The box is heavier than anticipated, its corners digging into your palms as you shuffle into the room, your steps muffled by the plush carpet. The cardboard is dented and soft at the edges, taped and retaped so many times it's a wonder it holds together. It thunks unceremoniously onto the floor, and a small cloud of dust erupts into the air, itching your nose and threatening to make you sneeze.

“Alright, this is everything,” you declare, brushing your hands on your sweater and casting a glance toward the bare tree standing sentinel in the corner of the room. The artificial pine still smells faintly of storage—plastic and that distinct attic scent that clings to forgotten things. Its branches are twisted into a skeletal semblance of fullness, some of the needles bent at odd angles after spending a year crammed into a box. Strung through it haphazardly is a set of lights that blink lazily, half-heartedly alternating between red and green like they're ready to give up. You wrinkle your nose. It’s nothing remarkable now, but with a little work, maybe it’ll feel like Christmas.

On the couch, Kenma is hunched over his game console, the muted clicks and snaps of buttons mixing into the room’s quiet hum. His golden hair spills forward, catching the soft white glow of the window’s winter light, framing his face as he stays resolutely locked on the screen. He doesn’t say anything, but you catch the flicker of an eye darting your way as you settle onto your knees to unpack the box.

Your nails scrape along the taped edges of the box as you wrestle it open, careful not to send its contents sprawling. Peeling back the flaps reveals a familiar mess: tangled tinsel, a knotted string of lights clinging to bent garlands, and ornaments nestled between crumpled newspaper, the print faded to a muddy gray. It’s all a little worse for wear—some ribbons frayed, some hooks missing—but you sift through it fondly, hands brushing over the years of shared tradition packed into the clutter. There's a softness to finding these pieces again, like unearthing a piece of yourself that's been tucked away for safekeeping.

“Are you just gonna sit there, or…?” you tease, glancing over your shoulder toward Kenma. He’s melted into the couch, knees drawn up, bathed in a soft winter haze from the nearby window. His fingers tap rhythmically against the buttons of his handheld console, the repetitive clicks filling the low hum of the room like the ticking of a quiet metronome. His hair falls loose over his shoulders, streaked with morning light, his bangs curtaining off anything he doesn't feel like showing you right now. For a moment, you think he doesn't hear, though the faintest tension flickers across his shoulders at your voice.

“Just one more level,” he murmurs without looking up. It’s almost automatic. He presses forward in his game, thumb gliding expertly over the controls, but you catch the way his eyes shift in your direction for the briefest second before flicking back to his screen. Predictable.

You huff a small sigh, but it’s more amused than annoyed, and you turn back to the decorations. Your fingertips graze over the contents until you find something cold, smooth, and weighty. You lift it carefully, wiping a thumb over its dust-dulled surface until it gleams under the soft glow of the tree lights. It’s a ceramic ornament—a little white cat frozen mid-stretch, its tail curling into a perfect loop behind it. Its glossy golden eyes glisten in the low light, wide and lazy, peering up at you with a sense of self-satisfaction that feels... familiar.

“Hey,” you call, holding it up and tilting it toward the glowing strands of the half-lit tree. “Look. This kinda looks like you.”

Kenma’s game stutters to a pause—not in sound, not visually, but in the rhythm of his hands. The motion of his thumbs falters for a brief beat before resuming at a slower, almost self-conscious pace. His head turns just slightly, enough to glance at you from the corner of his eye. His gaze flickers to the ornament dangling between your fingers, then quickly shifts back to the screen.

“No, it doesn’t,” he says flatly, softer than usual, as if by brushing you off quickly he can avoid escalating… whatever this is. But his words don’t hold much weight, and you see the way his fingers have subtly tightened over the edges of his console.

Your grin spreads slowly as you lower the ornament closer, examining it under the tree’s flickering green and red lights. “I dunno… I think it’s cute,” you muse aloud, voice light, playful. Too playful. You don’t miss the way his button presses become just a fraction rougher, like he’s leaning into the game for some sort of buffer. “Just like you.”

