"I just don't feel good about it," Price muttered discontentedly as he stood next to you, his hips leaning against the kitchen counter. The smell of roasted parsnips, orange, and cinnamon hung in the air, laced with what was simply your mother's overpowering perfume that Price couldn't stand, just as she couldn't stand him. Her presence spoiled the quite enchanting smell of your cooking and Christmas itself.

"It's going to be okay," you reassured him, reaching for the oven mitts that were lying nearby, "I can't leave her alone for Christmas. Especially when she knows we have one spare room here."

Price frowned at that. Of course he understood. If his parents were alive, he'd want to spend Christmas with them too, but the difference between his parents and your mother was simply stark.

"She doesn't like anything. She's always criticizing. Do you understand that she told me I'd put on weight? She said that to you too. That you've gotten bigger," he continued to mutter under his beard. "Let me," he took the oven mitts from you to take the turkey out of the oven, which looked absolutely magnificent. His nose was instantly hit by the smell he fondly remembered year after year. He put the roasting pan on the cork mats. "This looks heavenly," he pressed a kiss to your temple.

He would have preferred to stay holed up here, away from your mother's prying eyes, but there was only one family, and he could proudly proclaim that he was officially part of yours already. Otherwise he wouldn't be here with you, would he?