#fluff christmas

The bell over the café door chimed the same way it had two years ago, when Quinn Hughes had stumbled in half-awake, juggling too many things at once and promptly spilled an entire latte down the front of your sweater.

“Careful, babe,” you teased as he held the door for you now, the winter air brushing past your shoulders. “Wouldn’t want a repeat.”

Quinn’s cheeks went pink. “I said I was sorry like… fifty times.”

“Fifty-seven,” you corrected, bumping his shoulder as you stepped inside.

The café always looked exactly the same—warm lights, wood tables, the smell of espresso and cinnamon baked into the walls, the only difference was the small Christmas decorations. The same barista who had witnessed Quinn’s mortification that morning glanced up and winked.

Quinn’s hand found yours, fingers threading through like it was instinct.

“Feels weird, right?” he murmured. “Coming back here today.”

“Weird good,” you said.

He led you to the same small table near the window, the one he insisted on wiping frantically with napkins two years ago while apologizing in a frantic rush, accidentally introducing himself halfway through the panic.

You sat, watching him as walked over to the counter, and before the hockey captain could get a word out, the barista held out your orders. Quinn glances up at the guy who just shrugged and said, “The two of you come here a lot.” Before turning away and continuing his cleaning.

Quinn walks back your table, just as you set your phone down “So…” he said, sliding a cup toward you.

Your usual order.

Steam curled above the top in a soft white swirl.

“He remembered our orders,” you teased.

“Yeah… took me by surprise though.”

You blew on your drink, cheeks warming. “Still sweet though.”

Quinn pulled out something small from his jacket pocket. Not a ring box—because that wasn’t the plan for today, or so you thought,—a familiar-looking item wrapped in brown paper.

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“Open it.”

You peeled the paper back to reveal a navy-blue coffee sleeve, hand-stitched with tiny white thread. It said:

“Q ♥ Y/I — since the spill.”

Your breath hitched.

“Oh, Quinn…”

He shrugged shyly. “I just… y’know. Wanted something that matched the story. Since this stupid little place kinda started everything.”

“Not stupid,” you whispered, sliding your hand across the table to take his.

“Never stupid.”

He smiled softly—the kind of smile he only ever gave you, gentle and full and a little shy. He cleared his throat, and your attention snapped back to him.

“I, uh…” he started awkwardly. “I wanted today to be special.”

Your heart warmed. “It already is.”

He swallowed hard and reached into his coat pocket.

Not fast. Not dramatic.

Just Quinn—slow, nervous, deeply sincere.

“I come here all the time on my way to the rink,” he said quietly. “And every time, I look at that spot right there—” He pointed at the doorway where you’d first bumped into each other. “—and I think about how crazy it is that one dumb mistake became the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Your breath hitched.

“I mean, who spills coffee on their soulmate?” he said with a shaky laugh.

“Apparently you,” you whispered.

His eyes flicked up to yours—soft green, steady, overflowing with something warm and terrified and hopeful.

“And I know I’m not… loud like my brothers, or the most exciting guy in Vancouver, but I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything.”

Your chest tightened, heart thudding so hard you thought the whole café could hear it.

Then Quinn got up from his chair.

Walked around to your side.

And dropped to one knee.

The teenage girl, that was studying for her year end exams, gasped softly.

The older woman, who was knitting gifts for her family, whispered, “Oh, how lovely.”

The barista leaned forward with his chin propped on his hand like he’d been waiting for this.

But to the two of you, no one was around. Quinn opened a small velvet box, fingers trembling just a little.

“Since the day I spilled coffee on you,” he said, voice thick, “I’ve wanted every day after to be yours. And I want all my days to start and end with you. If you’ll let me.”

Tears blurred your vision instantly.

“Baby…” you whispered.

His voice broke.

“Will you marry me?”

You nodded before your brain even caught up.

“Yes—Quinn, yes, of course I will—”

You pulled him up so quickly he stumbled, arms wrapping around your waist as you buried your face in his neck. He laughed through a shaky breath, holding you tight, like if he let go for even a second you might disappear.

The barista clapped quietly, mumbling “Been waiting for this moment.”

The older woman dabbed at her eyes with a napkin as the two of you reminded her of her and her late husband.

The teenage girl snapped a picture whispered, “Oh my god, goals.”

Quinn slipped the ring onto your finger with careful, trembling hands. Then he cupped your cheeks and kissed you—soft and slow and overflowing with everything he didn’t say.

Outside, snow continued falling.

Inside, in the little coffee shop where your story began, a new chapter started.

