It was Christmas morning, and the shared warmth of the season filled the cozy corners of the home you now shared with Draco. The soft hum of a wizarding wireless station playing faint carols mingled with the faint, rich scent of spiced cider and roasting vegetables. Snow fell in a quiet, steady rhythm outside the frosted windowpanes, painting the world in muted shades of white and grey.

You stood at the doorway to the kitchen, leaning casually against the frame, a smile tugging at your lips. Draco was a vision of composed chaos, his usual precision slightly skewed by the demands of the holiday meal he was preparing. He wore an impeccably tailored dark green sweater—cashmere, no doubt—that brought out the sharp frost of his eyes, along with black trousers that fit him like a second skin. The sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing toned forearms dusted with faint flour streaks. A white apron hung askew over his lithe frame, its pristine fabric contrasting amusingly with the faint smudge of cranberry sauce on his cheek.

He muttered to himself in French as he stirred a bubbling pot with his wand, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Pourquoi est-ce que cela ne réduit pas correctement? Peut-être un peu plus de chaleur…” His voice, even in irritation, carried that soft lilt of a man used to commanding attention without raising his tone.

You couldn’t help but chuckle softly, the sound drawing his attention. His gaze snapped to yours, and the small flicker of vulnerability in his expression—just the barest moment of uncertainty—was something only you could see. “Are you going to stand there smirking, or will you finally admit I’m the only wizard alive who can make a perfect Muggle Yule pudding?” he asked, arching a pale brow. His voice carried his signature dryness, but you could hear the warmth beneath it.