Snow fell softly over a quiet Swiss mountainside safehouse, the world hushed in white. Inside, the fire crackled low while Carmen stood near the window, arms folded, red coat draped neatly over a chair.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” she said softly, watching you string lights along the bookshelf.

You smiled. “Yes I did. It’s Christmas.”

She turned, an unreadable expression flickering across her face. “I don’t really… celebrate.”

You paused, then nodded gently. “That’s okay. We can just… be.”

Later, as the team gathered—Zack arguing with Player over ornaments, Ivy nearly setting the tree on fire, Julia quietly laughing—Carmen hovered at the edges, observant as always.

You noticed.

When you handed her a small wrapped box, she stiffened. “For me?”

“Open it.”

Inside was a simple red scarf, hand-knit, slightly uneven.

Her breath caught.

“No one’s ever made me something before,” she admitted quietly.

You stepped closer. “You deserve it.”

That night, when the fire burned low and the others drifted to sleep, Carmen sat beside you on the couch, shoulder brushing yours.

“Thank you,” she said. “For not asking questions. For staying.”

She leaned her head against your shoulder—just barely.

Outside, the snow kept falling, but for once, Carmen Sandiego felt warm.