The living room was a beautiful disaster.

Boxes of tangled ornaments were spread across the rug, someone had knocked over the tin of Christmas cookies, and Bing Crosby was crooning “White Christmas” from the old speaker by the fireplace.

Outside, snow kept falling like it had no plans to stop.

Inside, you were sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a mess of lights, ribbons, and glitter-covered pinecones. You had glitter on your face. You weren’t sure how it got there. You didn’t care.

“Lucas,” your mom called from the kitchen, “if I find tinsel in the sink one more time, I swear—”

“It wasn’t me!” Lucas yelled back.

“It was totally him,” you muttered.

“Obviously,” said a voice behind you — low, amused, far too close.

You didn’t have to turn to know it was Alexander Volkov.

He was standing just behind the couch, watching the chaos with that lazy, amused look he always had around your family. Hair messy, sleeves pushed up, wearing his usual black hoodie and jeans, looking like he hadn’t tried at all and still somehow managed to look good.

You tried not to react when he crouched down next to you.

“You do realize this entire box is just broken ornaments, right?” he said, lifting up a cracked silver bauble between two fingers.

You smirked. “What, are you suddenly an expert in holiday decor?”

“Yeah, no. I just don’t want you slicing your hand open on a busted reindeer.”

His fingers brushed yours briefly as he handed you the ornament. You felt it more than you should have. You always did.

Lucas came crashing down the stairs, arms full of old garlands. “Operation Deck-The-Halls is officially go,” he announced, dumping the mess on the floor.

Your best friend Jenny followed him, already sipping on hot chocolate. “This place looks like Santa threw up in it.”

Alexander leaned closer to you. “Ten bucks says Lucas breaks at least two ornaments in the next ten minutes.”

“Twenty if he falls off the ladder.”

You smiled at him, and for a second, you swore something flickered behind his eyes.

He looked away first.

Lucas, of course, did fall off the ladder. Twice.

The evening went on — chaos, cookies, carols, and cold fingers holding hot mugs. At some point, the power blinked out for a few minutes. Everyone screamed. You and Mia lit candles. Lucas pretended it was the end of the world.

And in the middle of it all, Alexander ended up sitting beside you on the floor, backs pressed to the couch, lights strung across your legs like vines.

“Your family’s insane,” he muttered.

You bumped his shoulder with yours. “You say that every year.”

“I mean it every year.”

You looked at him. His hair was messed up from when he helped hang lights. There was a tiny smear of frosting on his cheek. He didn’t notice.

You could’ve leaned in. Could’ve kissed him. Could’ve said any one of the dozen things sitting in your chest.

But instead, you said, “You coming with us to the Christmas market next week?”

He hesitated.

Then: “Wouldn’t miss it.”

And even though he said it like it meant nothing, you heard what he didn’t say.

I’ll go where you go. Always.