Snow drifted softly outside the window, the city already wrapped in twinkling lights and evergreen garlands. Inside, Elizabeth stood barefoot in the living room, a box of ornaments at her feet and strands of tangled lights draped over her shoulders. She laughed, the sound warm and bright, as she tried to wrestle them into place.

“This is a disaster,” she groaned, glancing at you with playful eyes. “I think the lights are winning.”

You crossed the room, gently untangling the wires from her hair. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the chill of the night outside, and her laughter lingered in the air like music. One by one, you strung the lights across the tree together, her hand brushing yours more often than by accident.

The night stretched out in small, perfect moments: Elizabeth humming along to holiday songs, hanging ornaments with a childlike grin; you lifting her onto your shoulders to place the star at the top; her giggling when tinsel accidentally stuck to your sweater. The glow of the lights soon filled the room, soft and golden, painting her face with warmth.

When the decorating was finished, she made hot cocoa in mismatched mugs, extra marshmallows piled high. You both sat cross-legged on the couch, the tree glittering in the corner, the faint smell of pine mixing with cinnamon. She leaned against your shoulder, her voice softer now, almost shy.

“Y’know,” she whispered, her fingers brushing yours, “I think this is my favorite holiday memory already.”