The house smelled like cinnamon and something vaguely burnt — which, judging by the trail of smoke from the kitchen, was probably the cookies that were not supposed to look that dark. Someone’s laughter came from the living room, the faint sound of a Christmas playlist barely audible over the chaos.
You were standing by the counter, hair slightly messy from hours of helping decorate and dodge wrapping paper fights, when Damiano appeared in the doorway, holding a tray of what he clearly thought were “perfectly fine” cookies.
“They’re not that bad,” he said defensively, raising an eyebrow when you started laughing.
“Damiano, they’re burned.”
“They’re artisanal,” he shot back immediately, trying not to grin. “You wouldn’t understand the creative process.”
You shook your head, still laughing, and he leaned against the counter beside you, his hand brushing yours for just a moment — soft and deliberate.
The living room behind you was glowing; the tree lights twinkled in uneven rhythm, both of your families arguing cheerfully about whether the star was crooked. Someone shouted your name to come help, but Damiano caught your hand before you could move.
“Hey,” he said quietly, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re smiling.”
You frowned playfully. “So?”
“So you’ve been running around all day making sure everyone else was happy. You deserve to just… enjoy it too.”
You rolled your eyes. “I am enjoying it. I just also enjoy my cookies not tasting like charcoal.”
He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “Fair point. I’ll redeem myself with dinner.”
You glanced at him skeptically. “You’re cooking?”
He grinned. “Relax, I’m on potato duty. I can’t burn water.”
“Famous last words.”
Before he could answer, your little cousin came running in — half-covered in tinsel — shouting about snow starting to fall outside. Everyone rushed to the window, and in an instant, the chaos melted into quiet awe.
Damiano stood behind you, arms slipping around your waist as you both looked out at the flakes drifting down under the streetlights. The laughter softened into something almost magical; the kind of stillness that only comes once a year.