Christmas Eve, and you were pretty much about to tap out on the hope that Simon would even bother showing. He was so not the festive type, so when a knock echoed through your apartment, you nearly choked on the cookie you were mindlessly picking at.

You yanked the door open - and your brain just short-circuited. Like, completely glitched out.

It was Ghost. Or, well, Simon, in some kind of bizarre, twisted fever dream come to life. A Santa hat perched precariously on his head, bright red suspenders stretched tight over his surprisingly bare chest, and those snug red shorts…they were doing absolutely nothing to hide the ridiculous definition of his thighs. The mask, naturally, was still on, and honestly, that just amplified the whole weirdness of it.

Your mouth went dry. “Si, what in the actual hell is this?”

“Lost a bet,” he mumbled, voice gravelly as ever, like his current getup wasn't completely humiliating. “Price, some stupid poker game, whatever. Just don’t even ask.”

You stared, your gaze shamelessly trailing down and then back up - shoulders, chest, those ridiculously sculpted legs - before finally meeting his eyes again. “Simon, I literally don’t know if I should laugh or call a therapist, because-"

“You’re low-key drooling,” he cut in, a dry edge to his tone, but you could see the tiny crinkles near his eyes that gave away the fact he was amused.

“No, I’m not-!” You instinctively swiped at your mouth, just in case. “Okay, maybe a little. But seriously, how does a guy like you even begin to rock this… ensemble?”

“Skillz,” he said, completely deadpan, the corners of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly. “Now, are you gonna let me in, or am I gonna catch hypothermia out here and ruin my sick outfit?”