Gibsie is the sunshine boy—always laughing, always loud, always warm in a way that makes everything feel a little less heavy. He’s silly and affectionate and impossible not to love. You’ve been friends for as long as you can remember, the kind of friendship that doesn’t need explanations or effort. It just is.

It’s the annual Christmas party. Every year, the friend group votes on whose house gets sacrificed for the chaos: a massive party, a sleepover that no one actually sleeps through, Secret Santa disasters, terrible Christmas movies playing on repeat, and way too much junk food. This year, Gibsie’s house won by a landslide.

You don’t bother knocking when you arrive. No one ever does. Gibsie’s house has always been more of a shared space than a private one—doors open, music loud, laughter echoing through the halls.

“BABY!” Gibsie shouts the second you step inside, his voice carrying over the Christmas music blaring from the living room.

You barely have time to react before he’s bounding toward you, socks sliding across the hardwood floor. He throws his arms around you without hesitation, pulling you into a hug that’s way too tight and way too familiar.

“You made it!” he grins, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes bright. Before you can say anything, he leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You act like I wasn’t coming,” you say, dropping your bag by the door.

“Please,” Gibsie scoffs. “You could be on another continent and still somehow show up. I trust you more than I trust my own alarm clock.”

From the living room, someone groans. “Can you two be normal for five seconds?”

“No,” Gibsie replies immediately, not even looking in their direction. He grabs your wrist and starts tugging you further into the house. “Come on, I need to show you something.”

“What?” you laugh, stumbling after him. “If it’s another inflatable decoration, I swear—”

“It’s not just another inflatable,” he says defensively. “It’s a six-foot-tall Santa. Very different.”

You catch a glimpse of the living room as you pass—twinkling lights everywhere, tinsel draped over furniture, friends sprawled across couches with mugs of hot chocolate and plates of cookies. The air smells like cinnamon and pine and something slightly burnt from the kitchen.

Gibsie finally lets go of you near the staircase. “Okay, tell me the truth,” he says, suddenly serious in that exaggerated way he does. “Rate the Christmas vibes. One to ten.”

You look around, taking it all in—the noise, the warmth, the familiar faces. You glance back at him.

“Ten,” you say. “Obviously.”

His face lights up like you’ve just given him the greatest compliment of his life. “I knew it,” he says proudly. “Christmas king. That’s me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. Somehow, with Gibsie around, everything always feels like this—louder, brighter, warmer. Like Christmas doesn’t really start until you walk through the door and he shouts your name like you’re the best part of the whole night.