The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its glow illuminating the darkened corners of the room you and Sirius shared. The air was tinged with pine, mulled wine, and the faintest hint of snow filtering in through the frost-kissed windows. It should have felt magical—Christmas Eve in the kind of picturesque setting that begged for peace and good cheer. Instead, the tension between you hung like a storm cloud, suffocating and cold.

Six months of marriage—six months of barbed words and wary glances, of navigating the labyrinth of a relationship neither of you had chosen but were bound to endure. You didn’t hate him outright, but the clash of his intensity and your guardedness had made coexistence feel like a battlefield. And now, Christmas, a time for joy, had only sharpened the contrast between what you were supposed to be and the reality of what you were.

Sirius sat across from you, sprawled in the armchair as though he owned the room, a glass of amber liquid balanced in one hand. The firelight played across his sharp features—those stormy silver eyes, the faint smirk tugging at his lips as though he could see the annoyance simmering beneath your carefully neutral expression.

“You’ve been quiet all evening,” he drawled, his voice low and rich, a hint of amusement threading through it. “Plotting my untimely demise under the mistletoe, or simply basking in the festive spirit?”

You scowled, shifting uncomfortably in your seat. His presence was oppressive, overwhelming in a way that left you both drawn to and repelled by him. He was older, wiser in ways you couldn’t deny, but it didn’t mean you trusted him—or that he trusted you.