𝓓𝓪𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰

My friend shares that in real life he is much more open, sociable, kind, and sweet. He also seems taller. Aidan felt pure, sincere, and warm.

Gillen is warm-hearted, he starts a dialogue himself, keeps up the conversation and goes to the meeting!

I will share with you some of their meetings and his remarks that he said to my friend:

he was polite to her request to hug him, squeezed her tightly in his arms, and for the photo he first put his hand on her waist, but then put his arm around her shoulder.

he happily gave a second autograph when he came to pick it up a little later. "Of course, no problem" he said.

at the Master Class, he saw my friend again (she sat down on the floor in front of him to get good shoots and not disturb others on the chairs) . He looked at her camera many times, and after the end, he remarked, "I think we've seen each other before." To my friend's answer that seeing you once is not enough, he said: "Oh, I can understand"

after yesterday's last ceremony, he also recognized my friend, and told her "let's move away, it's too noisy and crowded here", gently leading her by the waist. They were standing aside from the departing crowd, he said "think it's better for me to take a photo better take a photo? Your hands are shaking." he did the first thing, losing camera focus on his face. "Oh, think I should repeat, the focus should be on me, right?"

my friend wanted to ask him a question. Answering it, he shared that he wants to visit Ukraine, after the filming of a Ukrainian film, he is thinking about it. And most likely it will be in this country next year!

he's also noticed that my friend had confused his water bottle, wanting to take it with her (she did it on purpose) "think this is my bottle?" he said.

A deep, mechanical hum from the generators permeated the cold air of the office. Behind a massive, polished desk, illuminated by the harsh light of a holographic projector, Orson Krennic studied reports. His fingers tapped against the desk's surface from restrained tension. The door before him opened without a knock: she was the only one who allowed herself such a thing.

"If you've come yet again to dispute the power converter quotas for your department," he began, without lifting his eyes from the hologram, "my patience is thinner than the atmosphere of Geonosis's moon. Your argument about a 'creative approach' has already been rejected by high command three times."

Letting his barb slide past her ears, the girl walked along the side of the desk, trailing her fingers across its cool surface. Her usual mocking smirk played on her lips.

"Orson, dear, I wasn't even thinking about converters. I was thinking that your assertion about transport movement in sector X-23 is as blind as a Wookiee in a blizzard. You're looking for the Bantha, but the mouse is already gnawing a hole in your storehouse."

Krennic slowly raised his head. His gaze, heavy and piercing, met her eyes, in which bright flecks sparkled, as if with excitement.

"Forgive my impenetrable stupidity, oracle," the director drawled through restrained sarcasm. "And enlighten me as to exactly how your 'nose,' which you place above sensor data, has pointed out my ignorance?"

She approached the desk, leaning in toward him. Her short stature did not prevent her from radiating a confidence bordering on audacity.

"You're rerouting the entire transport protocol! And personnel screening? Didn't it occur to you that the rebels could obtain the data?"

Orson rose sharply, his shadow falling over her. His voice became quieter, but more dangerous, like the hiss of decontamination panels cycling open.

"You take far too many liberties. Again. Do you think your privileges give you the right to challenge my operational decisions? That our... extracurricular relationship makes you an advisor?"

Without backing down an inch, her voice also began to lose its playful edge: "I think the instinct I was born with, not your favor, gives me that right! You surround yourself with yes-men, Krennic, and you've started to believe in your own infallibility. It's blinding you."

Orson slammed his fist on the desk, making the projector vibrate.

"I demand facts! Not intuition! Not premonitions! The Empire is built on order, on iron logic, not on the guesses of... a flighty girl who toys with my nerves!"

"I was just trying to do what's best! You're the one who's always dissatisfied!"

Krennic exhales sharply, his shoulders trembling. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, as if trying to hold himself back by sheer will, but the irritation still breaks through.

"'What's best'?!" His voice cracks into a shout, echoing off the corridor walls. "You don't even have any idea how much each mistake costs on this project! I'm responsible for every bolt, every report, and you think you can just 'feel' things whenever you feel like it! You know, you—!"

She doesn't let him finish and simply pulls herself up to him, sliding her palm to his cheek, scraping her skin on his barely-there stubble. And then she presses her lips to his, hot with anger.

