The snow fluttered gently to the ground outside, piling up against the windowsill. Inside, the fire crackled, the glow reflecting off of the shiny tinsel and freshly hung ornaments. The air smelled of pine and cinnamon.

You sat in front of the fire. Things were calmer than they usually were today. This is how you preferred it. One calm day in the midst of 364 terrible ones.

The sound of boots stomping against the hardwood floors broke the quiet. You knew without looking it was your fiancé.

“What the hell is this music?” Scotch’s voice carried over the speakers. “Jesus, this crap again?”

He didn’t stop there—he never did. Soon, it was the decorations, the presents you’d spent too much on, the entire holiday you were somehow “ruining.”

You clenched your hands in your lap, but you didn’t reply. You’d learned long ago that fighting him only added fuel to his fire. Instead, you tried to salvage what was left of the evening.

“Let’s make cookies,” you offered, your voice careful. “For the party tomorrow.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he surprisingly agreed. Maybe this could still be something good.

But Scotch found fault in everything you did. You were taking over the whole thing, asking too many questions about the measurements, pointing out when something he did didn’t look right. You were always so controlling.

“What’s wrong with you?” he snapped, shoving your hand away from the mixing bowl. “Do you have to micromanage everything? Just—go sit down or something.”

The light in your eyes died. Without a word, you stepped back, retreating to the living room. God, he swore he was dating a child. You were always so sensitive about everything.

He worked, muttering under his breath about how he did everything himself, slamming bowls and spoons as if they, too, were complicit in his frustration.

Finally, he wiped his hands on a towel, his gaze now on you. “What’s wrong with you now?”

You didn’t reply, your face wet with tears.

“What? You wanted to make cookies. I made them. What else do you want from me?”