12 Days of Christmas.

December 18th

If there was one thing that would persuade you to go out on a four-degree December day, it's a Christmas market. And as luck would have it, there was one such market not ten minutes from your flat - and a particularly good one at that.

Bundled up in a knitted jumper, your winter coat, black jeans and an exceptionally cute cream beanie-scarf-gloves combo, you all but dragged Tom by the hand through the high street. You wandered through the stalls, peering into each little wooden hut as you passed. Most were selling food; homemade jams and chutneys in jars topped with gingham-printed lids populated one stand, another overflowing with different cured meats and cheeses. You stared longingly at a huge block of stilton, but Tom pulled you away, wrinkling up his nose at the strong smell. If there was one thing you would change about your boyfriend, it would be his aversion to, shall we say, more sophisticated cheeses - i.e. ones that require their own drawer in the fridge.

"So disgusting," he grimaced.

"And yet I still want to put it in my mouth," you sighed, ignoring Tom's smirk and quirked brow.

Reluctantly, you left the food stalls behind to browse through a selection of handmade jewellery. You chatted with the owner, trying to ignore your growling stomach as the woman described the spiritual properties of each of the stones in a necklace.

"Which one's the Mind Stone?" Tom murmured in your ear, pressing against you as he pretended to inspect a truly hideous pair of earrings.

You faked a cough, bringing your gloved hand up to your face to conceal your giggle and nodding earnestly at whatever the woman was saying about auras. You had been quite interested in what she was saying, but now Tom had planted the idea in your head and you couldn't stop picturing the necklace around Thanos' giant purple neck.

Excusing yourself as politely as possible without actually buying anything, you squeezed past other shoppers to rejoin the stream of shoppers looping around the perimeter of the market. Stopping occasionally to look at a stall or point out a dog in a coat, you made your way around until you were back at the food stalls. This time though, you spotted something you hadn't seen the first time, and Tom's arm very nearly popped out of its socket from the force with which to pulled him to the counter.

"One Nutella crepe, please!"

You watched hungrily as the owner poured batter over a cast iron plate, spreading it thinly across the hot metal as it cooked. Pulling your gloves off with your teeth (cream gloves and chocolate spread don't mix well), you recorded a Boomerang on your phone as Nutella was drizzled over, melting deliciously over the golden batter. By the time the owner handed you your crepe, folded over on itself and wrapped in a napkin, you were salivating.

Biting into the hot pancake, chocolate oozing into your mouth, you moaned, your eyes rolling back in culinary pleasure.

"Enjoying yourself?" Tom smirked, chuckling when you nodded enthusiastically. "Think you could handle getting a hot chocolate or will that push you over the edge?"

Licking a smudge of chocolate from the corner of your mouth, you nodded again. Looking around for a moment, you jabbed your crepe in the direction of a nearby bench. With melted chocolate sticking to the roof of your mouth, words were not an option, but Tom got the gist.

The metal seat was cold beneath your thighs when you sat down, your legs bouncing to keep warm as you waited for Tom to come back with your drink. Munching happily on your crepe, you took the opportunity to people watch. Being a Tuesday afternoon, it wasn't exactly heaving, but there were a fair few people out. You watched a young mother crouching down in front of her son's pushchair, trying desperately to shove his woolly hat back on his head after each time he tore it off. Kids are weird, you thought,I wouldn't take this hat off if you paid me.

Taking another bite of your rapidly disappearing crepe, you turned your attention to an elderly couple across the street. You'd seen them about before, the man with his walking frame and the woman walking in front of him, pulling him along by the frame like it was a supermarket trolley with a wonky wheel as opposed to a walking aid. You watched them shuffling along the street together, contemplating what their story might be as you ate. Were they childhood sweethearts? Maybe they were on-again-off-again lovers in their youth, separated by some twist of fate, only to be reunited as divorcees some forty years later? Maybe they weren't even a couple, maybe they were siblings, cousins, friends - you'd never know, but that's all part of the fun.

"Stop staring at that old man."

Tom's voice pulled you from your speculations, a steaming cup of hot chocolate in each of his hands.

"How do you know I wasn't staring at the woman?"

You nodded matter-of-factly when he shrugged, popping the last of your crepe into your mouth. Wiggling your legs as you got to your feet, you tried to regain some of the feeling in your thighs that you'd lost from sitting on the freezing metal.

"Apparently that's how you get piles," Tom noted as he handed you your drink. "Sitting on cold surfaces."

"That-ah-" you took a sip, panting when the hot liquid burned your tongue. "That's not true, but can we please not talk about piles?"

Taking your hand, Tom gave an exaggerated sigh.

"You never want to talk about anything fun."

You pottered around the shops hand in hand for a while, sipping your drinks once they'd cooled down (and a couple of times before - you never learn). You snapped a few photographs as you went - one of the Christmas tree in front of shopping centre, one of the phone boxes toppled over like dominoes on Old London Road - and a couple of Tom looking startled with fans who mustered up the courage to ask for a picture after not-very-subtly following you around John Lewis for twenty minutes.

"Why do you look so terrified?" you laughed as you walked away. "You're literally on camera for a living but as soon as someone goes to take a picture it's like you lose control of your face."

"You're such a bitch, anyone ever tell you that?"

"Once or twice," you shrugged, squeezing Tom's hand as he linked his fingers through yours. "No one important though."

By the time you left the department store, heavily laden with bags and most of your Christmas shopping complete, you were about ready to head home and fall onto the sofa in a heap. You were just about to suggest this to Tom when he stopped dead in his tracks, a panicked look on his face.

"Oh shit-"

"What?" You rejigged the bags in your hands, the handles cutting into your palms as you looked over your shoulder at him.

"I forgot to- hang on." He stepped to the side, out of the way of people coming in and out of the store before setting his bags down. "Wait here, don't follow me, I'll be back."

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, leaving you bewildered by the umbrellas as he scurried away back into the depths of the department store.

Five minutes later he reappeared, slightly out of breath and his cheeks flushed pink.

"Ready to go?" He smiled brightly at you, picking up the bags he'd set on the floor.

"You know I can see the box in your back pocket, right?"

Tom's face drained of colour, his mouth opening and closing uselessly as his brain flicked through possible excuses.

"That- well - it's-"

You shifted your bags to one hand, holding his jaw still with the other so you could bring you lips to hover just over his.

"If that turns out to be a fucking Joni Mitchell CD I will murder you."