#dezember masterlist

You catch him smiling as he watches the kids run a few steps ahead, their excitement impossible to miss. You knew he missed this, spending time with his loved ones.

The market is alive with sound, soft music playing somewhere in the distance, the hum of conversation, and laughter drifting through the air. The smell hits you next: roasted chestnuts, sugar-coated almonds, fresh waffles, and warm spices that cling to your coat as you walk.

 One of the kids tugs at Toto’s sleeve, pointing eagerly at a stall selling wooden toys, and he crouches down immediately, listening like it’s the most important thing in the world.

You wander slowly, not in a rush to get anywhere, stopping whenever something catches someone’s eye. The kids insist on hot chocolate first, and Toto laughs as he carefully balances too many cups in his hands, warning them not to run while they roll their eyes and promise they won’t. 

You wrap your hands around your own mug, the warmth seeping through your gloves, and take a sip that tastes like cinnamon and comfort. Who could say no to hot chocolate?

As you walk, Toto keeps close, occasionally reaching out to fix a scarf, guide a child away from the crowd, or pull you gently back to his side when people pass too closely. 

There’s something about seeing him like this, patient, soft, and fully present, that makes your chest feel full in a way words can’t quite explain. This is his favorite part of Christmas, you know. Not the gifts or the decorations, but moments like these.

One of the stalls plays old Christmas songs, and the kids start humming along, slightly off-key but completely confident. Toto chuckles, leaning closer to you. “We should record this,” he murmurs, amusement and affection clear in his voice. “Blackmail material for later.”

You laugh, nudging his arm, and he grins down at you, eyes warm in the glow of the lights. For a moment, everything feels perfectly still, the noise fades, the cold doesn’t matter, and all you can think about is how lucky you are to be standing here together.

Later, you find a quieter corner of the market, a small table near a fire pit where the kids roast marshmallows on sticks, concentrating intensely as if it’s a serious task. 

Toto sits beside you, shoulders brushing, and wraps an arm around you without thinking. The heat from the fire, the closeness of your family, and the soft murmur of the crowd make everything feel calm and safe.

“This,” Toto says quietly, watching the kids laugh as one marshmallow catches fire, “this is what it’s all about.”

You nod, resting your head against his shoulder, feeling his steady presence beside you. Christmas markets come and go, the lights get packed away, the season passes, but moments like this stay. Warm, simple, and full of love, just like they should be.

You don’t move right away. You just lie there, listening to the sound of their breathing, watching the pale winter light slowly creep across the walls. Leo’s tail gives a lazy thump when you shift slightly, as if he knows it’s Christmas even before either of you say it out loud.

“Merry Christmas,” Charles murmurs sleepily, eyes still closed, his voice rough and warm. You loved his rough morning voice; it was one of your favorite sounds in the world.

You smile, turning just enough to kiss his cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

Leo chooses that moment to sit up, ears perked, clearly deciding that enough rest has been had. He wiggles his way between you, licking Charles’s chin enthusiastically, which earns a laugh and a groan at the same time.

“Traitor,” Charles says fondly, rubbing Leo’s ears. “You were supposed to let us sleep.”

Downstairs, the house smells faintly of pine and cinnamon. The tree glows softly in the corner, lights still on from the night before, ornaments reflecting gold and red across the room. 

Leo charges ahead, skidding slightly on the floor, then stops abruptly in front of the tree as if he’s suddenly remembered the most important thing in the world.

“Okay,” Charles says, crouching beside him. “You can open yours first.”

You laugh as Leo attacks the wrapping paper with reckless joy, ripping into it until a new toy emerges. He parades it around the living room like he’s won something significant, tail wagging so hard his whole body moves with it. Charles watches with that soft, unguarded smile he only ever has at home, his hand finding yours without even looking.

Presents come next, slow and unhurried, paper folded carefully, kisses pressed to your knuckles whenever Charles catches you smiling at him like that. Nothing feels rushed. Nothing feels loud. It’s just warmth and quiet happiness, the kind that settles deep in your chest.