"Don't be angry, okay?"

Her sudden movement: impulsive and tender, stopped his molten stream of words. For a moment he froze, still wound tight as a spring, his anger finding no outlet, stuck in his throat. Lips ready to spew rage were now pressed to hers. Her cool, confident palm on his cheek was the only point of stability in the sudden, crashing silence.

He didn't return the kiss immediately, remaining a statue of unspoken anger and bewilderment. But a second later, with a quiet, choked groan more like an admission of defeat, his hand rose and his fingers closed around her wrist. Not to push her away, but to hold her there, to anchor her in place. He pulled back from her lips; his hot, ragged breath seared her delicate skin, and his gaze still blazed, but differently now.

"That's... that's not fair."

His voice is low, hoarse, stripped of its former power. Only weariness and a vague, resentful acknowledgment remain in it.

"You're laying siege where the assault failed. That's strategic treason," he continues.

"Don't you like it?" she smiles up at him, lifting her gaze to his blue eyes, which now seemed gray. Her fingers stroke his stubble.

Krennic allows himself to lower his head, his brow barely touching her temple.

"I do like it..." he whispers, muffled, with a bitter smirk. "That's the problem. It's... distracting. Throws me off course."

He takes a step back, extricating himself from her personal space, but his gaze doesn't leave her. It's full of an irresolvable contradiction between cold duty and this searing, uncontrollable warmth.

"You turn discipline into chaos with one move. As project director, I should find that deeply repulsive."

"But?" she whispers, lowering her gaze to his swollen lips.

Pulling her to him in one motion, he captures her mouth in a second kiss, answering not with words, but with action.

“Eat up,” you granted him graciously. “Otherwise, they’ll go stale by tomorrow and turn into projectile weapons. I’ll have to use them to fend off nosy neighbors.”

Aidan chuckled, never pausing his progress. In that chunky-knit wool sweater the color of a stormy sky, he looked remarkably cozy. Not like "the guy from the screen" at all, but like a man who had finally come home.

“You’re very prudent,” he noted, reaching for a third cookie. “But I fear they won’t last until tomorrow. They have one fatal flaw: they vanish faster than my chances of a quiet life by your side.”

“Your chances vanished the moment we met, Gillen,” you parried.

“Fine, I concede. But your cookies have one undeniable advantage.”

“And what’s that?” You leaned forward, propping your chin on your palm.

“They make you smile as if you’ve just won an Oscar but are trying to pretend it’s no big deal. That expression suits you. Fewer thorns, more... house-and-hearth?”

“Don’t you dare call me 'cozy,' Gillen,” you narrowed your eyes. “Or I’ll think you’re looking for a housekeeper rather than a worthy opponent for your verbal duels.”

You leaned forward to take his empty mug and noticed he was covered in tiny crumbs. They stood out like pale flecks against the navy blue wool on his chest.

“Lord, you eat like a five-year-old,” you grumbled, though there wasn't a drop of malice in your voice.

Reaching out, you began to brush the crumbs from his chest. Your fingers sank into the soft wool, feeling the solid warmth of his body beneath. It was a strange, far too intimate gesture. You could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest, the rapid thrum of his heart. Or was it yours?

He sat perfectly still, watching your hand against his chest, before slowly shifting his gaze to your face. The air in the kitchen suddenly turned thick, like the whiskey you never got around to opening.

“Or maybe my cookies are just too crumbly... I shouldn't have baked them.”

You kept busily dusting away invisible specks just to avoid looking up, because you knew how he was looking at you. And it wasn't the way one looks at a friend.

Aidan caught your hand. His fingers squeezed your palm—softly but firmly—halting your restless movement.

“You definitely should have,” he said quietly. “Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to imagine you making them, and I wouldn't get to see you blushing so enchantingly while you brush crumbs off my chest.”

You froze, your hand still resting on his sweater. Your fingers slightly bunched the wool. He gave a gentle tug, pulling you toward him, closing the tiny distance that remained between you over the kitchen table.

“You know the crumbs are just a pretext,” his voice dropped to a low vibration, resonating somewhere in your solar plexus. “You’re brushing them away so thoroughly as if you’re trying to erase the very possibility of what happens next. Was the baking really the only way to get you to stop defending yourself and just... come closer?”

