it was your first christmas at the frat house as chris’s girlfriend.

the frat brothers obviously weren’t amazing at decorating — half the lights they owned flickered like horror-movie jump scares — so when they came up to you, all sheepish grins and nervous shuffling, asking for help, you’d just smiled and said yes. chris followed you out like a puppy, hands shoved in his pockets, watching you with that lazy half-smirk he always got when he thought you looked cute.

you walked through aisles of christmas lights and ornaments, picking things up gently like they were delicate, holding them close as you tilted your head and pictured them glowing somewhere in the frat house. soft reds, warm golds, glassy pieces that absolutely didn’t match the crusty couches or beer-stained carpet — but somehow suited you.

every time you asked, “do you think this is cute?” chris barely even looked at the item before murmuring, “yeah baby, ’s beautiful,” like he wasn’t talking about the ornament at all. when he did look, it was only to tease you, brushing a hand over your lower back as he whispered, “aww, you’re so cute… feels like this is your natural habitat or sumthin’,” flashing that stupidly attractive grin — messy hair, glimmering blue eyes, the whole thing.

when you got back, the two of you decorated with some of the frats, the house slowly softening under the glow of the lights you chose. the place smelled faintly of pine and leftover takeout, but it felt warmer than usual — like it was trying for once.

then came the christmas party — loud, alive, and just barely held together.

the house was packed but not suffocating. fold-out tables sagged under trays of food, cheap drinks crammed into every fridge and freezer. someone had christmas music playing but half the speakers were blown, so it kept crackling between holiday songs and bass-heavy chaos. usually it was a lawn thing — cold grass, beer, no actual christmas spirit — but this year felt different. maybe just because everything you touched felt a little sweeter.

you were tipsy already, head warm, movements soft around the edges. chris was holding it better than you — unfairly well, actually.

his shirt had disappeared somewhere, leaving his toned chest and stomach catching the fairy lights like he was dipped in gold. he stood in the center of the crowd, funnel tube in hand, hair a total mess, chain hanging low over his collarbones. everyone was chanting his name, slapping his back, hyping him up.

someone knocked the side of the funnel and chris tipped his head back, chugging the whole thing in one go. his throat bobbed, jaw sharp, chain bouncing lightly as the crowd went feral. he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning like he owned the room.

one of his friends pulled him into a rough hug, yelling something he probably wouldn’t remember. chris laughed, pushed him off, and then — like he suddenly remembered what mattered — stumbled away from the noise, weaving through people as he searched for you with this determined, slightly drunk focus.

he found you upstairs in his room, sitting at the edge of his bed in your pretty clothes, looking soft and slightly dazed under the warm lamplight.

his whole face lit up.

“baby,” he said, voice warm and happy, like he’d been looking for you forever.

he stumbled toward you, hair sticking up in every direction, the beginnings of a mullet brushing the back of his neck. he collapsed onto you without much control, pushing you back onto the mattress. you let out a surprised little squeak, and he instantly pouted, brows knitting like you’d wounded him.

“oh… sorry,” he mumbled.

then he buried his face in your neck, breath warm and a little unsteady, tickling your neck. his chain dangled over your collarbone as he pressed soft, messy kisses along your skin.

“did so good decorating, babe,” he murmured, voice sweet and slurred as he melted against you like you were the safest, softest place in the world.