Later, you move into the kitchen, Leo stationed firmly at your feet, hoping for crumbs. Charles puts on music, soft Christmas songs humming in the background, and insists on making pancakes shaped like stars, even though they turn out more like abstract blobs. You eat them anyway, standing at the counter, laughing when Leo lets out a dramatic sigh because he’s still waiting.

By the time afternoon rolls around, the snow outside has picked up, thick flakes drifting past the windows. You pull blankets onto the couch, light a few candles, and put on an old Christmas movie you’ve both seen a hundred times. Charles pulls you close, your legs tangled, while Leo curls up against you both, finally calm after a morning of excitement.

Charles presses a kiss to your temple, then another to your hair. “This,” he says quietly, “is my favorite Christmas.”

You turn to look at him, his eyes warm in the candlelight, the soft glow of the tree reflecting in them. “Mine too.”

Outside, the world is cold and white and distant. Inside, the house is full, of warmth, of laughter, of a dog snoring softly between you, of a love that feels steady and real. Christmas doesn’t feel big or overwhelming this year.

George’s niece is sitting across from you, tongue poking out in concentration as she carefully paints a snowman far too big for the ornament, while his nephew has somehow ended up with paint on his nose, his jumper, and the table, but not very much on the ornament itself. 

George stands behind them, hands on their shoulders, laughing quietly and shaking his head like he’s already accepted defeat. He loved them too much to argue or say a thing.

“Okay,” he says gently, crouching down so he’s at their eye level, “remember, the ornament is the round thing. Not your sleeve.”

They both giggle, completely unbothered, and George just sighs fondly before meeting your eyes and smiling, that soft, genuine smile he saves for moments like this.

You hand him a brush and an unpainted ornament, nudging him playfully. “Your turn. No pressure.”

He raises an eyebrow, pretending to be serious. “This is important. This ornament will be remembered for generations.”

You laugh as he carefully dips the brush into red paint, moving slowly, like he’s afraid to mess it up. His nephew immediately scoots closer, watching intently, while his niece leans over your shoulder to see what you’re working on. 

The four of you end up crowded together, elbows brushing, laughter filling the room in a way that feels effortless and warm. This was the best idea; ornaments were the way to go.

George paints a simple little car on the ornament, neat and careful, and when he finishes, he looks almost shy  and unsure about it. “It’s not perfect,” he says quietly.

“It’s you,” you reply, smiling. “That makes it perfect.”

The kids agree loudly, and George’s ears turn just a little pink as he clears his throat and pretends to focus very hard on putting the brush down.

After a while, the table looks like a festive disaster—paint splatters everywhere, ornaments drying on paper towels, and glitter somehow appearing out of nowhere. 

You help the kids wash their painted hands while George starts hanging the finished ornaments on the tree, lifting them up so they can decide where each one goes.

“No, higher!” his niece insists.

“That one needs to be next to mine!” his nephew argues.

George follows every instruction without complaint, lifting them up when they can’t reach, smiling proudly every time one of them gasps at how “perfect” it looks. 

You watch him from across the room, heart full, noticing the way he listens so carefully, how present he is, and how natural he looks in this role. You knew he would be the perfect father.

When the last ornament is finally on the tree, the kids collapse onto the couch, tired and happy, wrapped in blankets with mugs of hot chocolate clutched in their hands. George sits down beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch, his hand finding yours without thinking.

“Thank you for this,” he says softly, eyes on the tree as the lights blink gently. “I didn’t realize how much I needed something… normal.”

You squeeze his hand. “This is Christmas. This is normal.”

He turns to look at you then, expression warm and calm, and for a moment the world feels very small and very perfect, just paint-stained hands, soft laughter, and the glow of a tree decorated with love and slightly crooked snowmen.

George leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your temple, voice low so only you can hear it. “I’m really glad they get to have this with you.”

He talks about Argentina the way people talk about places they love deeply but don’t dare miss too loudly. About loud kitchens and late dinners, about music playing when no one remembers who turned it on, about Christmas being chaotic and warm and never quiet. 

