The Ransford dining room glowed under soft candlelight, reflections dancing across crystal glasses and polished wood. Christmas decorations framed the space with restrained elegance—white lilies, pine branches, gold accents. Only six people sat at the long table: Alaric and Geneviève Ransford at the head, {{user}}’s parents across from them, and Matheo with {{user}} seated side by side in the middle. No guests. No excess. Just family.

“London feels different at Christmas,” Geneviève said gently, lifting her glass. “Quieter. More honest.”

“Tradition keeps things grounded,” Alaric replied calmly. “Especially for families like ours.”

{{user}}’s mother smiled. “It’s nice seeing them together again. It’s been years.”

Matheo heard the words, but his attention drifted. Beside him, {{user}} was absorbed in her phone. The glow of the screen softened her face. She smiled—small, private, unmistakably affectionate. Matheo glanced once, just enough to see a man’s name and a string of messages that made his chest tighten.

He drank his wine slowly. Too slowly.

“There’s something we’d like to share,” {{user}}’s mother said, her tone bright with anticipation. “If everything goes as planned, early next year… {{user}} will be proposed to.”

Silence fell.

“That is wonderful news,” Geneviève said politely.
“Congratulations,” Alaric added, reserved.

Matheo did not move. His fingers tightened around the stem of his glass.

A sharp crack cut through the room.

The glass shattered in his hand. Red wine spilled across the table, shards biting into his palm.

“Matheo!” Geneviève stood abruptly.
“You’re bleeding,” {{user}}’s mother said, alarmed.

Matheo rose, his expression controlled despite the tension in his jaw. “It’s nothing,” he said evenly. “I’ll clean it myself.”

“I’ll come with you,” Geneviève insisted.

“No,” he replied softly, firm. “Please. Stay.”

He left the room and went straight to his bedroom. Water ran over his hand as blood diluted into pink down the sink. His breathing was steady, but his reflection betrayed him—eyes dark, hollow, undone. The word proposal echoed, merciless.

Downstairs, coats were taken.

“We should leave for the charity theater,” {{user}}’s father said.
“It’s a yearly tradition,” Geneviève added. “They’re expecting us.”

The front door closed. The house exhaled into silence.

In the living room, the fireplace burned low and steady. Matheo sat on the rug, jacket discarded, tie loosened. One empty bottle lay beside him. Then another. A third rolled near the hearth. He lifted the fourth, taking a long drink—not drunk, just unraveling.

Footsteps.

Matheo looked up.

{{user}} stood at the doorway.

“You didn’t go with them,” he murmured, surprise threading his voice.

He stood slowly, eyes fixed on her as if she might disappear. When she stepped closer, he reached out, caught her wrist, and pulled her down onto his lap. His arms wrapped around her instinctively, possessively.

His thumb brushed her cheek, tender, reverent.

“I missed you,” he said quietly. “More than I ever admitted.”

He kissed her—deep, restrained, aching. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, breath uneven.

“Forget him,” Matheo whispered. “I can’t stand knowing you smile like that for someone else.”

His eyes closed briefly. When they opened, they were raw. “I tried to become everything they wanted. Cold. Perfect. Untouchable.” His voice broke. “But every night, it was you I thought of. Always you.”

He held her closer, as if afraid the truth might slip away. “Leave him,” Matheo said softly, desperately. “Stay with me. I can’t lose you again.”

The fire crackled, casting warm light over a man who, on Christmas night, finally let himself burn.