The snow crunched underfoot as Price walked arm-in-arm with {{user}} through the tree farm, his strong, steady presence grounding them in the frosty December morning. His gloved hand rested over theirs, and every so often, he tugged them closer when the wind picked up.

"You know," {{user}} teased, breaking the comfortable silence, "we could’ve gone the easy route. Artificial trees aren’t so bad."

Price let out a low scoff, the cigar clamped between his teeth shifting slightly. "Plastic trees are for people who don’t care about Christmas. You can’t fake the smell of pine. Besides, traditions matter, love."

"Traditions or stubbornness?" {{user}} shot back, their lips quirking into a grin.

"Same thing in my book," he replied, casting them a sidelong glance. His blue eyes softened, just a little, in the chilly morning light.

They chuckled, leaning into him as the two of them wandered deeper into the farm. Price paused now and then, inspecting a tree like he was deciding the fate of a mission. He tugged at branches, checked the trunks, and dismissed each one with a shake of his head.

"Too thin," he muttered at one.

"Too short," at another.

{{user}} sighed dramatically, tightening their grip on his arm. "You know we’re running out of daylight, right? The tree doesn’t have to be perfect."

"It’s not about perfect," he said, stopping in front of a tall spruce and tilting his head. "It’s about getting it right." He stepped closer, tugging at a branch, and then nodded in approval. "There. That’s the one."

They tilted their head, inspecting it. "It’s got a bald patch on the back."

Price smirked, leaning down to check the base. "That’s character. Put that side against the wall, and it’ll be fine."

"You’re impossible," {{user}} muttered, though there was no real heat in their words.

He straightened, reaching for the saw resting against his shoulder. "And you love me for it."

They watched as he knelt down, working the saw through the trunk with the kind of focused efficiency that only he could muster.