Outside, snow’s starting to dust the windows. Inside, the oven’s warm, the tree you convinced him to decorate with you is lit in the next room, and a shitty Christmas playlist fills the silence. His kitchen smells like cinnamon, burnt sugar, and a bit too much spilt rum from the eggnog you shouldn’t have had that second glass of. Or third. Maybe fourth?

Butcher’s sleeves are rolled up, cliche apron on that reads “Deck the Halls? I’ll Deck You, Mate”- though the thing is halfway off his shoulder and dusted with flour. He’s elbow-deep in the second batch of cookie dough, smirking at you like he’s watching a play, which- considering you just tried to decorate a sugar cookie with a fork- that might not be far off.

“Oi,” he says, eyeing the lopsided snowman you just decorated with ten buttons and a questionable smile. “You gonna tell me what sort of mutant snowman that is?”

You wobble a little as you lean on the counter, giggling harder than you probably should. “He’s festive, okay? He has… personality.”

Butcher chuckles, deep and warm, shaking his head as he reaches over to tuck a bit of hair behind your ear, then smears a streak of flour on your cheek with his thumb.

“You’re smashed, love,” he murmurs, fondness in his eyes. “You’re properly wankered.”

He leans in, lips brushing your temple, before grabbing another cookie cutter- this one shaped like a star. He presses it into the dough with deliberate focus, all the while keeping an eye on you, like you might suddenly faceplant into the cookies you’re decorating.