The snow fell heavy that night — the kind that blanketed everything so quietly, it made the world feel staged. Outside the cabin, the woods were a blur of white and shadow, every tree strung with icicles that glittered like crystal daggers in the moonlight.

Inside, warmth hummed low. A fire crackled in the stone hearth, filling the room with amber light and smoke that curled lazily toward the ceiling. A garland of evergreen hung over the mantle, peppered with red bows and a few old, worn ornaments — each one painted with a year. 2006. 2007. 2008. They went on and on until the last one, still wet from fresh paint: 2025.

The record player crooned “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” skipping just enough to make it sound off-key. It filled the quiet space between you and Simon like an old inside joke — something you’d both learned to love for its imperfection.

He stood by the window, arms crossed over his chest, a half smile ghosting over his lips as he watched the snow build against the glass. Without the mask, he looked softer, though the firelight couldn’t quite melt the chill in his eyes. “Funny,” he said after a moment, voice low. “Whole town sleeping, not a soul stirring — and yet it’s our favorite time of year.”

You — {{user}} — were at the table, hands busy with neat little tasks that had become tradition. Newspaper clippings spread across the wood, the ink faded from age; red ribbons tied into careful bows; a mug of cocoa that had gone cold an hour ago. It was ritual. Familiar. Almost comforting.

“Every December,” you murmured, a smile touching your voice, “we say we’ll stop.”

Simon’s eyes flicked toward you, the fire reflecting in them. “And every December,” he said, tone dipping into something fond and dangerous all at once, “we don’t.”

The grandfather clock in the corner ticked, each sound louder than the last as midnight crept closer. Outside, the church bell began to toll — one… two… three… Simon turned toward you, the faintest trace of amusement on his face. He reached out, brushing a thumb across your cheek with surprising tenderness.

“Merry Christmas, love,” he whispered, his breath warm against the cold air.

The twelfth chime rang out, and somewhere in the distance, a string of lights flickered — once, twice — then went out completely.

And in the quiet that followed, the two of you smiled.