Because here you were, two years later, sitting in the same place, with the same boy who spilled coffee on you…

Only now, he was the love of your life.

couver.y/n has posted

liked by jackhughes ariela_sherwood bboeser and others

couver.y/n From a coffee shop accident to forever with my favorite captain 💌 _quinnhughes

comments are limited

bboeser called it

trevorzegras awe he proposed… I honestly thought you would have to do it

jackhughes now wtf

canucks congrats Mr and Mrs 43

williamnylander congrats you two

lhughes_06 and mom said I would get marry first

The Gryffindor common room glowed like something out of a fairytale—fire crackling, enchanted snow drifting from the ceiling without melting, candles floating lazily above everyone’s heads. Wrapping paper scraps littered the floor, half-finished mugs of cocoa sat abandoned on tables, and someone’s cat had taken up residence inside a gift bag.

You were curled up between Remus and Sirius on the big rug by the fire. Remus’s arm rested warm across your shoulders, long fingers idly tracing your sleeve. Sirius’s leg pressed against yours, his hair falling in his eyes in that way he pretended was accidental. James sat across from all three of you, leaning forward with the bright, restless excitement of a golden retriever in human form.

“Alright!” James announced. “Gryffindor Secret Santa, commence!”

Everyone cheered quietly — some genuinely, some sarcastically, all with love.

⸻

The first few gifts around the circle were chaotic and fun — paper flying everywhere, laughter ringing warm and loud. Mary shrieked when Regulus handed her knitting supplies and an entire how-to book, hugging him so tight he looked like he might combust. Dorcas cried when Lily gave her Muggle painting tools. Lily burst into giggles when Marlene clasped a little cat pendant around her neck and kissed her cheek.

It was one of those nights that felt… safe and soft. Found-family warm.

And then it was Remus turned to give his gift.

He sat up a little straighter, cheeks already pink as he handed you a neatly wrapped parcel tied with twine instead of ribbon. “Er—here. I hope you like it.”

You opened it carefully—because it was Remus, and because something about the way he watched you made your chest full.

Inside was a Muggle poetry book you had only mentioned once, months ago, offhandedly while talking about childhood memories. Beneath it was a little bundle of blooms tied with a ribbon.

Your eyes stung instantly.

“Oh, Remus…”

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes softening.

“You said your gran used to read it to you. Took me a while to find. And the flowers just… felt like something you’d like.”

Sirius leaned in, voice teasing but fond. “Our Moony, the romantic.”

Remus flicked a piece of wrapping paper at him. James grinned so hard his cheeks hurt.

You cupped Remus’s jaw and kissed his cheek gently, earning a chorus of teasing whistles from your boys.

⸻

Sirius was giving his gift next, tearing through the paper of his gift from you like a storm, only to freeze when he saw what was inside:

A pair of new black boots— sleek, good quality, not the half-worn pair he pretended he still liked.

A blank leather journal—with a note tucked inside in your handwriting:

“For the days talking feels impossible and you don’t wanna talk.”

Sirius blinked, jaw tight, emotions flickering behind those storm-gray eyes.

“Sweetheart…” His voice cracked, just once, barely audible.

“You… you listen too much.”

You nudged his shoulder, gentle. “Someone has to.”

He pulled you right into his lap, burying his face in your shoulder while pretending to read the journal to look less emotional. James wrapped an arm around both of you, squeezing tight, and Remus pressed a soft kiss to your temple.

⸻

James excitedly shoved a giant box into Remus’s lap next.

“Open it, Moony! Hurry, hurry!”

Remus rolled his eyes fondly but obeyed.

Inside were journals. So many journals. Journals in colors Remus liked. Journals with moons on the covers and all of your initials. Fancy parchment tape. Little sticky notes. Sets of little bookmarks. Stickers with stars. Even a Muggle beautiful pen Lily helped him find.

Remus’s voice caught in his throat. “James… how did you—?”

James shrugged, cheeks a little pink.

“You’re always there for us, mate. I figured you should have nice things for all the brilliant thoughts you never say out loud.”

Remus didn’t hug often. But he grabbed James and pulled him right into his chest.

James melted instantly.

You laughed softly.

Your boys were ridiculous. And perfect.

⸻

James practically vibrated where he sat, knees bouncing like he was trying to launch himself off the couch. Dorcas slid a large, neatly wrapped package toward him with a tiny smile.

“Alright, Potter,” she said. “Go on.”

James ripped the paper off with absolutely no patience, bits of wrapping flying everywhere. Sirius ducked one stray piece dramatically.

And then—

James froze.

Inside the box was a painting. Not just any painting — him. Or rather, his stag. Majestic, strong, standing in a moonlit forest with snow drifting around its hooves. Dorcas had captured every detail perfectly, right down to the warm brown of his eyes.

Underneath it was a polished wooden plaque engraved with:

“First Snitch.”

A small groove carved out for the snitch to sit in once he earned it.

And at the bottom—

James gasped so loudly you swore half the castle heard.

“A— A Holyhead Harpies jersey?! Dorcas! This is the new one! The one that doesn’t even come out until NEXT MONTH!”

Dorcas shrugged like it was nothing, though her cheeks had gone pink.

“Figured you’d like it.”

