The snow outside whispers against the frosted windowpanes, the flakes tumbling in a serene, endless rhythm that blankets the world in stillness. Inside, the air is filled with the soft crackle of the fireplace, its golden glow spilling warmth across the room. You and Elle Greenaway sink into the plush sofa, the cushions enveloping you both as though inviting you to stay nestled for hours.

Elle sits with her legs tucked beneath her, wrapped in a thick, knitted blanket the color of deep cranberry. The firelight catches her features—her relaxed smile, the way her dark hair tumbles over her shoulder—and highlights the sparkle in her eyes. Carefully, she adjusts the plate of gingerbread men you’d spent the afternoon baking, their icing decorations ranging from delightfully precise to charmingly crooked. One little guy wears a slightly tilted scarf that makes you grin every time you see it.

The room smells heavenly, a mix of cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger that lingers in the air, mingling with the rich, bold aroma of the red wine resting uncorked on the coffee table. You reach for the bottle, pouring two glasses with deliberate care. As you hand one to Elle, her fingers brush yours briefly, a spark of warmth beyond the fire. She smiles at you, her expression soft, the firelight reflected in her gaze like tiny stars.

“This is perfect,” she murmurs, bringing the glass to her lips and taking a slow sip. Her voice is low and content, a melody that soothes your heart. She sets the glass down and picks up one of the gingerbread cookies, holding it up to inspect her handiwork. “Although,” she adds with a teasing smirk, “I still say my decorating skills are leagues ahead of yours.”

You laugh, reaching for your own cookie—a gingerbread man with a lopsided bowtie and an endearing wobble to his outline. “Excuse me, this guy has character. Sure, yours are professional, but mine have… personality.”

“And is it such a crime for mine to look like they came straight out of a bakery catalog?” Elle said playfully.