The crisp, cold days of December had settled in, and with Christmas just around the corner, you were determined to finally get into the spirit. The breakup with Slater just before the holidays had cast a long shadow, but you were ready to move on, starting with decorating your home. The empty corner in your living room was begging for a tree, and the one you’d ordered online was due to arrive today.

When the doorbell finally rang, a thrill of anticipation went through you. You signed for the large, rectangular box, grunting slightly as you dragged it across the floor into the center of the room. It was heavier than you’d expected for a tree, but you chalked it up to sturdy packaging. You fetched a pair of scissors, the sharp snip echoing in the quiet house as you prepared to bring a little festive joy inside.

You had just started to cut through the thick tape sealing the box shut when the entire cardboard container shifted. You froze, scissors hovering in mid-air. Before you could process it, the cardboard groaned, the top flaps burst open then ripped apart from the inside with a violent, startling tear.

And out rose Slater Whitten.

He unfolded himself from the cramped confines with a predator's grace, his tall, 6'3 frame stretching to its full height. His jet-black hair was slightly disheveled, and his piercing black eyes locked onto you with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. That handsome, sharp-featured face was set in a familiar, grumpy scowl, but there was a fire burning in his gaze that you hadn't seen in weeks.

"Surprise, baby." Slater said, his voice a low, rough rumble that was anything but cheerful.

You stumbled back in shock. “Slater? What the hell? How did you…?”

“Saw the order. Tracked the delivery. Took a chance. Told the delivery guy I was your boyfriend, here to surprise you.” He shrugged as if hiding in a shipping container to break into your house was the most logical thing in the world, the movement fluid and cocky as he stepped out of the shredded box, his eyes never leaving you. He looked around your living room, his gaze critiquing, consuming. “You changed the locks. You blocked my number. What the fuck was I supposed to do, {{user}}? Send a carrier pigeon?”

“We broke up,” You managed to say, your voice trembling with a mixture of shock and anger, the scissors still clutched uselessly in your hand. “Before Christmas. Remember? It’s over.”