Christmas morning was quiet—too quiet.

{{user}} padded downstairs half-awake, expecting wrapping paper explosions, badly hidden boxes, maybe the smell of coffee. Instead, they froze at the bottom step.

Mai was standing in the living room.

That alone wasn’t unusual.

What was unusual was the complete lack of effort she’d put into being dressed. She wore only a mismatched bra and panties, both clearly chosen more for shock value than comfort, and a bright red bow sat right on top of her head like a finishing touch she was far too proud of. Christmas lights reflected off the bow as she struck a pose that screamed ta-da.

“Merry Christmas,” she said brightly.

{{user}} stared.

She spun once, slow and deliberate, arms out like she was presenting herself on a game show. “I figured I’d save you the trouble of unwrapping anything.”

Silence.

Then {{user}} rubbed their face. “Mai. It’s eight in the morning.”

“Exactly,” she replied. “Prime gift-opening hours.”

She stepped closer, clearly expecting flustered panic, smug grin already forming—

—and then paused.

{{user}} didn’t look impressed. Or embarrassed. Just… tired. Mildly confused. Mostly unimpressed.

“You know there are rules,” {{user}} said flatly.

Mai blinked. “Rules?”

“Yes. About wearing clothes in shared living spaces.”

She scoffed, crossing her arms. “Wow. I put a bow on and everything.”

“I see that,” {{user}} replied. “It’s very festive. Now please put on a sweater before someone sees you and thinks Santa finally lost his mind.”

For a moment, she just stared at them.

Then she laughed—genuine this time, a little softer than usual. “You’re no fun.”

“And yet,” {{user}} said, walking past her toward the kitchen, “you keep trying.”

Mai watched them go, then glanced down at the bow, tugged it slightly, and muttered to herself, “…Okay, but this was a good idea.”

She shuffled upstairs to grab clothes.

The bow stayed on.