That does it. The faintest hitch in his breath gives him away, and though he stubbornly keeps his eyes fixed on his screen, you can see the color start to creep up his neck, blotchy and uneven. The pale skin behind his ears glows a telltale pink, flushing like spilled watercolor spreading too fast.

“Shut up,” he mutters, the familiar softness of his voice betraying the bite he’s going for. His shoulders hunch forward slightly, like he’s willing himself to shrink smaller, to disappear before your teasing fully lands.

You lean back on your heels with a soft laugh, placing the ornament gently on the floor beside you, like you’ve won a little victory for the day. “It’s true,” you chime, careful not to meet his eyes too directly—he works best when left to stew.

Kenma doesn’t answer, but his game doesn’t quite make the same fluid progress it did before your teasing. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the faint twitch of his mouth—stuck somewhere between a frustrated pout and something softer, something too shy to be named.

You don’t press him further. Instead, your hands reach back into the box, brushing gently over rusting hooks and fraying ribbons as you search for another piece of the past to pull into the present. Kenma’s delicate pride has already taken enough of a hit for now, and you’d rather preserve the quiet—that still, easy rhythm of your lives that’s felt so rare lately.

Your fingers graze over something that crackles softly—something wrapped in thin tissue paper. You tug it out carefully, unfolding the fragile layers to reveal a glass bauble. The surface is almost mirror-like, reflecting fragments of the room in its soft curve: the glint of the white blinds, the orange note of Kenma’s console light, the curve of your hand as you hold the ornament aloft. It’s simple and unassuming, yet something in its shine catches you. It’s a piece of something untouchably tender.

“This one,” you say softly, breaking the quiet, though your voice doesn’t carry far. “This was the first ornament I ever bought myself—when I was, like, eight?” You find yourself smiling faintly, the memory playing just dim enough to feel like a half-forgotten watercolor. “I begged my mom to let me pick my own. Thought I was so grown up.”

Kenma doesn’t respond immediately—not verbally, anyway. The pace of his button-pressing has slowed, though, and his chest moves in that telltale shallow rise-and-fall that says he’s just listening. You glance toward him out of habit and find his amber eyes briefly flicker to the bauble, though his head remains angled toward the screen. Interested, but trying to bury it beneath his usual nonchalance.

You trace your thumb along the smooth surface of the bauble, catching sight of your warped reflection—a little curved, your face stretched in an almost comic way, lips curling in soft amusement. “It’s funny,” you continue, half to yourself now. “I remember trying to keep it perfect. Even when I was a kid, I didn’t want it to break. I didn’t even hang it that first year, y’know? It just sat in its little box on my bookshelf. It wasn’t really Christmas without it, though. Still isn’t, I guess.”

Another pause, softer this time. For all his avoidance, you feel Kenma’s focus drifting toward you, his usual detachment slightly misaligned in the quiet gravity of the moment. When the last level doesn’t claim his attention like it usually would, you’re sure.

“Why not hang it now?” His voice startles you—not because it’s loud (it’s anything but), but because he’s rarely the one to bridge gaps like this. It’s unpolished, the words perched awkwardly on his tongue, but there’s something about the question that corners you. Something unspoken, but deeply felt.

You glance at him for confirmation, but his head is already tilted downward, eyes drawn back to his console in artificial disinterest. Still, his tone lingers like a new thread of garland waiting for its place on the tree.

Your smile softens instinctively as you rise to your feet, holding the bauble carefully in both hands. “Guess you’re right,” you admit quietly, your tone warm enough to light the otherwise gray room. “It’s about time, huh?”

Kenma shifts on the couch, briefly glancing up this time—not directly at you, but at the tree standing in solitude by the window, its bent branches still waiting for their adornments. Shoving his console aside, he stretches out languidly, a quiet sigh escaping him before he stands without ceremony. He shuffles toward you, hands lazily tucked into the pocket of his hoodie.

"Where do you want it?" you tease, cradling the bauble and tilting it toward him slightly. His brows furrow faintly, scanning the unruly branches before inevitably settling near the top. Somewhere prominent but not obvious—subtle, just like him.

