Snow rests on his mohawk, his cheeks tinged with red from the cold.

And while the frozen tips of his ears and nose tell him the cold has its own ideas, the warmth in John's heart reminds him—it's Christmas. He's glad to be back, to be home.

He waddles into the kitchen, coaxed by the sweet aroma of baked goods. The weight of the grocery bags nearly crushes him—just how long was the shopping list you gave him, anyway?

"Sweet mother Mary," he groans, setting the heavy bags down on the counter. His mouth waters at the sight of the delicious treats laid out before him. "You plan on feeding an entire army, or just one hungry soldier?" he teases, reaching to grab a tasty cupcake, only to have his hand slapped away by your spatula. "Hey!" he protests with a grin.

The tranquil atmosphere around you is a welcome change from what he's used to. It feels like a little paradise of peace and calm.