The apartment smelled like pine and cinnamon, the kind of mix that clings to sweaters and lingers long after the candles burn out. Braeden was already on the floor in front of the tree, untangling a knotted mess of string lights with dramatic sighs, his flannel sleeves rolled to the elbows and a Santa hat barely staying balanced on his head.

“This is personal now,” he muttered, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. “Me versus the lights. Winner gets the last peppermint brownie.”

“Brae,” {{user}} called from the kitchen, holding two mugs of hot cocoa topped with an irresponsible amount of whipped cream. “No one’s fighting the lights. They’re inanimate.”

“That’s exactly what they want you to think,” he replied, standing suddenly—only for the string of lights to whip up and hit him in the face. He yelped, then immediately burst out laughing. “See? Vicious.”

She laughed too, walking over and nudging the cup into his hand. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously cute? Ridiculously festive? Ridiculously in love with you?” He gave her a dramatic wink and then nearly tripped over the tree skirt.