He jokes that Christmas here feels too calm, too neat, but when he looks out the window afterward, his eyes linger just a bit too long. You knew his family was his weak spot.

That’s when you decide.

The plan comes together slowly, carefully stitched together between errands and late nights when Franco is busy or distracted. You make calls in whispers, triple-check times and connections, and hold your breath more than once when flights almost don’t line up. 

His family is just as surprised as he will be, voices breaking over the phone when they finally understand what you’re trying to do. You wanted them to come and spend Christmas with you.

“You’re sure?” his mother asks, still stunned.

You smile, even though she can’t see it. “I’m sure.”

Christmas Eve arrives wrapped in frost and quiet excitement. Franco thinks it’s just the two of you this year, another low-key holiday with takeaway food and a small tree you decorated together a week earlier. 

He’s wearing one of his old sweaters, sleeves pushed up, helping you tidy the kitchen while Christmas music plays softly in the background. Spending time with you made the ache less unbearable.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he says, glancing around at the lights and decorations. “I’m okay, you know.”

You nod, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I know.”

There’s a knock at the door.

Franco frowns slightly. “Were you expecting someone?”

You shake your head, trying to keep your voice steady. “Can you get it?”

He opens the door without thinking much of it, already halfway through turning back to you—until he freezes completely. For a second, the world seems to stop. Then his breath leaves him in a sharp, disbelieving laugh.

“Mamá?” he whispers.

His family stands there in winter coats and scarves, eyes shining, smiles wide and full of emotion they clearly tried, and failed, to contain. His mother steps forward first, and Franco barely has time to react before he’s pulling her into his arms, holding her like he’s afraid she might disappear if he lets go.

“What-how-” He turns to you, eyes bright, stunned, completely undone. “You did this?”

You nod, tears threatening now that the secret is finally out. “You weren’t supposed to be alone for Christmas.”

He crosses the room in two long steps and pulls you into his chest, holding you tight, his voice muffled against your hair. “Thank you,” he murmurs, over and over again, like the words still aren’t enough.

The rest of the evening is loud in the best way. The kitchen fills with Spanish voices and laughter, with stories overlapping and hands moving everywhere at once. 

Franco looks lighter, younger somehow, like a piece of him has finally been put back where it belongs. He keeps glancing at you across the room, smiling in that quiet, grateful way that feels more meaningful than any big gesture.

Dinner stretches long past when it should, plates pushed aside for dessert and coffee, music playing a little too loud while everyone talks at once. Franco sits close to you, his knee pressed against yours, his hand finding yours under the table whenever the room gets too busy.

Later, when things finally slow and the house settles into a comfortable hush, Franco pulls you aside. The lights from the tree reflect softly in his eyes, and his voice is gentle when he speaks.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt this loved,” he admits quietly. “You didn’t just give me a Christmas. You gave me a home.”

You smile, squeezing his hand. “That’s what family does.”

He leans in, resting his forehead against yours, the sound of his family laughing softly in the background, and for the first time all season, Christmas doesn’t feel distant or bittersweet.

It feels full.

You turn toward him, opening your eyes to find him watching you with that look, the one that’s gentle and deep and so full of feeling it almost makes your chest ache. 

“Merry Christmas,” you reply softly, brushing your fingers along his jaw.

He hesitates for just a second, like he’s nervous, then slips out of bed and disappears from the room. You frown, confused, until he returns moments later holding something behind his back, his smile a little shy, a little excited.

“For you,” he says, stepping closer.

He reveals a bouquet of roses, deep red, fresh, and beautiful, their color rich against the soft light of the morning. You inhale sharply, surprised, your heart fluttering as he places them carefully in your hands, as if they’re something precious.

“Charles…” you breathe.

“I know they’re not very original,” he says quickly, running a hand through his curls, “but I wanted to give you something that says everything I don’t always manage to put into words.”

You bring the roses closer, breathing in their scent, feeling your eyes sting just a little. “They’re perfect.”

