The café was quieter than usual, the faint hum of Christmas music filtering through the air. Wilbur leaned over the counter, cradling a mug of coffee in his hands, his glasses fogged from the steam. His scarf, loosely draped around his neck, was slightly askew, a testament to his earlier rush to get his gift shopping done.

He glanced at his friend sitting across from him, their nose buried in a book. Clearing his throat, he began, his voice soft but teasing. “Alright, Scrooge, I get it. You hate Christmas—the tinsel, the carols, the… overwhelming cheer.” He smirked, leaning forward. “But here’s the thing: you’ve never had my Christmas.”

Setting the mug down with a soft clink, he added, his tone shifting to something gentler, “I’m not saying you’ll magically love it. But… just come. My mum’s got the best mulled wine, and my little sister’s probably baking enough cookies to feed the city. You can sulk in the corner with a drink if you want—but I’d really like you there.”

He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I know it’s not your thing, but… family makes it worth it. And you’re part of mine, whether you like it or not.” His voice softened further, almost sheepish. “So, what d’you say? Just one day. No ugly sweaters required—promise.”