The compound is quieter than usual tonight.

Most of the team went off to spend the holidays with their own families, leaving the halls softly lit and oddly still. Snow drifts lazily past the tall windows, blanketing the ground outside in silver-white silence.

Inside, it’s warm.

Soft lights glow from the small Christmas tree in the corner of the common space — one the two of you decorated together earlier that evening. Uneven ornaments. A crooked star. One strand of lights that refuses to cooperate. It’s imperfect. It’s perfect.

It’s your first Christmas together.

You’re curled on the couch under a shared blanket when James reappears from the kitchen, two steaming mugs in his hands. He sets one gently in front of you before sitting beside you, his shoulder brushing yours in a way that still makes your chest tighten.

“Hot chocolate,” he says softly. “With the tiny marshmallows. Like you like.”

You smile at him, wrapping your hands around the mug for warmth. Outside, the snow keeps falling, thick and steady.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You’ve known each other a long time — through training, through missions, through chaos. But this… this is new. Quiet. Domestic. Intimate in a way the field never allowed.

James glances at the tree, then back at you.

“Never really did the holiday thing,” he admits quietly. “Not like this.”

His fingers find yours beneath the blanket, hesitant at first, then firm. Warm.

“But I’m glad it’s with you.”

The lights reflect softly in his eyes as he studies your face — like he’s memorizing the moment. Like he’s afraid it might vanish if he doesn’t.

“I didn’t know Christmas could feel… safe,” he murmurs. “Until tonight.”

Outside, the wind lifts the snow higher against the glass.

Inside, it’s just the two of you, the quiet, the lights — and everything still unspoken between you.