“I just... don't like a mess,” you exhaled, feeling the world around you finally come to a standstill.

“Liar,” he smiled with one corner of his mouth. “You’re almost as good at it as you are at the cookies. But your eyes, darling... your eyes give you away completely.”

The snow outside struck the windowpane with particular force, as if in approval of the moment, while the scent of cinnamon and warm skin in the kitchen grew so thick it felt as though one could reach out and touch it.

Aidan rose slowly from the settee. The movement lacked his usual stage-honed sharpness; he stood as if afraid to startle a rare bird that had flown into a warm house from the blizzard. The kitchen, already small, suddenly felt minuscule, saturated with his presence—the scent of cold wind, melting snow, and that teasing heat radiating from his skin.

He didn't let go of your hand as he walked around the table. The gesture was like an invisible thread, binding you tighter than any words.

“There now,” he said softly, stopping a step away from you. “Now we’re on the same level. No tables, no barriers. Just you, me, and your fantastic stubbornness.”

You felt your cheeks ignite again under his steady gaze. To hide your nerves, you tried to step back toward the windowsill, but your back hit the frame.

“Aidan,” you breathed, trying to inject a shadow of irony back into your voice, “this is a boundary violation. My kitchen is officially a zone for free conversation, not for...”

“Not for what?” he interrupted, stepping flush against you.

You saw his fingers, gripping the edge of the table, tremble slightly. This master of transformation, a man who knew a hundred ways to seduce on screen, was visibly nervous. His breathing was uneven, and in his usually impenetrable gaze was a flicker of almost boyish uncertainty mixed with resolve. This vulnerability affected you more than any grand monologue ever could.

“You think too much,” he whispered, leaning down. His face was so close you could see the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. “Always trying to calculate the finale of the scene. But there isn't one in the script.”

“I don't have a script,” you admitted honestly. “I only have... a fear that if I stop joking, all of this will turn out to be a dream brought on by one too many drinks.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Believe me,” his voice fell to a barely audible, vibrating whisper, “I have never felt more alive and real than I do right now: surrounded by your cookies and the noise outside.”

Slowly, as if giving you one last chance to flee or deliver another barb, he touched your lips with his. The kiss began cautiously, almost weightlessly—like the first snowflake landing on hot skin. It held everything: the taste of ginger, the bite of the grog, and the long months of "friendly" flirting you both had so carefully disguised as indifference.

But a second later, caution gave way to a desperate, built-up hunger. Aidan pulled you flush against him, his hand—cold from the frost—searing your cheek, while his other arm swept around your waist. You wound your fingers into his wavy, damp hair, feeling the world finally dissolve. There were only his lips: soft yet demanding, the scent of his cologne, and the soft rustle of snow against the glass, which now sounded like applause.

It was a kiss in which there was no play. Only honesty, which made my head spin.

When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far. He rested his nose against your cheek, breathing heavily. Both his arms were wrapped tightly around your waist, as if he feared you’d vanish the moment he let go.

“Well,” he rasped after an eternity. “I believe I’ve officially ruined your Christmas Eve.”

“Ruined?” You looked up at his slightly swollen lips and his rakish, utterly happy smile. “Aidan, you’ve simply upgraded it to the 'unforgettable' category.”

He laughed softly, and there was so much relief in that sound that you couldn't help but smile back.

“Listen,” he said seriously, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, “it’s almost midnight. And I am officially declaring: I am not leaving until we finish every last one of your stars. And until you promise me that our next walk through Dublin will be... well, shall we say, a bit less slippery in terms of our relationship.”

“We’ll see,” you pressed into his shoulder, feeling an incredible peace. “But keep in mind, the cookies are running out. You’ll have to learn to bake yourself if you want the banquet to continue.”

“Me? Bake?” Aidan looked theatrically horrified. “Darling, I can "play" a baker, but if I actually go near flour, Dublin will be covered in a white cloud worse than this blizzard. How about I just be... your chief taster. For life.”

You closed your eyes, listening to the cozy hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen’s silence, while beside you beat the heart of the man who had made this winter the hottest of your life. Outside, the snow continued to fall, draping the city in a white blanket, but here, in the glow of the kitchen lamp, you had a summer of your own.