James swallowed hard, blinking fast.

“You… remembered all of this?”

She nodded.

“You talk. A lot. Someone had to listen.”

James didn’t even hesitate — he launched forward and wrapped her in a hug so tight she let out a squeak.

“THIS IS THE BEST GIFT I’VE EVER GOTTEN IN MY ENTIRE LIFE,” he declared dramatically, voice cracking on the last word.

Sirius cackled. “He’s crying!”

“I am NOT,” James insisted, absolutely sobbing.

Remus tucked a smile behind his hand. “It’s alright, Prongs. It’s cute.”

James sniffled, clutching the painting to his chest.

“This— this means everything. Thank you.”

You leaned against Sirius, warmth blooming in your chest as James practically sparkled with joy.

⸻

The party died down. People drifted upstairs, giggling and snacking, Regulus had snuck out back to his own common room, and then it was only the four of you climbing into the boys’ dorm together, warm and buzzing from the night.

Sirius collapsed on his bed dramatically.

“Best Secret Santa ever. I think we all did bloody fantastic.”

“Actually…” you said, pulling a small bag from your pocket, “I have one more thing.”

Three identical plushies came out first — a soft little black dog with silver eyes, a tiny deer wearing glasses, and a fluffy wolf with a moon stitched into his stomach.

James gasped, grabbing the deer immediately.

“Look at him! Prongs the Plush!”

Remus took the wolf and held it gently, thumb brushing the little ears. “This is… adorable.”

Sirius watched you curiously. “Where’s mine, sweetheart?”

You smiled and held out his plush, Sirius froze.

Completely froze.

“For when you don’t want to talk. Or write. Or pretend you’re fine.”

Sirius swallowed so hard it was audible.

Then he pulled you onto his bed, into his arms, clutching both you and the plush to his chest.

“‘m keeping you forever,” he muttered into your hair.

James flopped beside you both. “Yeah, get in line, Pads.”

Remus sat on the edge of the bed and pulled all three of you into a warm, tangled, gentle cuddle pile.

Fire crackling. Snow drifting outside the window.

James’s laugh. Sirius’s breath warm on your neck. Remus’s hand in yours.

Luke insisted it would be fun.

“Come on,” he had said that morning, eyes bright, arms wrapped around your waist from behind. “Trust me. I’ve got a surprise.”

You trusted him. Of course you did.

He was Luke — gentle, patient, your safe place.

But when the surprise turned out to be an empty rink, lights low and soft, music quietly echoing off the boards… your stomach twisted.

Anxiety crawled up your throat.

“Just us,” Luke said proudly, squeezing your hand. “I booked the whole thing. No one else around. No pressure.”

You swallowed hard.

No pressure — and yet all the pressure.

“Luke,” you murmured, staring at the ice like it might bite you. “I don’t… I don’t know if I can.”

He stepped in front of you, nudging your chin up gently with two fingers.

“Hey.”

Blue eyes soft.

Voice even softer.

“You’re not doing this alone. I’m right here.”

His confidence in you always hit harder than your own panic.

Reluctantly, you let him help you lace up the skates. His hands moved slow, careful, like he was afraid to hurt you. When he finished, he kissed your knee through your jeans.

“You’re gonna be great,” he whispered.

You didn’t feel great.

You felt like your heart was going to beat out of your chest.

But Luke took both your hands, letting you hold onto him like a lifeline, well he is your lifeline.

“Okay,” he murmured as he guided you onto the ice. “One step at a time.”

You clung to him. Your blades wobbled instantly.

“I’m gonna fall,” you squeaked.

He shook his head. “No, you’re not.”

“Luke, I’m—”

“You’re not,” he said again, firmer this time.

He squeezed your hands.

“Because I won’t let you.”

For a while, he skated backward slowly, pulling you with him, letting you balance against his chest and arms. Every time your legs wobbled, he steadied you. Every time you gasped, he soothed you.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispered.

“Look at you.”

Eventually, you relaxed enough to let go with one hand.

Luke’s smile looked like pure sunshine.

“That’s my girl.”

But then, halfway through a slow glide, your skate caught something.

Your balance tipped.

“Luke—!”

He reacted immediately — one arm around your waist, the other around your back, twisting so he hit the ice first.

You landed on top of him, palms splayed on his chest, breath knocked out of you.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” you blurted, panic rising again. “Luke, I’m so sorry—”

“Hey,” he breathed, brushing hair from your face. “Hey, look at me.”

You did.

He was smiling. Actually smiling.

“I’m literally a professional hockey player,” he teased softly. “I fall like… twice a day.”

You still panicked, hands trembling.

“Luke, I— what if you hit your head? Or hurt your back? Or—”

“Sweetheart,” he cut in gently, cupping your cheek, thumb brushing your skin in slow circles, “you weigh like nothing. You couldn’t hurt me if you tried.”

