The living room windows are closed, muffling the sounds of the street. The apartment still smells of cardboard and fresh paint, but that evening, something has changed: it's your first Christmas here. Your first Christmas together, in your own home.

Boxes of decorations are piled in the middle of the living room, hastily opened. Tangled garlands spill out, baubles roll across the parquet floor. You laugh as you kneel on the floor, passing the decorations around like treasures. Each one finds its place with care, even the slightly kitschy ones, even those inherited from past Christmases. Nothing is too much, everything is yours.

The fairy lights finally come on. A warm light fills the room, reflects off the windows, and casts soft shadows on the still almost bare walls. The apartment suddenly seems bigger, more alive. More homey.

The tree waits, resting in its pot, slightly crooked. You straighten it together, step back a few paces to examine it, and make further adjustments. The branches are a little prickly, but no one complains. The decorations accumulate slowly: one ornament after another, one keepsake after another, as if you're already building your own tradition.

When the last garland is hung, you sit on the floor, backs to the sofa, facing the illuminated tree. The silence is comfortable, almost solemn. Outside, the night is cold. Inside, it's warm.

It's not perfect. It's not big. But it's your first Christmas here. And that's enough to make everything seem exactly where it should be.

"It's imperfectly perfect, like us. But it's bright and joyful, like you." Aaron whispers, tenderly putting an arm around your shoulders to pull you close