He doesn’t answer this time, just hands you a hook from the pile on the table, his fingertips brushing yours lightly as they linger in the exchange. The warmth of the touch stays with you even as you lift the ornament toward his quiet, chosen spot, the bauble finally filling the space it’s been missing under these lights every year before now.

Kenma stands beside you now, a reluctant but quiet presence, his golden eyes flickering between the box of decorations and the still-bare tree. There’s a hesitance in his movements, as if he’s not quite sure where he fits into the scene. You, on the other hand, are already slipping in and out of the box with an ease born of habit, unearthing old treasures and memories with a steady flow of small commentary about their history or stories tied to them.

“Here,” you say, holding up a strand of silver tinsel and offering it to him. “Start with this—just drape it evenly, okay?”

Kenma takes the tinsel without complaint, his fingers brushing yours briefly again. He steps toward the tree, his steps measured, deliberate, and once he begins looping the shimmering strand around the branches, he works with an unexpected precision. It’s almost funny how quickly he seems to get absorbed in it, the motions calculated, efficient, like it’s just another task he’s determined to get right.

“Looks good,” you remark as he leans in to adjust a particularly stubborn loop over a sagging branch. His lips curve slightly—a near-imperceptible upward tick—but you catch it before you turn back to the box to dig for the next piece.

It’s when you’re too focused on untangling a somewhat mangled ornament hook that you hear a soft rustle from Kenma’s end. He’s paused in his careful decorating, crouching slightly by the box to pick at something caught near the bottom. A faint frown pulls at his lips, and then, you catch the unmistakable sight of tan felt and a little red elastic.

Your breath catches. Oh no.

“What’s... this?” he asks, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth now as he dangles the reindeer antler headband between his fingers. The plastic base swings innocently, the antlers bouncing gently with the motion.

“Uh—nothing?” you offer, feigning innocence, though the flush creeping up your neck betrays you immediately. He tilts his head, expression unreadable, but there’s a glint in his eye now—just the tiniest, quietest flicker of mischief, the kind Kenma doesn’t often let bloom. "It's… really nothing."

He straightens up slowly, that small tug of a smirk still pulling on his lips, and you can practically feel the inevitable payback before he even moves. “Nothing, huh?” he repeats, soft and barely teasing, all nonchalance as he walks toward you.

“Kenma—don’t even!” You hold up a hand defensively, stepping back as he closes the distance in a few lazy steps. He barely glances at your protests, the antlers still grasped lightly in his hand like they’ve already won.

“Payback.” He says the word simply, his tone far too calm for your liking, even as his golden gaze meets yours for the briefest moment. There’s a flicker of something almost soft in it, unexpected but disarming.

Before you can fully process what’s happening, Kenma moves closer, reaching up with an unhurried ease to place the headband gently over your head. You freeze at first, his proximity rendering you oddly still, though you can’t stop the little flustered huff that escapes as the antlers settle into place. One of the elastic loops immediately catches in your hair awkwardly, but Kenma doesn’t pull back—his hand lingers as he adjusts it.

His fingers thread carefully through the strands at your temple, untangling the elastic with a delicacy that feels more intimate than it probably should. The pads of his fingers brush just lightly against your skin, a touch so feather-soft it’s almost maddening. He doesn’t say anything—doesn’t make some quip or tease you now. Instead, his focus is entirely on the headband, his brows furrowed slightly, like this moment—this little shared piece of absurdity—is the only thing that matters.

“There,” he murmurs after a moment, withdrawing his hands slowly, but not before tucking a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, his knuckles grazing your cheek as he goes. His fingers are warm despite the chill in the air, and the casual intimacy of the movement sends a flutter through your chest. He steps back half a pace, taking in his handiwork with something just shy of a satisfied look.

You don’t trust your voice—at least not immediately—so you reach for humor to break the moment, your hand fluttering up self-consciously to poke at one of the antlers. “Great,” you mutter, more for yourself than him. “Now I look ridiculous.”

Kenma’s gaze lingers longer than you expect, his lips parting slightly before he speaks, soft and quiet. “You don’t,” is all he says, but the simplicity of it hits harder than anything teasing could have. His thumb brushes over his own palm, a nervous habit, though his face remains composed.

