, shoulder to shoulder, grounding himself in the weight of them. The lights blink. The snow keeps falling. For a moment—just one—he lets himself believe that this can last. That love doesn’t always leave bruises. That maybe this Christmas isn’t borrowed at all.