“No—no, quédate,” he groaned, voice rough with sleep as he tugged {{user}} back against him.

Morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and cold, the world outside buried under fresh snow. Somewhere beyond the bedroom walls were wrapped presents, eager voices, expectations. Christmas in all its noise and ceremony.

He hated every part of it.

{{user}}, on the other hand, loved it—the lights, the traditions, the people. She laughed softly as she tried to slip from his grasp, only for his arms to tighten around her waist, firm and unyielding even half-asleep.

“Amor,” she murmured, trying again, but he only huffed in response.

“Please,” he breathed, his Argentinian accent thick with frustration and warmth. “You can do… all that later.” His forehead pressed against her chest as he buried himself there, seeking refuge. “Just stay. Five more minutes.”

His grip wasn’t desperate—just certain. Familiar. The kind that came from years of knowing exactly how she moved, how she always tried to escape the bed on mornings like this.

Outside, the house was waking up. Inside, he clung to the quiet.

“Stay with me,” he added softly, already relaxing as if he knew the answer.