You swallow, your thoughts momentarily fuzzy, and it’s only when he glances away, golden eyes lifted briefly toward the half-decorated tree, that his next words feel like gravity pulling you gently back down.

“Besides,” he finally adds, voice light, barely perceptible over the faint sound of the blinking tree lights. “It suits you.”

…and just like that, he’s picking up another bauble from the box, leaving you standing there, your face burning as brightly as any of the lights on the tree.

The glow of the tree grows softer as the evening stretches, the room sinking into a quiet rhythm that feels impossibly gentle. Tinsel shimmers faintly every time one of you reaches to adjust it. The blinking lights blink on, blink off, casting your small world in alternating hues of green and red that bleed into gold when they catch on the ornaments. It's slow work, methodical and unhurried, but you haven’t minded. Not since Kenma stopped keeping track of his "one last level" and finally stayed beside you long enough to leave his console somewhere forgotten in the folds of the couch.

You pass him another ornament, his hands brushing against yours just briefly as he takes it—a small, glass globe painted with bright, uneven brushstrokes. A relic from years ago, its colors slightly chipped but proud, a testament to someone who tried their best with paint and a big imagination. Kenma hesitates, his fingers curling around its delicate shape.

“You didn’t make this, did you?” he asks, his tone so soft and flat it’s impossible to tell if he’s teasing you. He’s still looking at the ornament, holding it carefully against the light spilling from the half-dressed tree, his brow furrowed as though he’s studying something far more significant.

You smile, wiping the dust from another ribbon as you settle back onto your knees. “I was… seven? Maybe eight.” You gesture lazily toward the box as you think, tucking a stray garland back into an unused corner. “Our teacher made us paint them in class. I was so proud of it.”

Kenma’s mouth twitches, and you catch it—a ghost of amusement in his ever-neutral expression, something so faintly affectionate you almost don’t believe it’s there. “It’s uneven,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to the words, no weight that makes them mean anything. If anything, you hear it for what it is: an observation softened by the smallest of smiles he’s already pressed back into nothingness.

“Yeah, well, not everyone can be good at everything, Kozume,” you quip, reaching over to nudge his shoulder lightly with your knuckles. The globes of your ornaments bump faintly against each other in the tree branches as you shift your weight, offering your teasing a little buoyance. “It’s not like you’d do better.”

Kenma doesn’t rise to it, not really. He never does. Instead, he leans just the slightest bit closer to the tree, finding a low branch for the hand-painted glass globe that he doesn’t seem willing to criticize further. He hangs it with an odd level of care, moving slowly, the small hook catching soundlessly on the branch before pulling snug. His fingertips hover there for a moment after, his gaze tracing over the rest of the tree where the scattered lights flicker faintly in the reflections of decades-old baubles.

“It’s cute,” he says softly, almost an afterthought. The words linger in the air much longer than they probably should.

You blink, glancing at him as he adjusts the ornament slightly to tilt it to his liking. “What is?”

He shrugs his slim shoulders, his eyes still on the tree, his voice calm but quieter than usual. “The ornament. You, maybe.” He doesn’t turn to look at you as he says it, doesn’t offer any kind of space for a reply as he moves toward the box again and reaches in to grab something else. His bangs shift slightly as he moves, masking the blush you barely catch before he quickly turns away.

Your hand stills as you pull another ribbon from the box, your face suddenly alight with warmth that feels entirely unfair. “You’re insufferable,” you mutter, not looking at him now as you twist the ribbon around your fingers like it requires some deeply intentional focus.

Kenma doesn’t respond immediately, but you swear you can hear the faintest exhale of a laugh under his breath, so faint it blurs into the sound of tinsel swaying overhead.

The tree stands quieter now, draped with more color and life than before. Most of its bare patches are filled, though the mess of decorations finds a strange harmony in its asymmetry. You reach for the last bauble in the corner of the box—a small felt one shaped like a star. It’s frayed at the edges, a little too plain compared to the glittering glass ornaments, but it’s always been your favorite.

