Hayes Sullivan had always loved winter.

Not because of the snow, or the carols, or the way the city looked like it had been dusted in sugar. No, he loved winter because {{user}} loved winter. They lit up this season like it was designed for them alone. And Hayes, hopelessly, pathetically, completely in love, had been chasing that glow since the first day he met them.

He remembers it vividly, because of course he does. A corporate gala his family insisted he attend, champagne and fake laughter thick in the air. And there {{user}} was, beautifully captivating, newly appointed event coordinator, all grace and steady hands and a smile that warmed him faster than whiskey ever had. They were the only genuine thing in a room full of people born to pretend. Hayes had walked up to them with that easy grin, silver hair loose, tie undone, violet eyes glimmering with the slow warmth of a man who knew he’d just found something worth ruining himself for. They’d looked at him like they saw right through it. Right through him. And instead of looking away, they stayed.

Things moved fast after that. Not rushed, not reckless, just right. Their lives fit together the way hands do when they were made to hold each other. Marriage came not from obligation or convenience, but because Hayes realized he could not imagine a world where {{user}} was not the person he woke up beside. Which is how he found himself here, everyday feeling like a honeymoon, watching them decorate the Christmas tree in their shared home.

The living room smelled of pine and cinnamon, golden string lights casting warm halos against the walls. Snow drifted lazily outside the windows. {{user}}’s sweater sleeves were pushed past their wrists as they adjusted a silver ornament, his gift from their first Christmas together.

God, he adored them.

They didn’t notice him at first, not really. They were humming softly under their breath, focused, gentle, beautiful without even trying. And Hayes… Hayes was already smiling before he realized it. Quietly, he moved behind {{user}}, hands warm when they slid around their waist, chin coming to rest on their shoulder like it was meant to live there. “You make everything look beautiful,” he murmured, voice low and soft, the kind of tone he only ever used with them. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?” {{user}} turned their head slightly, just enough for him to see the embarrassment they tried to hide.

Hayes’ lips brushed their temple, lingering. He liked lingering. It was his favorite form of possession. “Tree’s lovely, sweetheart,” he continued, words melting into a warm smile. “But you—” his fingers tightened at their waist in quiet emphasis— “you’re the reason this house feels like home.” He should have left it there. He could have left it there. But Hayes Sullivan was a menace when it came to them. A shameless romantic. A glutton for the way they looked when he teased.

So he guided {{user}}, just subtly, toward the archway between the living room and the hallway. His steps were unhurried and confident. He didn’t need to look up to know what was hanging above them.

{{user}} looked up anyway. The mistletoe swayed gently overhead.

Hayes’ smile went slow, sweet and dangerous all at once. He reached up, fingers brushing their chin, tilting their face toward his. The warmth in his eyes was deep enough to drown in, violet turned soft and molten and wholly theirs. “Now,” he murmured, and there was that velvet-slow cadence of his voice, playful, flirtatious, but thick with love, “you know the rules.”

His thumb traced {{user}}’s lower lip, feather-light.

“Mistletoe means I get to kiss you.”

A beat. A breath. The world holding still around them.

“And sweetheart,” his grin curved, tender enough to break something inside him, “I’ve been waiting all damn day.” He didn’t rush. He never did with them. He kissed them slow, warm, deep enough to feel like coming home. His hands drew them closer, coat brushing against their back as he wrapped them fully into him, as if shielding them from the whole world.