You pulled him toward you by the collar of his sweater, closing those final millimeters that separated you from the inevitable, and this time, the initiative was yours. Your kiss was an answer to all his teasing, to all the months of waiting, and to that unbearable tenderness he had just poured into his words.

Aidan let out a low groan that vibrated in his chest and echoed through you like a heatwave. His hands, previously cautious, became masterful and sure. He hooked his arms under your thighs, lifting you, and in the next heartbeat, you were sitting on the edge of the kitchen table amidst scattered crumbs and forgotten mugs.

He crowded between your knees, pressing so close you could feel every breath against your skin. His lips moved to your neck, leaving burning trails, while his fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back.

“You...” he breathed against your skin, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to silence you exactly like this.”

You tugged at the hem of his sweater, longing to feel living warmth beneath your fingers rather than wool, and he helped you eagerly, ridding himself of the unnecessary garment with a swift pull. In the kitchen’s half-light, his body seemed like satin, his movements predatory yet infinitely gentle. You leaned back, drawing him with you, until you both nearly reclined onto the smooth surface of the table, intertwining in a desperate, ravenous intimacy.

And at that exact moment, just as the fever within you reached its peak, something outside tore through the silence with a thunderous crash.

The first volley of fireworks hit with such force the kitchen windows rattled. You jumped, but Aidan didn't let go. He only pressed you harder against the tabletop, his palms covering yours. Outside, in the inky-black Dublin sky, a massive gold sphere blossomed, followed by emerald, then blood-red.

Midnight.

Fireworks erupted one after another, flooding your kitchen now with a ghostly light, now with a fierce neon glow. In these flashes, the snow falling outside the glass looked like a shower of multi-colored rain. The roar of the displays merged with the rhythm of your hearts, turning the tiny kitchen into the epicenter of some cosmic explosion.

Aidan pulled away from your neck and looked you straight in the eye. In the flares of the festive fire, his face looked demonically beautiful and utterly happy. His pupils were dilated, and his lips held that very same half-smile that you wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.

“Happy New Year,” he whispered, his voice carrying over the noise from the street. “It seems the stagecraft worked after all.”

“Happy New Year, Aidan,” you replied, cupping his face.

He covered your lips with his once more, and that kiss, amidst the thunder of the fireworks, felt like a vow. The year began not with silence and solitude, but with this mad chaos—scented with ginger and passion—in which two people had finally found their most perfect rhythm.

Outside, Dublin was exulting; hundreds of people were cheering and raising their glasses, but here, on the kitchen table strewn with the crumbs of your cookies, time stood still. Nothing existed but his hot hands, the light of the fireworks reflecting on the ceiling, and the realization that this winter was the best of all possible worlds.

The room was bathed in semi-darkness, silent save for the cozy, rhythmic crackle of the Christmas lights, which cast soft amber glints across the ceiling. Outside, the distant echoes of the celebration could still be heard, but here, in the small bedroom, the world had shrunk to the dimensions of the bed and the warmth of two bodies that had finally ceased pretending to be unassailable bastions.

Aidan, who only an hour ago had seemed the very embodiment of masculine confidence, suddenly went still, pressing his forehead against your shoulder. You could feel his heart hammering against your ribs—fast, erratic. He pushed himself up on his elbows, and in the flickering, uncertain glow of the fairy lights, you saw that his face was flushed, his gaze stripped of its habitual irony.

“You know,” his voice broke, turning very quiet, “every time, I’m afraid that if I touch you too much, you’ll realize what I’m really like... how insecure. All the experience, the roles... it all feels so fabricated right now. Here, it’s just you. And I don’t think I have the faintest clue what to do with my own happiness.”

This sudden, almost boyish vulnerability affected you more than any practiced passion. You reached out and cradled his face.

“Then don't think,” you whispered. “Just feel.”

You pulled him down, and your second joining began not with a surge, but with an infinitely long, wet kiss. His hands, still slightly trembling, slid down to explore the curves of your body as if reading a sacred text. He touched your breasts with his fingertips, barely touching your nipples, and you saw him hold his breath, watching your reaction. 

“Do you like it?” he breathed against your lips. “Tell me... I want to know everything.”

“I’ve never liked anything more in my life than you, Aidan.”

