The couch groaned under the weight of relatives. Y/n's grandmother sat enthroned in the armchair, her knitting needles clicking like castanets. An aunt was perched on the armrest, another on the footstool. Sisters, sisters-in-law, mothers—they formed a loose, gesticulating constellation around the coffee table, their voices a warm, overlapping hum of gossip and gentle interrogation.

Y/n sat on the floor, back against the sofa, trying to become one with the rug.

The topic, as it always did, had veered toward relationships. One sister was recounting her husband's disastrous attempt at making gingerbread. Another was cooing over photos of her newborn, passed around like a holy relic. A brother-in-law was nodding along, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

The cold air outside was a relief. The shop on Maple was a charming clapboard affair, its windows glowing with warm light against the early winter dusk. Bells jingled as Y/n pushed through the door, greeted by the scent of sawdust, cinnamon brooms, and old wood. The aisles were a maze of tinsel, baubles, and wreaths.

They were at the back, wrestling with a heavy box of LED string lights—the good ones, the warm white ones their mom loved. The box was awkward, the corners digging into their arms as they tried to hoist it into the cart. It slipped. They caught it. It slipped again.

A minute of this. Maybe two. The box was heavier than it looked, and Y/n was about to give up and find a store clerk.

Then, the weight was gone. Lifted cleanly from their grasp, placed with an easy, practiced grace into the shopping cart. Y/n blinked, looking up.

He was tall. That was the first thing. Golden-brown hair, pushed back from his forehead, with a hint of a wave. A neat mustache framed a smile that was slow and easy and landed somewhere in Y/n's chest. His sweater—a deep forest green—had its sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms that looked like they'd been carved from oak.