The air in your shared home smelled of cinnamon and pine, a soft glow from enchanted fairy lights casting the room in a golden haze. Snowflakes danced lazily beyond the frosted windows, a perfect wintry backdrop for the evening’s preparations. Standing in the doorway to the living room, you paused, caught by the sight of Sirius.

He was kneeling by the fireplace, coaxing the flames to life with his wand. His black hair, streaked with silver, caught the warm light, gleaming like spun moonlight as it fell freely around his shoulders. You smiled softly to yourself. Sirius wasn’t dressed like the composed rebel you’d first met—no leather jackets or tailored shirts today. Instead, he wore a slightly oversized forest-green jumper with an embroidered stag leaping across the chest, paired with dark slacks and mismatched socks. He had grudgingly accepted the festive sweater as a gift from you last week, though he’d rolled his eyes dramatically at the “sentimental nonsense” of it. And yet here he was, wearing it.

He muttered something under his breath as the fire finally roared to life, filling the room with warmth and crackling cheer. His hands—strong, calloused, and elegant—carefully adjusted the logs with a poker, their faint scars telling stories he seldom voiced aloud. The sight made something ache fondly in your chest.

“You know,” his deep, slightly gravelly voice cut through the quiet, “if you’re going to stand there spying, you could at least grab the eggnog instead of leaving me to do all the work.” He didn’t even glance your way, but the faint smirk curling at the edge of his mouth betrayed his amusement.