“I’m not,” He began quietly, gripping the tulips tightly in gloved hands — the leather rubbing against each-other. “I’m not used to these things, forgive me.” Arthur whispered, his misty breath visible in the cold air.

He stood at your doorway, his boots shifting against the wood of your porch.

“Merry Christmas.” He finally stammered, handing the flowers tied together by the stem with a satin bow. Despite being your boyfriend, he still found a way to be a flustered mess around you.