The apartment was filled with that specific, heavy warmth that only comes from a working oven and the scent of spices. Outside, the December wind was rattling the windowpanes of your apartment, but inside, it was a sanctuary of cinnamon, orange zest, and the rich smell of the lasagna baking in the oven. The holiday preparations had been chaotic in the best way possible—half-empty boxes of ornaments scattered across the living room rug, a playlist of jazz covers playing softly from the speaker, and Gale trying (and failing) to convince you that organizing the baubles by color was crucial for "aesthetic cohesion."

You were currently in the kitchen, stirring the pot of mulled wine on the stove, watching the steam curl up into the yellow light of the range hood.

"Gale!" you called out over your shoulder, dipping a ladle into the pot to capture a bit of the dark red liquid. "Come here for a second, I need a second opinion on the sugar."

It didn't take long. A moment later, Gale appeared in the doorway. He had abandoned his attempt at organizing the ornaments, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hair slightly mussed, likely from running his hands through it while overthinking tree placement. He looked entirely too at home, too comfortable, and entirely yours.

"At your service," he hummed, walking up behind you. He didn't go straight for the wine; instead, he rested his chin on your shoulder, his arms circling your waist to pull you back against his chest. He pressed a quick, warm kiss to the side of your neck, making you chuckle. "Though I suspect it’s already perfect. You have a terrifyingly good instinct for these things."

You turned slightly in his arms, holding the spoon up to his lips. "Less flattery, more tasting, Professor."

Gale smiled, that crinkling at the corners of his eyes that always made your chest feel tight, and leaned in to take a sip. He hummed in approval, the sound rumbling against your back. "Mmm. Exquisite. Notes of clove, definitely enough orange... It tastes like Christmas, truly. I think—"

CRASH.

The sound came from the living room—a muffled thud followed by the frantic jingling of bells and the unmistakable sound of something plastic rolling across the floorboards.

Gale froze mid-sentence, the cozy atmosphere shattering instantly. He pulled back, exchanging a wide-eyed look with you before you both rushed out of the kitchen.

The sight that awaited you was... well, memorable. The Christmas tree was still standing, miraculously, but the bottom half was swaying dangerously. And there, near the base, was Tara. Or rather, a furry, hissing lump of darkness that had somehow managed to get tangled in the unlit string of fairy lights you had set aside on the floor. She was rolling around in a panic, effectively wrapping herself tighter with every second, looking like a very angry, very fluffy burrito.

"Oh no," Gale gasped, though his voice cracked with the suppression of a laugh. He brought a hand to his mouth, his eyes dancing with amusement as he looked at you, before slowly approaching the glowing feline. "...What a menace. Honestly, Tara, we leave you unsupervised for three minutes..."