You opened your mouth, but he sat up slowly, keeping you balanced on his lap.

Then he really looked at you — really saw the way your breathing was getting fast, shallow, uneven.

His smile faded into gentle worry.

“You’re scared,” he whispered. “You’re really scared.”

You nodded, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

Luke didn’t ask you to keep going. He didn’t tease. He didn’t push.

He glanced at your shaking legs and the way your eyes darted around — the signs of a panic attack he knew too well.

“That’s enough for today,” he said gently. “Let’s get you off the ice.”

Before you could protest, he wrapped his arms around your back, shifted you carefully—

And stood up with you still in his arms.

Bridal-style. Warm. Steady. Safe. Especially safe.

“Luke!” you squeaked, clinging to his shoulders. “You can’t skate like this—”

He grinned up at you.

“Watch me.” And he did.

He skated smooth and slow, holding you like you weighed nothing, keeping your head tucked safely against his chest as he carried you all the way to the bench.

Only when your skates hit solid ground did he set you down gently on the bench, kneeling in front of you to unlace the skates.

His hands came to cradle your cheeks, warm and grounding.

“You did amazing. I’m proud of you.”

Your chest tightened.

Luke kissed your knee again, then your nose, then your trembling hands.

“I don’t care if you act like bambi on ice,” he whispered with a small smile. “I just wanted to be with you.”

A shaky laugh escaped you.

“Lu…”

He leaned his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he said softly. “More than the ice. More than the game. More than anything.”

Your anxiety didn’t disappear instantly — it never did — but being wrapped in his arms, hearing his heartbeat, feeling his warmth?

It helped.

It grounded you.

It reminded you you weren’t alone.

And for Luke, that was enough.

“Next time,” he murmured against your temple, “we’ll just sit in the bleachers and drink cocoa. Deal?”

“Deal,” you whispered, smiling.

Luke pulled you in tighter.

And you let yourself melt into him, safe and warm in the only place you ever wanted to be: his arms.

liked by jackhughes markestapa trevorzegras and others

amazingyn does this make me a hockey player now? lhughes_06

comments have been limited

jackhughes first lesson and he’s already taking you down?? 😂

→ amazingyn I know 🙁

_quinnhughes not bad y/n/n. form looks solid. luke… tie her skates tighter next time.

→ lhughes_06 i DID tie them tight

nicohischier good balance, good determination, you can play on defense any day👍

→ amazingyn captain approval 🥺?? i’ll take it 🫡

trevorzegras ill teach you next. luke too gentle

→ lhughes_06 NO.

→ amazingyn i feel like you would be the reason i fall

dylanduke25 you fell ONCE? weakkkk. i fell like 8 times the first day

→ amazingyn i’m fighting for my LIFE here dyl 😭

nicolelaud baby girl stick to being a wag 😭

→ amazingyn yes mom 🙄

katyakuropas the cutestttt. please tell luke he’s forbidden from teaching JJ any time soon

farahlipetz MY BABIES HURT NOOOOO

→ markestapa i feel fine ?

→ edwards_73 I don’t think she means you

bellavedda IM OMW TO TAKE CARE OF YOU !!!!

→ m.kemenah ME TO

→ kayleighdocherty_ GETTING SNACKS

→ amazingyn my girls 🥺🥰

lhughes_06 told you I got you 💙

The Great Hall always looks so magical during the holidays. Wreaths hung from every pillar, enchanted snow drifted from the ceiling without ever touching the floor, and the long tables were scattered with half-finished biscuits, steaming mugs of cocoa, and the remains of Garreth’s disastrous attempt at “festive fizz pops” — which had exploded into bright red foam and dyed his eyebrows crimson.

Sebastian laughed a bit to hard, whilst you pretended you didn’t.

Anne nearly choked on her cocoa, Ominis sighed like he’d been living through this chaos for centuries grateful he couldn’t see, and Poppy patted Garreth’s shoulder sympathetically while whispering, “you look like a baby reindeer.”

Eventually, when the plates were cleared and the lights above dimmed into a soft golden glow, Natsai leaned across the table.

“Snowball fight?”

Garreth lit up instantly.

Amit muttered something about frostbite.

Ominis groaned, “Oh Salazar, not again.”

Anne cheered.

And Sebastian looked at you. He didn’t have to say anything — he rarely did. His grin said everything.

You coming? I want you on my team.

…Or maybe I just want you near me.

You rolled your eyes, warmth rising in your chest.

“Fine,” you said, already buttoning your cloak. “But I’m warning you — I have good aim.”

Sebastian’s eyebrows lifted as he stood and helped you with your scarf, fingers brushing the back of your neck a little slower than necessary.

“I bet you do,” he murmured.

—

Outside, the castle grounds glittered with untouched snow, moonlight turning the whole courtyard into a silver-painted wonderland. Your friends immediately scattered into hiding places — behind trees, stone benches, pillars, anything they could find.