He smiles softly, relief washing over his features, then grows serious again. He reaches for your free hand, lacing his fingers through yours, grounding himself before he speaks.

“There’s something I want to tell you,” he says quietly. “Something I think about all the time.”

You nod, heart beating faster, giving him your full attention.

“This year,” he continues, his voice steady but emotional, “has been full of noise, races, travel, pressure, and expectations, but every time I come home to you, everything becomes quiet again. You’re my calm. You’re my safe place. You’re the person I want to tell everything to, even the things I don’t understand about myself yet.”

He squeezes your hand gently. “I don’t always get it right. I know that. But loving you has been the easiest, most natural thing I’ve ever done. Loving you feels like breathing.”

Your throat tightens as you watch him, every word landing deeply.

“I want Christmas mornings with you,” he continues, voice softening even more. “I want ordinary days, and hard days, and days when we do nothing at all. I want to grow with you. I want to choose you every day, even when it’s difficult, especially when it’s difficult.”

Tears blur your vision now, but you don’t look away.

“You’re my home,” Charles finishes, leaning his forehead against yours. “And I love you more than I ever thought possible.”

You don’t speak at first. Instead, you set the roses aside and pull him into you, wrapping your arms around him tightly as he exhales into your shoulder, holding you just as firmly. When you finally pull back, you kiss him slowly, deeply, pouring every unspoken feeling into the moment.

“I love you,” you whisper.

He smiles, wide, relieved, and glowing, and presses another loving kiss to your red lips, then your nose, then your forehead. “Best Christmas ever,” he murmurs.

Later, the roses sit in a vase on the table, glowing red against the soft holiday décor, while you curl up together on the couch, wrapped in blankets, Christmas music playing quietly in the background. 

Charles keeps one arm around you, absentmindedly tracing patterns on your skin, like he’s memorizing this moment. Outside, the world is cold and bright.

You’ve replayed this moment a hundred times in your head, but now that it’s here, your thoughts feel fuzzy, emotional, and fragile all at once. What would he say?

“Hey,” Liam says, walking back in and handing you a mug, smiling easily. “You okay? You’ve been quiet all evening.”

You nod quickly, then hesitate, fingers tightening slightly around the warm ceramic. “Yeah. I just… there’s something I want to give you tonight.”

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “Another present? I thought we agreed to keep it small this year.”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound a little shaky. “This one’s… different.”

His smile fades into something more attentive as you reach for the small box and hold it out to him. “Open it,” you say gently.

Liam takes it, turning it over in his hands with curiosity before carefully lifting the lid. At first, he just stares, confused, and then you see it, the moment it clicks. His breath catches, eyes widening as he looks from the tiny pair of baby socks inside the box back up to you.

“… Is this real?” he asks quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your eyes fill with tears as you nod. “I’m pregnant.”

For a second, the room feels completely still, like time has paused just for the two of you. Then Liam sets the box down slowly and stands, crossing the space between you in two quick steps. He kneels in front of you, hands coming to rest gently on your knees as if he’s afraid to move too fast.

“Are you serious?” he asks again, voice thick with emotion.

You laugh softly through your tears. “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

The smile that spreads across his face is slow and stunned and absolutely full of wonder. His eyes shine as he pulls you into his arms, holding you tightly, like he’s trying to protect you and the tiny life growing inside you all at once.

“Oh my God,” he murmurs into your hair. “We’re… we’re having a baby.”

You nod against his chest, overwhelmed by how real it suddenly feels. “Merry Christmas,” you whisper.

He laughs softly, a sound full of disbelief and happiness, and pulls back just enough to look at you, hands moving to cradle your face. “This is the best Christmas present I’ve ever had,” he says honestly, leaning in to kiss you gently, carefully, like the moment deserves nothing but tenderness.

Later, you sit together on the couch, his arm wrapped around you, one of his hands resting protectively on your stomach as if he’s already memorizing the feeling. Outside, snow starts to fall, soft and quiet, and the lights on the tree glow steadily, filling the room with warmth.