You arched to meet his palm, guiding it lower. Your legs entwined around his hips of their own accord, drawing him into that very space where words no longer held any place. Aidan let out a sound akin to a quiet moan of relief, and his insecurity began to melt, transforming into a thick, concentrated tenderness.

He entered you slowly, looking directly into your eyes, and there was so much adoration in that gaze that it took your breath away. Every movement of his was cautious, almost reverent, yet the depth with which he filled you forced your fingers to dig into his back, leaving those very "autographs" upon his fine skin.

“Oh God...” he murmured, biting his lip.

“You’re so... warm. I’m going to... fall apart right now.”

The rhythm gradually mounted. His movements grew more confident, hungrier. You felt his hips thumping heavily against yours, your sweat mingling with his, and that scent—the scent of your intimacy—made your head spin more than any Dublin ale ever could. Aidan lost all control over his restraint: his brows were contorted in a pained ache, and his mouth was parted in a silent cry.

You felt his every contraction, every pulse. When you felt the wave crashing over you, you cried out his name, and that became the signal for him. He quickened his pace, his thrusts becoming sharp, deep, reaching the very limit. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, and you felt him grow taut all over, like a string ready to snap.

When the wave finally crashed over you, you cried out his name. He accelerated, his thrusts becoming sharp and deep, reaching the very limit. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his whole body tensing like a wire about to snap.

“Good... God...” he rasped, losing the last of his composure. “Please... don't let me go...”

The climax reached you both almost simultaneously, intertwining your moans. Nothing remained but the silence, broken only by your heavy, raspy breaths and the soft glow of the fairy lights upon the ceiling.

Aidan didn't pull away for a long time, pinning you with his weight, hiding his face in your hair. Eventually, he propped himself up, breathing hard, and gave a sheepish smile as he brushed a lock of hair from your damp forehead.

“Forgive me,” he said softly. “I seem to have forgotten my gentlemanly manners again. But God, you do something absolutely maddening to me.”

“You were never a gentleman to begin with...”

“You know,” he said, his signature rasp sounding so low it sent fresh shivers down your spine, “I always suspected that behind that 'prickly stubbornness' lay something illegal. But to be so... That was a very convincing performance. Best of the season, I’d say.”

You propped yourself on an elbow, unceremoniously tugging the duvet over yourself and leaving his chest exposed to the chilly room.

“Don’t flatter yourself. That was just humanitarian aid for a freezing Irish actor. I couldn't have you dying of exhaustion right on my kitchen table.”

“Oh,” he arched an eyebrow theatrically, trying to reclaim a corner of the blanket, “so it’s 'humanitarian aid' now? And here I was, the naive fool, thinking those sounds you were making ten minutes ago were the highest form of critical acclaim for my talent.”

“Those were sounds of indignation,” you parried, holding the edge of the blanket with your teeth and laughing. “Indignation at your ego.”

Aidan suddenly rolled over, looming above you and easily snatching the "shelter" back. He pulled the duvet over both your heads, creating a cramped, warm, and incredibly intimate tent that smelled of the two of you and the holiday.

“Indignation, you say?” His hand slid slowly up your thigh, that dangerous glint returning to his eyes—though now it held much more possession than flirtation. “It felt more like you were trying to leave an autograph when you dug your nails into my shoulders. A very... deep autograph.”

“I was just checking if you were real,” you whispered, feeling his knee brazenly nudge your legs apart beneath the wool.

“And?” He pressed in close, his breath hot against your ear. “Am I tangible enough for your... research needs? Or should I conduct another presentation? A more detailed one?”

“Well,” you pretended to think deeply, though everything inside was melting, “the first half of the presentation was decent. But the finale felt a bit... rushed. Too many special effects with the fireworks.”

Aidan let out a low, guttural laugh and nipped your earlobe.

“Rushed?” he repeated, his hand moving lower, making you arch toward him. “Fine, I admit, in terms of pacing, I was a bit... inspired. And now that the fireworks are over, we have an eternity until morning. And no critic gets to grade us but you.”

“Ten out of ten, Aidan,” you breathed, pulling him down. “But I’m still waiting for you to admit my cookies are the best thing you’ve ever tasted.”

“To hell with the cookies,” he murmured, covering your lips with his. “I’m sampling a much more interesting dessert now. And be warned: I often ask for seconds.”