Garreth dove headfirst into a snowbank and immediately regretted it.

Amit loudly declared himself a noncombatant and was ignored by everyone.

Sebastian beside you scooped a handful of snow and packed it tightly, glancing over his shoulder at you.

“Partners?”

You smirked.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

He tossed the first snowball at Garreth, hitting him square in the back.

Garreth yelped like he’d been shot and retaliated wildly.

The fight quickly devolved into chaos — Natsai expertly dodging everything thrown her way, Poppy giggling as she used small animals to create distractions, Amit shouting battle instructions from somewhere behind a statue, Anne nailing Sebastian right in the ear.

But then you ducked behind a pillar with a perfect shot lined up.

Sebastian didn’t see you.

He was laughing, chasing Ominis — who could somehow hear snowballs flying through the air and managed to avoid getting hit — and you had the perfect angle.

You launched it.

It soared through the cold air, crisp and perfect—

And smacked Sebastian directly in the side of the head with a heavy thwump.

He froze. Everyone froze actually.

Your stomach dropped.

“S-Sebastian?”

You rushed forward. “Oh no — I’m so sorry — I didn’t mean to—”

He blinked at you slowly. A chunk of snow slid off his hair.

Then he smiled. Not his usual smug grin. Not his teasing smirk.

A soft and real smile, the one reserved only for you.

“I’m okay,” he said gently, brushing snow off his cheek. “Really.”

You still fretted over him, brushing flakes from his jacket, apologizing under your breath. And the entire friend group, apparently, forgot how to mind their business.

“Awwwwww,” Poppy sighed loudly.

“Oh, they’re adorable,” Anne whispered.

Garreth cupped his hands around his mouth.

“JUST KISS ALREADY!”

Amit nearly dropped his telescope trying to get a better look of what’s going on.

Natsai smirked knowingly.

Ominis muttered, “If they don’t confess by the end of this holiday, I’m banning both of them from the undercroft.”

You felt your cheeks flame.

Sebastian leaned in closer, voice quiet, eyes warm.

“Relax,” he murmured. “I’m not made of sugar.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumbled.

“And you’re worried about me.”

He nudged your shoulder.

“I like when you worry about me.”

“That’s not— I mean— I wasn’t—I worry about everyone…”

He laughed softly.

Then he bent down, scooped up a handful of snow, and tapped it lightly against your arm.

“Truce?”

You smiled — unable not to.

“Truce.”

Behind you, Garreth yelled, “THAT’S CHEATING, THEY’RE FLIRTING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FIELD—”

And the fight resumed.

But Sebastian stayed beside you.

He protected your flank, grabbed your hand once when he thought you’d slip, and kept brushing snow out of your hair even though it fell right back in.

By the time you all collapsed into the snow, breathless with laughter, cheeks glowing, fingers numb, Sebastian lay beside you, shoulders touching.

“You know,” he whispered, breath fogging in the cold air, “If you wanted my attention that badly, you didn’t need to pelt me in the head.”

You nudged him with your elbow.

“Shut up, Sallow.”

He grinned at the sky.

You should’ve known you were getting sick before the mission even started.

You’d been curled up in your bed, wrapped in one of John’s hoodies that was too big and smelled like cedar and warm laundry. You kept sniffling quietly into the fabric, pretending it was allergies.

John glanced over from where he was cleaning his gear.

“You alright over there?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “Just tired.”

He hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t push.

Later that night, when he came to bed and pulled you close, he pressed a soft kiss to your temple.

“Mm. You’re warm.”

You forced a laugh.

“You make me warm.”

He snorted, burying his face in your neck.

“Well yeah, but you’re warm before I even touched you.”

You shut your eyes. “Just cozy.”

You weren’t.

You were running a fever.

But he looked so peaceful, arms around you, that you couldn’t bring yourself to admit it. Missions stressed him in a way you never saw anywhere else — that soldier’s edge returning to his posture, his jaw set a bit too tight. You didn’t want to add “my girlfriend is sick” onto his shoulders.

So you ignored it.

⸻

A few days later it was announced you and John would be doing a mission together. The plane ride was cold, loud, and unforgiving. You curled against the window, pressing your forehead to the glass to hide how flushed your skin felt. John sat beside you, glancing over every few minutes.

“You tired?” he asked.

“Fine,” you lied, sipping water.

Yelena, sitting on the other side of you flying the jet, narrowed her eyes.

“You are suspiciously quiet.”

You stuck your tongue out at her. “You’re suspiciously nosy.”

“Is my job,” she said proudly.

But she dropped it — only because John’s hand rested on your knee under the blanket, and she assumed you were just tired.

You wished that were true.

⸻

At first, the first two day were manageable.

Your throat hurt when you swallowed.

Your ribs ached when you breathed too deeply.

A cough lingered like a warning.

But you hid it well.