You glance at your handiwork and then at Kenma, who’s standing there, his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket now that most of the box is empty. “Alright, last one,” you say, holding up the small star.

He tilts his head toward you, his eyes tracing the ornament briefly before moving back to your face—noticing, as he often does, the way your expression softens when you’re holding something too familiar, too warm. He doesn’t say anything, just pulls one hand out from his pocket and gestures toward the top of the tree. “Here,” he offers simply, his voice steady. “I’ll help.”

Somehow, the words hit harder than they should. You nod, standing up to meet him, and together you lift the little star into place on the highest branch.

The star doesn’t sit quite right.

You tilt your head, studying the top of the tree like it’s some arcane puzzle. It wobbles a little, the branch beneath it bent awkwardly after years of being jammed into the same over-packed storage box as the rest of the decorations. Even with your combined efforts, the poor thing just sort of leans—a little defeated, a little tired.

“It’s crooked,” you announce plainly, as if Kenma can somehow fix it by sheer will alone. You take a hesitant step back, your arms crossed loosely, and squint at the tree like that’ll make a difference.

Kenma, standing at your side, turns his gaze to you instead of the tree. “It’s fine.” His voice carries that familiar, flat cadence, but there’s something else beneath it too—something quieter and softer that betrays how comfortable he’s gotten standing here with you, in your space, under lights that blink lazily in their out-of-sync rhythm. “It’s always crooked.”

You shoot him a weak glare, but there’s no bite behind it, just warmth threatening to creep into the corners of your expression. “Wow, how reassuring. Thank you, oh great tree expert.” You don’t miss the small shrug that follows, nor the faint quirk of his lips when he turns back to the leaning star.

Still, you take a step closer to the tree, almost brushing elbows with him. “Maybe if I just—” You reach tentatively, trying to straighten the offending branch by force, but all it does is send the star tilting further to one side. Wincing, you glance back at Kenma, who’s already watching your failed attempt without even trying to hide it.

“Help me,” you mutter, and it’s somewhere between a request and a challenge as your hand stays hovering near the stubborn star.

Kenma sighs softly, like the mere act of fixing someone else’s problem is a monumental inconvenience. But then, without much fanfare, he reaches up as well, his hand brushing yours briefly before finding a different angle on the branch. His fingertips skim against the curve of yours, warm and deliberate in that way that feels heavier than it should. You don’t move—not at first—just let your breath catch for the briefest moment before refocusing.

You both work at it for a moment, hands overlapping as you adjust the branch incrementally. The star wobbles frustratingly at first, but eventually, it settles. The slight crook is still there, but it’s stabilizing now—just a little imperfect, but in a way that doesn’t bother you nearly as much as before.

“Better,” he mumbles, stepping back slightly. His shoulder brushes against yours as he moves, fleeting but grounding, and you can’t help meeting his gaze when he does.

It’s instinctive the way your eyes flick to him—golden in the warm, blinking glow of the tree, gazing half-lidded and soft, framed by strands of unkempt hair he hasn’t bothered to tie back again. His bangs hang unevenly over his forehead, unpolished and natural in a way that suits him more than he’d probably admit. There’s something quietly, devastatingly vulnerable about the moment, and it settles thick in the narrowing space between you both.

Neither of you says anything at first. You stand there, the scent of pine and faint dust in the air, the soft hum of the electric lights filling the quiet gaps of where words might've belonged. Kenma blinks slowly, his gaze catching on yours for what feels far too long, and there’s a subtle shift in his expression—barely there, but impossible to miss once it’s noticed. His lips part like he’s considering saying something, but even that thought feels too loud for now.

You’ve known Kenma long enough to predict his movements, to know when he’s going to turn away or shrug off moments like these—but this time, he doesn’t. This time, his feet stay rooted in place even when his hands fidget slightly in his hoodie pocket. You think about laughing it off, throwing in some playful quip or finding an excuse to look somewhere, anywhere, but here. You don’t, though. His shoulders slouch the way they always do when he gets nervous—just a little more inward—and for once, you don’t feel like poking the teasing thread further.

