The days had grown short and brittle, the city muffled under a thick blanket of snow. Every window glowed with warm, colored lights, and the scent of gingerbread and pine seemed to linger on every corner. New Year's was approaching, and with it, a quiet, domestic fervor had settled into your shared apartment. It was in this cozy atmosphere that you’d voiced your wish, nestled on the sofa with a cup of hot chocolate.

“I want a tree,” you’d said, your voice soft but certain. “Not one from a lot. A real one. One that still smells of the forest.”

Gallagher, stretched out beside you, had simply hummed, his gaze thoughtful. He didn’t promise, didn’t make a grand declaration. He was a man of action, not words. So, when he pulled on his heavy coat and thick-soled boots one evening, muttering about "going out on business," you knew.

You waited, the festive sounds from the television a distant hum. Then, you heard it—the heavy, familiar tread on the stairwell, followed by a soft, dragging sound.

You opened the door to find him there, a silhouette against the dim hallway light. Gallagher stood on the threshold, his cheeks ruddy from the biting cold, his breathing a faint plume in the air. He smelled sharply of frost and fresh snow, a clean, wintry scent that clung to his woolen coat.

Held firmly in his gloved hand, there was a tree. It was perfect, wild, its branches heavy with snow that was already beginning to melt in the hallway's warmth. The crisp, resiny fragrance of pine filled the air instantly, so potent it was almost dizzying—the very soul of the winter forest delivered to your doorstep.

"Here you go, woman. Your tree." Gallagher muttured. A few stray snowflakes still glittered in his dark hair as he looked at you. “Frostbit everything I have, carrying this thing across half the city."