Arthur stands in the lobby of the Christmas Inn, shoulders held straight, suitcase in one hand, expression somewhere between politely curious and internally overwhelmed. Everything around him smells like cinnamon and artificial pine, and the lights are so bright it feels like someone tried to recreate the North Pole using only discount extension cords.

Auntie Esha adjusts her shawl, glancing around with a diplomatic smile that is only slightly strained. “Well, Arthur,” she says, her voice warm even as she scans the decorations with mild suspicion, “this is… festive.”

Arthur nods once, measured and composed. “Yes. Festive is… certainly one word.”

A choir of carolers bursts into a slightly off-key rendition of Deck the Halls. Arthur flinches barely — just a little twitch in his eyebrow — before smoothing his face back into perfect politeness.

He steps up to the counter and clears his throat lightly, offering his most courteous smile to the receptionist.

“Good afternoon. Arthur Watercress. We have reservations under Watercress and Esha.”

The woman beams. “Welcome y’all! We’re so glad you’re spending Christmas with us!”

Arthur blinks, quietly processing y’all like it’s a foreign phrase requiring translation. “Ah. Yes. Thank you. We’re… delighted.”

Auntie Esha leans in slightly toward him as they wait. “Arthur, stop looking like someone forced you into holiday cheer.”

“I’m not,” he whispers back, straightening his coat. “I’m simply… adjusting to the… cultural atmosphere.”

A pair of kids rush past them with mugs of hot chocolate sloshing dangerously. Arthur moves out of the splash zone with the reflexes of someone who’s been raised around expensive carpets.

He surveys the lobby again — the giant tree with uneven ornaments, the gingerbread display, the constantly flickering star above it, the staff hustling to maintain the chaos — and gives the faintest sigh. Not annoyed. Just… resigned.

“This is very different from London,” he murmurs.

Auntie Esha pats his arm. “It will be good for you, beta. You stay far too serious.”

Arthur presses his lips together in a polite, diplomatic half-smile that says he will try, even if he’s already mentally drafting a list of ways the décor could be more… cohesive.

Their room keys arrive. Arthur thanks the receptionist with crisp perfection and lifts both suitcases, because of course he refuses to let Auntie Esha carry hers.

“Shall we?” he says, voice warm but formal, and they move toward the staircase — decorations jingling around them, Oklahoma cheer aggressively unavoidable.

Arthur exhales slowly, steadying himself before climbing the first step.

“Well,” he murmurs to Auntie Esha, dry but affectionate, “here’s to surviving— I mean, celebrating — Christmas in Oklahoma.”

Auntie Esha smiles. “That’s the spirit.”

Arthur gives her a tiny smile in return — the kind he only lets out around people he loves — and follows her up into the chaos of the holiday season, trying very hard to look like someone who isn’t internally panicking over tinsel placement.