The streets were silent in that strange, heavy way they only ever are on Christmas Eve.

Snow still clung to the edges of the sidewalks in grey, crusted banks. Stores were shuttered. The air had that leftover chill of last-minute chaos, now vanished.

And in your living room, there was peace. Not forced. Not earned. Just there. You were curled up in flannel pajamas, blanket over your legs, two cartons of lo mein open between you on the coffee table. House sat next to you, legs stretched out, mismatched wool socks half-falling off his feet.

Your tiny tree blinked with warm dollar-store lights. A single red ornament hung crookedly off-center. And on the side table, two small wrapped boxes sat untouched, labels scrawled with sarcasm in his handwriting.

He’d mocked this night when you’d first offered. “You want me to spend Christmas in pajamas like a twelve-year-old watching reruns with glitter lights? Pass.” But then he’d shown up at your door. With takeout. And the stupidest pair of Santa-print pajama pants anyone had ever seen. And that look — the one that said: he didn’t want to be alone either.

You pass him the spring roll without speaking. He takes it, chewing slowly, his thigh pressed lightly against yours.

“So,” he says between bites “tell me again how this is better than Christmas ham and a drunken political fight with your great-aunt.”

You smile, eyes still on the screen. “You’re not bleeding or crying, and no one’s insulted your moral compass in twenty minutes. I’d say we’re winning.”

He scoffs, but there’s no bite to it. Just quiet. And comfort. And the slow unraveling of someone who’s never felt safe at Christmas before.

Half an hour later, you're both stretched out across the couch, halfway through a second movie neither of you are really watching. Your head rests on his shoulder now, his arm lazily draped across the back of the couch.