John double-checked your gear, your disguise, your cover story — everything he usually did, protective to the point of ridiculousness. He always said he wasn’t controlling… he just liked knowing you were safe.

By the end of day two, though, he started watching you differently.

“Hey,” he murmured as the two of you sat by the small fire in the safehouse. “You’re awfully quiet today.”

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

You shrugged. “The mission.”

He nodded slowly, though his eyes searched your face like he could feel something was wrong.

“Let me know if you need anything.”

You smiled, leaning into his shoulder.

“I will.”

You didn’t.

⸻

It hit you like a freight train overnight.

You woke coughing, chest tight, head pounding so loudly you thought the room was shaking. Sweat clung to the back of your neck even though the safehouse was freezing.

John stirred beside you.

“You okay?” he mumbled, voice gravelly with sleep.

You swallowed hard. “Yeah, just—just woke up.”

Your voice sounded shredded.

John sat up immediately.

“Sweetheart. You sound awful.”

“I’m fine,” you insisted, rolling away so he couldn’t touch your forehead.

He didn’t believe you.

Not even a little.

⸻

By midday, you were trying to help him with surveillance — eyes barely open, leaning on the wall for support, pretending your head wasn’t spinning.

John watched you for two seconds before stepping in front of you, blocking your path.

“No,” he said firmly. “This stops now.”

You blinked up at the taller American. “What stops?”

“Whatever this is.” He gestured to you—your pale face, your trembling hands, the slight sway in your stance. “You’re sick.”

You scoffed. “I’m not—”

“You are.” His tone softened. “And you’ve been hiding it.”

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t have to.

Your silence was loud.

John stepped closer, lifting your chin carefully with two fingers.

Your eyes were glassy.

Your cheeks flushed with fever.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked quietly. Hurt, not anger, spilling through every word. “Why would you hide this from me?”

You swallowed hard. “I… didn’t want to be a burden.”

John froze. Actually froze.

“A burden?” he repeated, voice cracking. “Sweetheart, you could never—never—be a burden.”

You looked away, but he gently guided your face back to his.

“You’re allowed to need things,” he whispered. “You’re allowed to be human. You’re allowed to let me take care of you.”

His hand slid into his bag, pulling out medicine — fever reducers, cold tablets, cough syrup. The man came prepared for everything.

He held the bottle out to you.

“Take it.”

You shook your head weakly. “I don’t like the taste.”

He let out a broken laugh.

“Baby, I would drink the whole damn bottle myself if it meant you’d feel better.”

The words hung between you — soft, pleading.

Then, gently:

“Please,” he murmured.

“I love you. Let me help.”

Your stubbornness cracked clean down the middle.

You took the medicine from his hands, swallowing it slowly while he watched with a relieved exhale. He wrapped the blanket around your shoulders himself, tucking it close like he was wrapping you in safety.

Then he scooped you into his arms — literally lifted you off the ground when your knees wobbled.

“John—”

“Shh,” he said softly. “I’ve got you.”

And he did.

He carried you to the couch, sat down, and pulled you against his chest so your head rested right where his heartbeat was strongest. His arms wrapped fully around you, protective and warm.

You melted into him, too tired to pretend you weren’t exhausted.

“You scared me,” he whispered against your hair. “Thought you’d pass out.”

“I didn’t want to slow anything down,” you murmured.

“You are the only thing that matters,” he whispered.

“Mission comes second. Always.”

You closed your eyes, breathing in his warmth, his scent, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

He kissed your forehead.

“Always, sweetheart.”

And for the first time in days, your body relaxed.

Safe. Held. Cared for.

Snow had fallen through the night, the kind that softened everything it touched and made the world feel paused. When you woke up, the X-Mansion was quiet — no alarms, no training schedules, no urgent briefings waiting to be read. Just white light filtering through the windows and the steady hush of winter.

You found Scott by the doors, like always. Jacket zipped, gloves on, visor in place even though the sun was weak behind clouds. He looked like he was waiting for something to need him.

You took his hand without a word.

He glanced down at your joined fingers, then back at you. “Where are we going?”

“You trust me?” you asked.

He nodded immediately. “Always.”

Outside, the cold bit at your cheeks as you stepped into the fresh snow. Your boots were the first to leave marks across the open field. Scott followed a step behind, careful with each stride, eyes scanning out of habit.

“You don’t have to be on edge,” you said gently.

“I know,” he replied, though his shoulders only relaxed a fraction.

You stopped where the snow was smooth and untouched. For a moment, you just stood there, breathing in the cold air, listening to the quiet.

Then you dropped backward into the snow.

Scott startled. “Wait—”

You laughed, arms sweeping wide, legs moving easily as you carved your shape into the white. Snow crept into your collar, stealing your breath, but it felt good — grounding.

“Snow angels,” you said, grinning up at him. “Your turn.”

He stared down at you, disbelief flickering across his face. “We are definitely too old for this.”

