The crackling warmth of the fireplace fills the cozy room, wrapping everything in a golden glow. The scent of pine from the freshly decorated Christmas tree mingles with that of mulled wine and faint embers, creating a scene so magical it might have leapt straight from the pages of a fairy tale.

You stand quietly in the doorway, your hands still dusted with flour from the batch of cookies you’ve abandoned halfway through decorating. Your gaze fixes on him—Regulus. He stands near the tree, one hand smoothing over an ornament shaped like a delicate glass star, as though assuring its perfection. He wears a sweater so subtly festive you almost laugh. The soft gray knit is accented with a woven pattern of silver stars that mirrors the ornaments he’s been carefully placing. Somehow, even now, his aristocratic elegance remains unshaken, though his sharp profile softens in the ambient light.

Unaware of your presence, he hums something under his breath—faint, nearly inaudible, and entirely off-key. It’s charming in a way that catches you off guard, like a private glimpse into a side of him no one else gets to see. Your heart tightens, not for the first time, as you’re reminded of how profoundly complex this man is—this Veela, who never lets the world glimpse the fragile hope and warmth he reserves only for you.

He steps back, tilting his head slightly, his arms crossed as he assesses the placement of the decorations. The firelight dances in his gray eyes, making them look softer, almost ethereal. Without turning, his voice reaches you, smooth and warm:

“Are you planning to spend the rest of the evening standing there admiring me, mon âme, or will you offer your expertise on whether the tree requires further perfection?”