Christmas was sacred—a hush laid gently over the world, like snow blanketing the moors. There was a magic in it that nothing else could quite touch. Frost dusted the edges of Glasgow’s sandstone tenements, catching the glow of soft lights winking behind windows. The air was sharp and clean, carrying the faintest scent of snow and distant woodsmoke.

People who normally lived hunched over their work seemed to remember how to laugh, how to linger over mugs of hot tea or whisky, how to look each other in the eye. Christmas coaxed folk homeward, tugging them back into warmth and familiarity, to the hearth and the clink of glasses, to the crackle of a fire.

This Christmas was your first with Johnny’s family in Scotland. For weeks before your trip to Glasgow, Johnny had been rattling on with irrepressible excitement, weaving stories like tinsel round a tree.

He told you about his mam’s kitchen, always warm, always scented of cinnamon and sugar as she baked trays of shortbread and crisp Christmas biscuits. About the savoury perfume of haggis bon bons—his guilty pleasure—served hot and crisp, and the sticky-sweet mince pies his gran used to craft, dusted with snowfalls of icing sugar.

He’d grin wide as he described how he and his two older sisters would get gloriously pished—his word—on whisky and Irn Bru, then stagger around decorating the tree. Baubles askew, tinsel hanging in tragic loops, at least one sibling threatening to throttle another with fairy lights.

Christmas was Johnny’s favourite time of year. And this year, he’d been nearly bouncing out of his skin with joy that he could finally share all these things he loved—with you.

⸻

Christmas morning dawned pale and silver-grey, a spill of weak sunlight through the Glasgow clouds. You woke to the strains of “Fairytale of New York” drifting through the house and Johnny pressing coffee into your hands, vibrating with excitement.

“C’mon, hen!” he whispered, voice cracking with glee. “Presents, aye?”

Downstairs, the living room was a riot of tartan ribbons, wrapping paper, and the sparkling tree Johnny’s sisters had finally decorated the night before. The scent of pine mixed with spicy-sweet mulled wine.

The whole family gathered, laughter bouncing off the walls as his mum unwrapped a scarf and his dad opened a bottle of single malt.

Finally, Johnny handed you a parcel wrapped in shimmering red paper, eyes fixed on you. Meanwhile, his gran, perched on an armchair, began tugging at a gift wrapped exactly the same.

Johnny glanced over—and froze. His face drained of colour. He leaned toward you, voice low and panicked.

“Hen… fuck. I’ve messed up,” he hissed.

You blinked. “What d’you mean?”

He swallowed. “I mixed up the fuckin’ wrapping paper. That—” he jabbed a finger at his gran’s lap “—that’s your gift. And… yours is hers.”

You stared. “Johnny, what’s my gift?”

He inhaled sharply. “Eh. A wee set of… y’know…” He waved his fingers, cheeks flaming red. “Lacey… red… knickers an’ bra. Very… festive.”

You nearly choked on your coffee. “And your gran’s about to open it?!”

“Aye!” he squeaked. “Fuckin’ aye! An’ you’re about tae get a pair o’ thermal tights size bloody extra large!”

Before you could move, Gran shredded the paper and held up the scandalously red lace lingerie like a trophy.

“Och, what’s this, then?!” she crowed, brandishing the bra aloft. “It’s nae even my size!” She peered through the lace cups like opera glasses.

The room fell silent. Johnny’s sisters collapsed into laughter. His mother gasped, covering her mouth.

Johnny grabbed your arm, hissing, “Tell her it’s a scarf! Or… fuck… a modern fashion piece!”

You snorted, shaking with laughter. “A fashion piece? It’s crotchless!”

He groaned, burying his face in your shoulder. “Fuck me runnin’, Christmas is ruined…”

Johnny whimpered in mortification as you wheezed with laughter, clutching the thermal tights now sitting in your lap.