“Speak for yourself.”

He sighed, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth. Slowly, carefully, he lowered himself beside you, lying flat on his back. For a second, he didn’t move at all.

“This is cold,” he said.

“Just start,” you replied. “Don’t think.”

That took effort.

Scott moved his arms in controlled arcs, legs spreading with exact precision. Even now, he couldn’t help measuring each motion. You watched him from the corner of your eye.

“You’re doing it like a drill,” you teased.

“That’s because I don’t want to mess it up.”

“Honey, there’s no wrong way.”

He paused. Then his movements loosened. His arm brushed yours, and he didn’t flinch or pull away. The snow whispered beneath him as he moved, slower now, less careful.

“I forget how quiet it can be,” he said softly. “Out here.”

You turned your head toward him. “That’s the point.”

The sky above you was pale and endless. Snowflakes drifted down, catching on Scott’s hair and visor. For once, he wasn’t calculating distances or outcomes. He was just there.

After a while, you both sat up, brushing snow from your clothes. Two angels lay side by side — yours uneven and joyful, his nearly perfect but softened at the edges where he’d let go.

Scott stood and offered you his hand. He pulled you to your feet and immediately brushed snow from your shoulders, careful and familiar. Then he wrapped his arm around you, drawing you close, his warmth a welcome contrast to the cold.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, pressing a kiss to your hair. “For reminding me I don’t have to carry everything all the time.”

Bob didn’t hate Christmas.

He just… didn’t know what to do with it.

The lights, the music, the way everyone seemed to expect joy — it all made something tight twist in his chest. He’d learned a long time ago that wanting things only made them hurt more. Growing up poor, growing up afraid, growing up with a father who made holidays feel like something to survive instead of celebrate… Christmas had always been loud in the wrong ways.

So when Yelena announced, with way too much excitement, that the team was doing Secret Santa, Bob just smiled politely and nodded.

He didn’t expect anything.

You did.

You’d drawn his name days ago, unfolding the slip of paper slowly, heart sinking and swelling at the same time. You knew more than most — the late-night talks when the rest of the team slept, the way Bob’s voice went distant when he spoke about his childhood. The memories that bled through when the team had been trapped in the Void, fragments of his past laid bare without his consent.

So you didn’t buy one gift.

You bought five.

Christmas morning was quiet, snow falling softly outside the safehouse windows. The team gathered in mismatched sweaters and socks, mugs of coffee and hot chocolate in hand. Alexei was loud, Yelena smug, Bucky pretending not to care, Ava perched on the arm of a chair, John leaning against the counter, Reider half-asleep.

Bob sat near the edge of the couch, hands folded, shoulders tense.

When it was his turn, you stood, heart pounding, and handed him a small stack of wrapped gifts.

“Uh,” Bob blinked. “I think there’s been a mistake.”

You smiled gently. “No. There hasn’t.”

Yelena raised a brow. “Five gifts?”

Alexei grinned. “I like her already.”

Bob hesitated before picking up the first one.

Inside was a leather-bound journal, soft to the touch, with a pen tucked into the spine. He ran his fingers over it, swallowing.

“For when your thoughts get too loud,” you said quietly. “Or when you don’t want to say them out loud.”

He nodded once, eyes down.

The second gift was heavier — a weighted blanket, deep blue and soft as clouds. When he unfolded it, his breath hitched.

“That’s—” He stopped. “Thank you.”

“For the nights,” you added. “When it’s hard to breathe.”

The room had gone still now.

The third gift made his eyes widen — a sweater, thick and hand-knit, the blue rich and calming. You watched his fingers tremble as he touched it.

“My grandma made it,” you said softly. “She said it should feel like a hug.”

Bob laughed once, broken and surprised, and quickly wiped at his eyes.

The fourth gift was a book — one about trauma, healing, and learning to live gently with yourself, a book that once helped you and Bucky. He flipped through it slowly, reverently, like it mattered.

Then came the last gift.

A simple frame.

Inside was a photo of the team — all of them, laughing, messy, real. Bob was in the center, smiling without realizing it.

“You belong,” you said, voice steady even as your chest ached. “With us. With them. You’re family.”

Bob didn’t speak for a long time.

Then he stood, crossed the room, and pulled you into a hug so tight you felt it in your bones. He shook slightly, breath uneven, but he didn’t let go.

“No one’s ever—” His voice broke. “No one’s ever done this for me.”

You hugged him back. “Merry Christmas, Bob.”

Around you, the team pretended very hard not to cry.

And for the first time, Christmas didn’t hurt.

The Great Hall was a whirlwind of enchanted snowflakes and festive chatter, but all you could focus on was the heavy textbook in front of you. With the Yule Ball only a week away, the pressure wasn't just coming from the upcoming O.W.L.s, but from the fact that you were one of the few Slytherins without a date.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over your parchment. You looked up, expecting a librarian’s scolding, but instead, you found Draco Malfoy. He wasn’t wearing his usual smirk; he looked almost... focused.

