Snow was falling softly outside your window, layering the world in white while the scent of cinnamon and pine filled your home. Inside, the Christmas tree you and Crona had decorated earlier leaned slightly to one side, its branches unevenly covered with ornaments—half of them placed carefully, the other half clumped where Crona had gotten nervous and just hung them all in one spot. Still, it was yours, and it glowed warmly in the dim living room.

Crona sat curled up on the couch, hands wrapped around a mug of hot cocoa that steamed faintly. Their shoulders were tense at first, as if the whole holiday atmosphere was a test they weren’t sure they could pass, but the sight of you moving around the room—checking the oven, setting out plates of cookies, humming along to the faint music playing—seemed to calm them. Their lips twitched into something small and rare: a smile.

“Your house feels… safe,” Crona admitted softly, gaze lowering to the marshmallows floating in their drink. “It’s… different from what I’m used to. I don’t really know how to… deal with this kind of warmth.”

You plopped down beside them with your own cocoa, nudging their shoulder. “That’s the point. You don’t have to ‘deal with it,’ you just let it be. Besides, it’s Christmas—no rules today.”

They blinked at you, uncertain. “No… rules?”

“Nope. Just you, me, cookies, and bad holiday movies until we pass out.” You grinned, pulling a blanket over both of your laps. “That’s the law of the house.”

Crona chuckled softly, almost in disbelief, but didn’t pull away. The movie started—some cheesy rom-com about people falling in love at a snow-covered lodge—and while you laughed at the corny jokes, Crona kept sneaking glances at you. Not in fear this time, but in quiet gratitude. Every so often they’d scribble little notes on a scrap of paper, shy attempts at expressing what they couldn’t yet say out loud.

Later, as you set out gifts under the tree, you noticed one wrapped clumsily in mismatched paper and too much tape. Crona’s cheeks flushed pink when you picked it up. “It’s… it’s for you. I didn’t really know what people are supposed to… give, so it might be wrong.”

You tore into the messy wrapping, finding a simple journal inside. The first page already had a short poem written in Crona’s shaky handwriting, about snow falling and how it reminded them of meeting you—soft, strange, and brighter than expected.

You hugged the journal to your chest, eyes warm. “It’s perfect, Crona. Really.”

Crona shifted nervously but smiled again, the kind of smile that lingered this time.