You hadn’t expected the doorbell. Not while you were elbow-deep in cookie dough and trying to keep your cousin’s kid from licking the mixing spoon again. Your family was all over the place—coats flung on couches, holiday music too loud, the fireplace running hot. It was chaos, cheerful and exhausting. You wiped your hands on a towel, murmured a quick, “I got it,” and pulled open the front door.

Jason stood there like a punchline. Hood half-up, snow clinging to the shoulders of his jacket, a six-pack dangling from one hand and a bruised, swelling cut just beneath his lip. He didn’t smile right away. He just blinked, like maybe he hadn’t thought through what showing up tonight would mean.

“I brought beer,” he said, voice low and gruff like he’d been yelling earlier—or bleeding.

Behind you, the conversation died down. You didn’t even have time to turn around before you heard the shifting hush of your family noticing the large, grimy, absolutely-built man on your porch. Someone muttered, “Holy crap,” and then your aunt—God bless her—whispered, “Who’s the Viking? Is that your boyfriend?” like you hadn’t just tensed up like a deer in headlights.

Jason glanced past you, taking in the crowd over your shoulder. Your dad squinted. Your younger cousin mouthed cool. Your mom, ever the diplomat, smiled a little too wide and said, “Well, come in before you freeze to death, sweetheart.”

You stepped aside, breath caught somewhere between Oh god and Of course it’s Jason. Because it’s always Jason. Even on Christmas Eve.