Laughter echoed from inside Silverwolf’s apartment—rare, genuine, and a little chaotic. Colored lights blinked along the ceiling, music buzzed faintly, and the scent of warm drinks and holiday sweets clung to the air.

It was the only time they’d all let themselves breathe. A night off. A celebration. Even Blade had shown up, leaning against the wall for most of the evening, arms crossed, eyes sharp but quiet.

But you needed air.

So you excused yourself and went outside, the chill hit your face instantly, crisp and clean. Snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky, softening the city’s edge with gentle white. You stood still under the stars, breath misting in the cold, content just to listen to the muffled sounds of joy through the window.

Then, behind you—footsteps.

You turned.

Blade.

His coat draped loose over his shoulders, his jet black strands catching the moonlight. He didn’t speak right away, just stood beside you, eyes trained on the snow like it had offended him. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It never was.

“…Too loud in there,” he muttered eventually, voice low, as if breaking the quiet too much would ruin it.

You gave a small smile. “You came out here for quiet, or for me?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

But when you glanced back toward the door, your breath caught.

Mistletoe.

Hung perfectly at the frame. Probably Silverwolf’s doing. She had a twisted sense of humor.

You looked at Blade.

He was already staring at it.

Then at you.

He didn’t move, but there was something in his expression—flat, unreadable, but with the faintest flicker of challenge beneath it. Like he was waiting.

Not forcing.

Not pushing.

Just waiting.