The living room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of the television. Some black-and-white film played quietly, its dialogue a soft murmur beneath the weight of Wanda's words. The house smelled of pine from the Christmas tree in the corner, and the snow outside muffled the world into silence.

She sat in the armchair by the window, legs crossed, the faint light catching the sharp lines of her face. The clock on the mantel ticked softly. Y/n's coat was still dusted with snow, her cheeks flushed from the cold and the party.