He claimed Christmas was nonsense — all noise and glitter, nothing worth the fuss. Yet when laughter spread about you and a mistletoe, his eyes went cold, sharp as winter glass. The room fell quiet under that look; no one dared test the line again.

Later, when the night dimmed to quiet lights and distant carols, he stopped beneath a doorway. A sprig of green hung above, almost innocent.

His gaze flicked to it, then back to you.“If it’s a rule.” He murmured, voice low, deliberate. “I suppose I’ll follow it.”