“You know, Aidan,” you reached for his cheek, feeling a blissful weakness in every limb, “if that was your 'insecurity,' then I demand you never become confident.”

He laughed quietly, kissing the tip of your nose.

“Deal. I’ll be your perpetual debutant. But on one condition: those cookies better be there in the morning. I need to keep my strength up for... round two.”

Aidan rolled onto his back, one arm behind his head, the other lazily stroking your hair. You lay entwined, and you knew that this New Year in Dublin was the best thing that could have happened to you both.

Aidan walked beside you, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his perpetual dark overcoat. His upturned collar made him look like a conspirator—or perhaps a man who knew a particularly scandalous secret about the city.

“Look at it,” he said, nodding toward Temple Bar, which glowed with lights like an overheated Christmas tree. “The whole city has turned into one giant sugar bowl. Even the Guinness seems to be served with a hint of caramel today. Can you feel it?”

“I feel that my feet are about to turn into two blocks of ice,” you replied, huddling into your scarf. “This vaunted Dublin air of yours could be sliced with a knife and served as dessert. A cold one.”

Aidan stopped and gave you that signature look of his—slightly squinted, as if weighing the possible outcomes of the conversation. The reflections of the fairy lights danced in his eyes, rendering them entirely unreadable.

“You are impossible,” he stated with that soft rasp that made fans the world over weak at the knees, though you only snorted. “I’ve brought you for a stroll through the most poetic city on earth on the most mystical night of the year, and you’re talking about your extremities. Where is your flight of soul?”

“My soul is flying exclusively in the direction of a hot grog, Aidan. Preferably held by an Irishman who talks less and cares more about my frostbite.”

“Oh,” he took a step closer, invading your personal space with that effortless ease only he possessed. “So, we require an Irishman with grog? And here I was, naive enough to think my acting talents would suffice to warm your cynical heart.”

He reached out and tapped the tip of your nose with his fingers.

“Red. Just like Rudolph’s. You know, there’s a certain charm to it. It casts doubt on your supposed untouchability.”

You pulled away, feeling something treacherously flutter inside, but your voice remained steady:

“It’s not charm, it’s physiology. And don't you hope I’ll melt from a single touch. I’m not one of your on-screen victims.”

“Alas,” he sighed, and there was so much mock-sorrow in that breath that you couldn’t help but smile. “But the night is young. In Dublin they say: if you meet someone with a temper as foul as yours on the Ha'penny Bridge on Christmas Eve, expect great trouble.”

You had just stepped onto the white arched bridge. The Liffey below looked black and oily.

“And what kind of trouble awaits us?” you asked, stopping at the railing.

Aidan leaned beside you, his shoulder nearly brushing yours. He suddenly grew serious, and this abrupt change was more dangerous than any of his jokes.

“Great trouble,” he repeated quietly, staring at the dark water. “We might just stand here for the rest of our lives, trading barbs, until one of us works up the nerve to admit that your scarf is atrocious, and I... I simply don't want to go home alone.”

He turned his head, and a flash of that vulnerability he so rarely showed the public slipped into his smile.

“But as I am a gentleman, I shall offer you my arm. Purely for safety reasons on these slippery roads, of course.”

He offered his elbow, arching an eyebrow in a silent question. You hesitated for a second, looking at his slender, almost aristocratic hand, and accepted the invitation.

“Purely for safety reasons, Gillen. And only as far as the nearest pub.”

“Naturally,” he echoed, and you walked on along the Liffey.

Two silhouettes against the backdrop of a sleeping, shimmering city, where beneath a thin layer of festive dust, something far stronger than Christmas ale was already beginning to simmer.

You left Temple Bar behind, where the air was thick with the scent of roasted malt, and turned into the narrow side streets leading toward Grafton Street. The snow, which until then had only delicately powdered the pavement, suddenly decided it was time for decisive action. It began to fall heavily, turning Dublin into a snow globe that someone had given a vigorous shake.

Your elegant ankle boots, purchased solely for the sake of an aesthetic triumph over common sense, instantly transformed into two miniature skis.

“Careful!” Aidan caught you by the elbow just as your right foot performed an unauthorized pirouette toward the Liffey. “Darling, I promised you drama, but not in the form of you plunging into icy water. That would be a far too short an episode.”

