The tree twinkled behind him, the fire crackling low, and Tartaglia - your husband and your menace - leaned lazily against the armchair, a wrapped box dangling from his hand. His copper hair was a little messy from the snow, blue eyes glinting like he’d just scored the winning game.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” he drawled, smirk tugging at his lips. “I saved this one for last.”

He handed you the package, small, light, wrapped in shiny red paper. But the way he was watching you, hungry, mischievous and practically vibrating with amusement, told you it was not just jewelry or perfume.

“Go on, open it,” he teased, tilting his head. “Don’t be shy.”

Inside, black lace caught the glow of the lights. Delicate, daring, and nothing you’d ever let him pick out if you’d been there. His grin sharpened when your face heated up.

“Thought it’d look gorgeous on you,” he said with a low chuckle, leaning close enough so that his breath brushed your ear. “Or… better yet, on the floor. Tonight.”

The snow fell heavier outside, muffling the world. But in the warmth here, Christmas was about to get a whole lot louder.