Liam presses a kiss to your temple and smiles softly. “I don’t know what next year will look like,” he says, voice calm and sure. “But I know it’s going to be amazing.”

And for the first time all evening, you let yourself fully believe it.

 You talk about feeling left behind, about missing him even when he’s right there, about how lonely it can feel loving someone whose life never slows down. Neither of you is wrong, but that somehow makes it worse.

The words come out wrong. They stack on top of each other, heavier and heavier, until they fall into something neither of you meant to say out loud. When Pierre finally stands, running a hand through his hair, his voice is tight and tired.

“Maybe we need space,” he says quietly.

Your heart drops, but you nod anyway, because you’re too proud or too hurt to beg him to stay. He leaves with a soft goodbye, the door closing far too gently for something that just broke you apart. 

Christmas passes in a blur of lights you don’t want to look at and songs you can’t bring yourself to turn off. Christmas was your favorite time of year; you loved spending it with family and friends. And him.

The days between Christmas and New Year stretch endlessly. You go through the motions answering messages, showing up where you’re supposed to, but everything feels muted, like the world is wrapped in cotton. 

You think about Pierre more than you want to admit, replaying the fight in your head, wondering what you should’ve said differently, what he might be thinking now.

By New Year’s Eve, you almost don't go out. The idea of celebrating feels wrong when your chest still aches, but your friends insist, promising it’ll be low-key, just a small party to ring in the new year together.

You put on a smile, tell yourself it’s just one night, and step into the noise and warmth of someone else’s living room. This breakup  will not destroy your start in the new year.

You’re halfway through a drink when you feel that familiar pull in your chest before you even see him. Pierre stands across the room, talking to someone, dressed neatly, hair slightly longer than you remember, eyes scanning the space until they land on you. 

The moment stretches, quiet despite the music, and for a second neither of you moves. It all felt so different, and it wasn't as easy, as it had always been. He’s the one who crosses the room first.

“Hey,” he says softly, like he’s afraid to break something fragile.

“Hey,” you reply, your voice steadier than you feel.

There’s an awkward pause, full of everything unsaid, until the countdown begins in the background. Ten. Nine. Eight. The room fills with cheers, but Pierre isn’t looking at anyone else, only you.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he admits, words rushed but honest. “About us. About how I messed up by walking away instead of fighting harder.”

Six. Five. Four.

“I don’t want to start a new year without you in my life,” he says, voice breaking just slightly. “I love you. I always have.”

Three. Two.

You don’t answer with words. You step closer instead, closing the space that once felt impossible to cross.

One.

The room erupts as the new year begins, and Pierre kisses you, soft at first, then surer, full of relief and hope and all the things you thought you’d lost. His hand finds yours like it belongs there, like it never stopped belonging there.

You take it, his glove firm and reassuring around yours, and together you push forward again, moving slowly, carefully, enjoying the way the snow crunches beneath your skis. The world feels quiet up here, wrapped in winter and sunshine, far away from schedules and expectations and everything that usually feels loud.

By the time you reach the bottom, your legs are tired and your cheeks hurt from smiling. George unclips his skis and immediately steps closer, brushing snow from your sleeve with an almost instinctive tenderness.

“You did really well,” he says sincerely, like it actually matters to him.

“High praise,” you tease.

He grins. “I’m serious.”

Later, you sit outside a small wooden lodge with steaming mugs in your hands, watching snow fall softly while the sun begins to dip behind the mountains. George leans back beside you, stretching his legs out, his shoulder pressed comfortably against yours.

“This,” he says after a moment, voice calm and content, “is exactly how I wanted to spend Christmas.”

You glance at him. “Freezing and exhausted?”

“With you,” he corrects gently, turning his head to look at you properly now. His expression is soft, open, and completely unguarded. “That’s the important part.”

You stay there until the cold finally drives you inside, laughing as you stumble over boots and scarves, snow melting into little puddles on the wooden floor. Later that evening, wrapped in blankets by the fire, George pulls you close without a word, his arm settling around you like it belongs there.

Outside, the mountains are dark and quiet, snow still falling steadily.