“It’s not me, it’s physics!” you hissed, clutching the sleeve of his expensive coat so hard you likely left permanent marks. “Who decided that polished granite was the best surface for a city where it rains eight months a year, and the other four are filled with... this outrage?”

Aidan stopped, watching you struggle to regain your balance while teetering on one leg. Snowflakes got tangled in his hair, and he looked devilishly pleased with your predicament.

“You know, there’s a certain charm to it,” he remarked, making not the slightest effort to help you straighten up. “You remind me of a frightened fawn on ice. A very angry fawn who, judging by that look, is currently plotting my murder.”

“If I go down, Gillen, I’m taking you with me. And believe me, the press will love the headline: ‘Famous Irishman found in a snowdrift beneath the carcass of an infuriated fan.’”

“‘Carcass’ is a bit self-deprecating,” he chuckled, his hand sliding to your waist to steady you against another skid. “But I appreciate your enthusiasm.”

You managed another ten meters or so. You clung to him with every step, your fingers habitually finding purchase on his shoulders while your heels constantly collided. To an onlooker, it must have looked like a very strange, stumbling tango.

“Aidan, I’m serious,” you gasped when your legs splayed in opposite directions again, leaving you practically hanging off his neck. “I won’t make it. My shoes have officially filed for impeachment.”

He went still. The snow fell upon you both, dusting his shoulders in silver, and in that silence, his eyes suddenly sparked with that boyish mischief he usually hid behind the mask of a weary cynic.

“Well, since your footwear is so opposed to our union...”

He suddenly bent down.

Before you could even let out a gasp, the ground vanished from beneath your feet. A second later, you were in his arms, your face level with his cheek, which smelled of frost and something subtly spicy.

“Aidan! Put me down! You’re an actor—you’ll throw out your back because of me! What will people say?”

“People will say I’ve finally found a way to keep you quiet for at least a minute,” he shifted you into a more comfortable hold, effortlessly, as if you weighed no more than a Christmas goose. “Besides, this is excellent rehearsal. What if I’m offered a role as a rescuer of fine ladies stranded by their own vanity?”

“Ha-ha, very funny,” you said, involuntarily wrapping your arms around his neck; being held by the sheer strength of his arms was romantic, yes, but also terrifying. “You realize you’re obligated to carry me all the way to a taxi now? Or at least to the crossroads?”

He strode forward, his heavy boots crunching confidently through the snow. His breath bloomed in a cloud of steam right before your face.

“To a taxi?” He looked up at you, his smile becoming utterly unbearable. “No, I think we’ll walk like this all the way to Grafton Street. Let everyone see that Irish hospitality isn’t just about a pint of plain, but also the free delivery of headstrong women to a place of safety.”

You tucked your nose into his cold collar, hiding a smile. The snow fell harder, blanketing Dublin, and somewhere deep down, you were damn grateful for your slippery shoes—because this Christmas Eve was ending exactly as it should: two inches away from his heart.

The main road at the crossroads greeted you with asphalt cleared to a deep black and the hum of departing taxis. Aidan, with the air of a victor, set you down gently on solid ground, but he didn't remove his hands from your waist. Perhaps he was checking if you’d break into another dance on your "skis," or perhaps he simply didn't want to break this sudden cocoon of warmth.

“There now,” he brushed his palms together theatrically, “the mission to rescue the civilian population is complete. You may begin drafting a letter of gratitude to my union.”

“I’d rather write a complaint for abuse of power,” you retorted, adjusting your ruffled scarf, even though your heart was hammering in your throat. “You carried me like a sack of coal.”

“A very charming sack,” he parried, squinting at the shop windows. “With eyes full of righteous fury and panic.”

You reached your apartment in the kind of cozy silence that only happens after people have traded enough insolence to no longer fear the quiet. At the door, under a canopy entwined with frozen ivy, you stopped. The snow here hadn't melted; it lay like a fluffy pillow.

“Would you come in?” you asked, your voice suddenly thin and brittle. “I have that 'sour' tea, and I’ll make a hot grog to civilize the great hero. I was just waiting for a real Irishman to sample my new recipe.”

Aidan leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. In the half-light, his face looked as if carved from stone, save for his lively, mischievous eyes which betrayed a man playing his most important scene.

