𝕮𝖔𝖇𝖎𝖊 𝕾𝖒𝖚𝖑𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝕴𝖒𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖘

Christmas | R.S.

[Fluff]

You had always hated Christmas.

It used to mean something when you were a kid—when the house smelled of pine and cinnamon, when the world outside was blanketed in snow, quiet and still. Back then, it was about warmth, about family, about the kind of magic that only exists when you're young enough to believe it's real.

But as you grew up, that magic dimmed. You moved out of your parents' house and into a quiet apartment where the holiday became just another day on the calendar—another cold winter morning where the sunlight barely made it through the window. The season always crept in like a shadow, growing darker after the summer passed, and the Christmas lights other people hung felt like a mockery—bright and cheerful against the dull weight you carried inside.

It became the time of year where you felt loneliest. The days were short, the nights too long, and your own mind turned against you, pulling you under in a way that always felt impossible to fight. So, you stopped. Stopped decorating. Stopped celebrating. Stopped pretending Christmas was anything more than another heavy month you had to endure.

And then you met her.

Robin slipped into your life quietly at first, like a soft snowfall. You never quite understood how she managed to melt her way through your defenses, how she could warm the coldest parts of you with nothing more than a smile or the way she said your name. She was gentle where the world felt harsh, constant where everything else felt like it might fall apart.

That Christmas was your first with her.

You hadn't planned on celebrating it. Even the thought of it made your chest feel tight—that familiar weight pressing down on you like a stone. But Robin didn't push. She didn't demand that you love the holidays or ask you to pretend. Instead, she asked small things of you—if she could put up a string of lights in the living room, if you'd come with her to pick out a tree "just for fun," if you'd help her hang ornaments even though she could reach the highest branches perfectly fine.

It started small. But piece by piece, she chipped away at the wall you'd built against that time of year.

When you arrived at the tree lot, your breath turned to mist in the cold air. Robin slipped her gloved hand into yours, the little snowflakes that had begun to fall dotting her coat and eyelashes. She looked up at you with a smile that reached her eyes, tugging you gently forward.

"Come on," she said softly. "I want to find the perfect one."

You followed, her fingers laced through yours grounding you more than you cared to admit. Robin had a habit of stopping at nearly every tree, brushing her hands against the needles, considering the height and shape like it was the most important decision in the world. You couldn't help but watch her—how her face lit up when she found one she liked, how she looked back at you every time as though waiting for your approval.

"What do you think of this one?" she asked, stopping beside a tall, full tree with branches that seemed to stretch outward invitingly.

You blinked, taking in the sight of it. "It's... a tree," you said, a little teasingly.

She huffed a soft laugh, rolling her eyes. "I know it's a tree. But is it our tree?"

The word made something warm settle in your chest. Our.

"It's perfect," you murmured, and you meant it. Not because of the tree itself, but because of the way she smiled when you said it.

Her face softened, and she stepped closer, reaching up to press a gentle kiss to your cheek. Her lips were cold, but her kiss left a trail of warmth you felt down to your bones. "I'm glad you like it," she whispered.