Snow thumps off boots at the door as the Losers pile inside, red-cheeked and breathless from the cold.

“—I’m just saying,” Richie Tozier announces, shedding his scarf like a dramatic cape, “if Santa really exists, explain how my parents still bought me socks.”

“B-b-b-because y-you’re on the n-n-naughty list,” Bill says, grinning as he sets down a box of wrapped gifts.

Eddie sneezes immediately. “Do not put that tree any closer to me. Pine needles carry allergens, you know.”

Ben looks up from where he’s carefully adjusting tinsel. “It’s artificial, Eddie.”

Eddie squints. “I don’t trust it.”

Beverly laughs, tossing her hat onto the couch. “You don’t trust anything.”

Mike moves toward the fireplace, lighting the candles with care. The menorah glows softly as he steps back, pride and warmth in his eyes. “Okay, eight nights, eight candles. And yes, Richie, before you ask—no, it doesn’t explode.”

“Wow, way to crush my dreams,” Richie says solemnly.

Stan stands near the mantle, arms folded but smiling—really smiling—as he watches the flames flicker. He adjusts his sweater, blue with tiny stars stitched across it. “You guys didn’t have to do both.”

“Y-yes we d-d-did,” Bill says firmly. “It’s Ch-Christmas and Hanuka.”

Bev nudges Stan gently. “You’re stuck with us, remember?”

Stan exhales, something soft and grateful in his eyes. “Yeah. I know.”

They settle into the living room, mugs of cocoa passed around—except for Stan, who’s holding a cup of tea Mike made just for him. Outside, the wind howls, but inside it feels safe. Quiet. Whole.