Without saying a word, Draco slid a small, enchanted glass vial onto the table. Inside, a tiny, silver-mist dragon—much like his patronus—was circling a miniature rose.

"Malfoy?" you whispered, glancing around to see if his usual cronies were watching.

"Open it," he murmured, his grey eyes fixed on yours.

As you uncorked the vial, the silver snake slithered out, expanding until it was the size of a bird. It circled the table twice, leaving a trail of shimmering frost in the air that spelled out: The Ball?

Your heart did a strange little flip. "Is this your way of subtle, Malfoy?"

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, smooth velvet. "I don't do subtle. I do certain. And I'm certain I don't want to see anyone else in that Hall on my arm but you. So, is that a yes?"

"Yes," you breathed, a smile tugging at your lips. "It's a yes."

—

The following afternoon, Pansy Parkinson practically dragged you by the wrist into Gladrags Wizardwear. While many found Pansy abrasive, you knew her "Mean Girl" exterior was mostly a shield. When it came to fashion, she was an absolute general.

"We aren't leaving until you look like Pureblood royalty," Pansy declared, tossing a heap of silk and tulle over the changing room door. "Draco has been moping about the common room for weeks trying to figure out that dragon spell. If you show up looking anything less than a ten, I’ll never hear the end of it."

After hours of trying on stiff fabrics and itchy lace, Pansy pulled a gown from a hidden rack in the back. It was deep emerald silk—so dark it almost looked black in the shadows—with a shimmering silver overlay that mimicked the movement of water.

"Put it on," Pansy commanded.

When you stepped out, even Pansy went quiet. The dress fit you like a second skin, the neckline elegant and the skirts flowing behind you like a dark mist.

"Oh, Merlin," Pansy whispered, a rare, genuine smile breaking through. "He’s going to lose his mind. Now, move over—I need to see if this pink taffeta makes me look like a marshmallow or a masterpiece."

—

The day of the ball was a chaotic blur of hair potions and perfume. The Slytherin girls' dormitory smelled of roses and expensive vanilla. You and Pansy sat at the vanity, mirrors enchanted to give "honest feedback" (which mostly consisted of your mirror telling you to stop fidgeting with your hair).

Pansy helped you pin back your hair with silver combs, ensuring every strand stayed in place with a flick of her wand and a bit of Sleekeazy’s.

"You're nervous," Pansy noted, catching your eye in the reflection.

"Is it that obvious?"

"You're holding your breath. Stop. You're the prettiest girl in our year, and Draco is already halfway in love with you anyway. Just walk down those stairs and let him stare."

—

The entrance to the Great Hall was crowded, but as you descended the marble staircase, a path seemed to clear. Draco was waiting at the bottom, dressed in sleek, black dress robes with a high silver collar. He was talking to Blaise Zabini, looking bored, until he turned his head.

He froze. His hand, which had been adjusting his cufflinks, stopped dead. His jaw didn't drop—he was too proud for that—but his eyes widened, tracking your every step with an intensity that made your skin tingle.

When you reached the bottom, he stepped forward, offering his arm.

"You look..." he started, his voice uncharacteristically rough. He cleared his throat, regaining his composure. "You look utterly devastating, [Y/N]. I might have to hex anyone who looks at you for more than three seconds."

"You look quite handsome yourself, Draco," you teased, sliding your hand into the crook of his arm.

"I know," he smirked, though the faint blush on his pale cheeks gave him away.

The ball was a whirlwind of music by the Weird Sisters and far too much spiked punch. You danced until your feet ached, laughing as Draco tried to maintain his "cool" exterior while you dragged him into a particularly fast-paced folk dance.

Eventually, the heat of the Great Hall became too much. Draco led you out into the courtyard, which had been transformed into a winter wonderland of rosebushes covered in fairy lights and statues of ice.

A light snow began to fall, the flakes catching in your hair. You shivered slightly, the cold night air biting at your bare shoulders. Without a word, Draco unbuttoned his heavy outer robe—his suit jacket—and draped it over you. It was warm from his body and smelled of peppermint and expensive cologne.

"Better?" he asked, standing close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.

"Much," you whispered.

You both sat on a stone bench, watching the snow settle on the fountain. For a moment, the war, the house rivalries, and the stress of school faded away.

"I meant what I said," Draco murmured, looking out at the grounds. "I don't want to be here with anyone else. Not just tonight. Ever."

He looked at you then, his expression soft and vulnerable in a way he only ever showed you. You leaned your head on his shoulder, the heavy fabric of his jacket wrapped around you like a shield.

"Then I guess you're stuck with me," you replied.

He leaned down, his lips brushing your forehead. "I certainly hope so."

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[ caption 1: getting ready with my favorite slytherin girl prefectpansy ]