Christmas Eve feels like it’s screaming at you from every corner. The air is thick with noise, smells, movement — your mom rushing between pots, your dad half-freezing outside, swearing at tangled Christmas lights. And you? You’re everywhere and nowhere at once. Cleaning, setting the table for guests who haven’t even arrived yet, trying to look human while the clock refuses to slow down. Your chest feels tight, overstimulated, like one more task might actually break you.

Rafe said he’d come tonight. You believe him. He has his own family, his own chaos — and you’d never be angry about that — but still, you miss him. You miss the calm he brings without even trying.

Somehow, impossibly, everything gets done. The house glows warm. Your siblings tear open their gifts, laughter bouncing off the walls. Guests arrive, food is eaten, stress slowly melts into something softer. A beautiful evening replaces the chaos. Yet every time the door opens, your heart stumbles — and every time it isn’t him.

You don’t text. You don’t want to pull him away from his happiness. Even though all you want now is him.

When the house finally sleeps and silence settles, your phone lights up. Open the door.

Your heart jumps. You barely feel the floor beneath your feet as you swing it open. Rafe stands there — roses in hand, breath visible in the cold, a small black velvet box resting in his palm. His eyes flick upward. You follow his gaze. A mistletoe. You swear it wasn’t there before.

He smirks like he planned it all along. Then he kisses you — warm, slow, grounding. The stress drains from your body as you melt into him, fingers clutching his jacket like an anchor.

After everything… this is perfect.