Instead, you take a step closer, barely closing the remaining distance. Kenma’s head tilts the faintest degree at the movement, his golden eyes flicking briefly downward—at your mouth, you realize, though he quickly catches himself and looks away as if embarrassed by his own reaction. His hand twitches in his pocket but doesn’t withdraw.

You lean forward before you can let yourself second-guess it too much. Part of you expects him to pull back, to panic, to deflect in some low, half-muttered hum that redirects the attention as always. But Kenma still doesn’t move. His breath catches when your hand brushes softly against his arm—steadying yourself, maybe steadier than you feel—and then your lips find the corner of his, just briefly, softer than leaves grounding themselves against the earth after a sharp wind.

It’s awkward in the way all first moments are, hesitant and fleeting and unsure if you’re taking too much or not giving enough. But Kenma doesn’t shrug away like you half-expected. His golden gaze flickers, uncertain but unmoving, and that says enough.

The air feels warmer when you pull back, a subtle tension weaving itself into the small space left between you. Kenma lingers there, almost staring, though his half-parted lips tremble shut before he fully says… well, whatever might have been weighing on him.

“Crooked star,” you finally whisper, your voice quiet but even, letting the tiniest note of teasing soften the air again. Your face burns, but you focus on anything else—on blinking lights and haphazard decorations and how his presence feels bigger now than it might have a moment ago.

Kenma, for his part, stays oddly still. His lips twitch, just faintly, into something that might almost be a smile—or at least, something close enough. You don’t miss the faint pink blooming along his ears before he very suddenly looks down toward the box again, crouching to grab the stray garland you’d set aside earlier.

“...Still works,” he mumbles in response, a little more breathless than he probably intended.

And that’s enough for now.

rewrite and add more details to the above story in the style/voice of the one below

the first snow grazes the ground beneath your boots, a pale dusting of frost over black winter gravel that glows an iridescent sort of blue under the sharp light of the moon. the air feels like glass, biting in a way that scrapes your lungs raw with each breath. your scarf smells faintly of detergent and an edge of pine from the too-early wreath that'd been hung days ago in the middle of the jujutsu tech dorm doors. megumi walks a step behind you, gloved hands stuffed deep into his coat pockets, his head bowed slightly under a mop of inky hair. his breath fogs in the air, trailing behind him like a ghost.

it's quiet. not the "cozy by the fire" kind of quiet, but the kind that belongs to empty streets around midnight, broken only by the occasional wind or the far-off sound of an engine skipping through city blocks. the storefronts are dark and silent; there’s a nearly-forgotten wreath on one of the closed doors—dusty, handsomely aged, but still festive in its own way. the world feels small, closed in, like you’re walking inside someone else’s snow globe dream.

“i forgot how empty it gets this time of night,” you mutter to no one in particular, breaking the spell. somewhere nearby, a hollow clanging rolls out as someone tosses a bottle into a recycling bin. megumi doesn’t respond, but you don’t need him to. he always walks on your left side, almost reflexively, shielding you from traffic that was comprised of the stray car here and there.

you glance at him over your shoulder, and his face is pale under the pale winter light, his expression unreadable. he hasn’t said much, but you’re used to that. he’s not a quiet silence; he’s a steady one. it’s nice when everything else in life feels unbearably loud.
“i didn’t think you'd let me drag you out on christmas eve, ‘gumi," you venture after a beat, playful, though your breath comes out like puffs of dragon smoke. "i thought you were allergic to fun.”

megumi snorts, gaze not quite meeting yours as his eyes drift toward the frozen gutter to avoid whatever teasing look you're probably giving him. “fine,” he exhales, voice low. “next time, i’ll ditch you for yuji and nobara. they'd be thrilled to run through the snow while shouting about santa claus.”

you catch it—the tiniest curve of his lips as he looks away again, embarrassed. the thing about megumi is that his smiles never last long enough, whether they’re sad ones, teasing ones, or real ones. they’re like the breath curling out of your mouth: fleeting, easily lost to the air. but you’ve always liked them. you don’t need them to last forever so long as you get to witness them.

you fall back into quiet steps for a while. your hands are stuffed inside your coat pockets, one of them clinging to the crumpled paper bag you’d picked up earlier—a bakery run that had transformed into a “walk the cold away and stall going home” kind of errand. he hadn’t protested joining you, even though he knows you take the long way everywhere, like you’re afraid of endings.

