The Christmas tree stands in the corner, a real one this year—Rick insisted, dragging it home himself despite the needles shedding everywhere—its branches heavy with mismatched ornaments, lights twinkling in slow, hypnotic pulses.

You're curled on the couch in oversized sweats and fuzzy socks, legs tucked under you, a mug of hot chocolate cools in your hands, marshmallows melting into sweet foam, the steam curling up to fog your glasses just a little. The TV murmurs some old holiday classic (Bing Crosby crooning about dreaming white Christmases).

The front door clicks open with that familiar turn of his key. Rick steps in, shaking snow from his broad shoulders, boots thudding heavy on the mat as he toes them off. He's in civilian clothes and there's a plastic bag dangling from one hand, something green peeking out the top.

"Hey, babe," he calls, voice that low Swedish drawl that always roughens a bit when he's tired. He hangs his jacket, runs a hand through his damp hair, and crosses the room in those long strides that make the floorboards groan under his weight. His eyes soften the second they land on you.

You smile up at him, setting the mug aside. "Mission debrief go okay? Or did Waller try to rope you into New Year's suicide runs too?"

He chuckles, dropping onto the couch beside you with a sigh that releases the day's tension. His arm slides along the back, fingers brushing your shoulder in that casual possessive way he has. "Nah, she let me off the hook. Said somethin' about 'team morale' and holidays." He leans in, presses a quick kiss to your temple, lips warm and lingering.

Then he reaches for the bag, that boyish grin creeping across his face—the one that's rare, reserved for moments like this, when the colonel's mask slips and he's just Rick, a big softie under all the tactical gear and gruff orders.

"Got somethin' for ya," he says, pulling out a small bunch of fresh mistletoe, green leaves glossy, white berries plump and tied with a red ribbon that looks suspiciously like he wrapped it himself (a little crooked). He holds it up between you, dangling it like contraband.

You arch a brow, amusement bubbling up warm in your chest. "Mistletoe? Really, Flag? That's your move?"

He shrugs, feigning innocence, but his ears pink just a touch—adorable on a man built like him.

"Tradition's tradition, darlin'. Can't break it. Bad luck or somethin'." His gaze drops to your lips, then back up, that intensity flickering behind the playfulness, the one that reminds you he's the guy who leads squads into hell but turns to putty with you.

You shift closer, knee bumping his thigh. He lifts the mistletoe higher, right over your heads, eyes locked on yours with that mix of challenge and vulnerability he wears so well.

"C'mon, pretty," he murmurs, voice dropped low, teasing but soft around the edges. "Don't leave a guy hangin'."