“i don’t know if you’ll like this gift,” you say abruptly as something spills out of your mouth. there's nervousness there now, an uncharacteristic edginess as you stare straight ahead to avoid his reaction—because all at once, your bag feels stupid and your hands feel cold.

he doesn’t say anything right away. the snow crunches under his boots, a monotone rhythm punctuated only by the faint whistle of wind slipping through the telephone wires.

“you didn’t have to get me anything,” he finally replies.

"yeah, but i wanted to," you shoot back quickly. you’re frowning at the snowdrift on the edge of the alley now. “and i didn’t want to just… not. you didn’t expect me to, right?”

“no.” his voice is soft. it trips over your ears, low in the way that makes your face warm despite the cold. “but you didn’t need to.”

your eyes flit toward him, just for a fraction of a second. his breath fogs the glassy air again as he turns his gaze upward—a deflection, something habitual. a string of colorful lights, fat bulbs glowing proud red and green and gold, spans the street a block ahead. they aren't enough to drown out the silvery moonlight, though they're warm. he catches you looking, and the corner of his mouth turns up slightly, teasing.

 "what is it? a cursed object disguised as a scarf? should i be worried?"

“as if,” you huff, tossing the heavy weight of your bag so that it thunked gently against his arm for emphasis. “c'mon. we’re almost at the park. i’ll show you.”

the small green space, bordered with bare-limbed oaks and thin benches frozen with frost, is as empty as expected. you lead him to a sheltered corner, where a blue lamplight flickers half-heartedly through the shadow of an ancient metal playground. the swing set creaks loudly as the wind passes through. you’re not sure why you feel like you’re about to hand him something embarrassing—you figured you'd passed this stage with megumi a long time ago. he's known you too well and too long to be surprised by much.

you pull out the paper-wrapped box and hand it to him, eyes dancing between his hands and the old, frozen jungle gym behind him. “look, it’s—it’s not a big deal. but i thought, you know. even on christmas eve, you just… you don’t seem like the kind of person to do anything for yourself. so…”

“thanks,” he interrupts, quietly sincere. you blink, startled by the swiftness. he's already tearing open the paper by the time you step back, heart unexpectedly caught in your throat like static. he’s quick about it, meticulous but uninterested in making it some sort of “moment”—the way you figured he would be.

when the box is finally peeled back, the little black cat sitting inside causes something in his face to slacken, stop. it’s ceramic, glossy with paint, about the size of a flip phone, with sharp ears and a delicate gold ribbon tied around its collar. you figure it's cute without being over-the-top (or so you hope). the kind of thing that suits him. you knew if it took up too much space, his first instinct would’ve been to pretend he didn’t have room for it—so you’d gone with something small enough to sit on his windowsill beside the succulents he hadn’t quite managed to kill.

he looks at it for a long moment before meeting your gaze. a little frown tugs at his face. not an angry one, but the kind when somebody feels something they weren’t expecting to feel.

“you think i’m a cat person?” he murmurs, his voice the subtlest shade warmer, like this chewed-up christmas eve cold isn’t even touching him.

“you are,” you fire back instinctively, crossing your arms, though all at once the warmth in your chest makes it harder to look him in the face. you glance up at the night sky instead. the snow is starting to fall a little heavier now, gathering like thick down on the swings and benches. “i know you secretly feed the strays.”

he doesn’t respond, but in the low glow of the lamplight, his head tilts slightly to the side, and you catch that fleeting expression. his smile lingers this time—just long enough for you to hold onto it like some unspoken promise neither of you has the words for yet.

but then, after a pause: "merry christmas."

it’s as soft, understated, and beautiful as everything else about him— you don’t say anything, just bury yourself deeply into the heat clinging to his coat as the wind carries both your shortened shadows forward into the night.