He paused for a second, watching the snowflakes dance in the lamplight, and then gave a barely perceptible smirk.

“That is a compelling argument,” he said softly, before continuing as if re-evaluating your words: “‘Real’? I wonder... could anyone possibly fit the bill better than I?”

You smirked, pulling the cold keys from your pocket.

The apartment was warm and smelled of pine from the small tree in the corner. Aidan shed his heavy coat, shaking a handful of melting snow onto the mat, and looked around with the expression theater critics wear when inspecting a new stage.

“It’s become suspiciously cozy in here,” he noted, hanging his coat on a hook. “After the chaos of the last time, I expected to see world-domination blueprints on the walls, or at least a collection of poisons for over-talkative actors.”

“Poisons are in the kitchen, next to the tea,” you called out, limping toward the stove. “Take your shoes off and come through. You can even sit in my chair; it doesn't bite.”

As you busied yourself with the kettle, Aidan leaned against the kitchen doorframe. Without his coat, in a dark jumper with carelessly rolled-up sleeves, he seemed both simpler and more dangerous.

“You know,” he said, watching your movements, “watching you try to be hospitable is its own art form. So much grace, yet an equal desire to throw me out the second the kettle whistles.”

“It’s called 'internal conflict,' Aidan. The basis of drama,” you sighed, flicking the kettle on as if conjuring spirits. “On one hand, I want you to get warm. On the other, I’m afraid you’ll start giving me design advice for my kitchen again.”

“The kitchen has become magnificent,” he stepped inside, closing the distance, and unceremoniously peered into the sugar bowl. “Though a bit short on sugar. And this tea of yours...” he continued, moving aside your cold, half-finished morning mug. “It smells as if it was harvested by virgins on moonlit mountain slopes while they sang mournful songs of unrequited love.”

“Close enough. It’s mint and thyme. A cure for sarcasm, by the way. But don't worry, I won't make you drink it this time.”

As you returned to crafting the grog, a minute of silence hung in the small kitchen. Then you handed him a steaming mug; your fingers brushed for a moment, and you nearly scalded yourself.

“Drink. And sit down already. You’re looming over my domestic life like a monument to restless talent.”

He sat on the narrow kitchen settee, which creaked plaintively under his weight, and took a sip, crinkling his nose amusingly.

“You know,” he said quietly, looking at the steam rising from the mug, “after you spent half an hour hanging off my neck like a wounded bird, this grog tastes almost divine. Or perhaps I’m just getting used to your methods of torture.”

“It’s called Stockholm Syndrome, Gillen,” you sat opposite him, feeling the blessed warmth finally spreading through your legs. “Tomorrow you’ll wake up and realize this drink was the best thing you’ve ever tasted, and I am the most tolerable person in Dublin.”

He looked up, and in the depths of his eyes, behind the usual teasing, you saw something new: a strange, almost domestic tenderness that was far more eloquent than any stage monologue.

“It’s Christmas in half an hour,” he reminded you, cupping the mug with his palms. “And at Christmas, one is supposed to believe in miracles. Even ones as dubious as your cooking skills.”

You halted your mug at your lips, smirking before taking a sip.

Aidan set his cup on the edge of the table and began rubbing his long, slender fingers. In the glow of the kitchen light, his hands seemed almost translucent, like those of a pianist or a card sharp.

“My extremities,” he announced with tragic breathiness, “have officially seceded from the Irish state. I can't feel them. I suspect they stayed behind on the bridge, frozen to the railing in protest against your night walks.”

“Oh, don't be so dramatic,” you snorted, though your own face was burning from the sudden shift in temperature. “Your hands have surely survived enough takes in freezing soundstages that a few Dublin snowflakes are just a refreshing shower.”

Aidan suddenly leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and squinted, unceremoniously studying your face.

“Have you looked at yourself?” he asked, his voice slipping into that soft, insinuating tone that always made you pull yourself together internally. “Your cheeks are the color of someone who just unloaded a crate of tangerines single-handedly. And your nose... God, that nose.”

“What’s wrong with my nose?” You instinctively reached for your face, feeling how hot it was.

“It’s red,” he stated with genuine delight. “Perfectly, piercingly red. You look like the heroine of some very old, very sweet postcard found in an attic. You know the ones—where children are sledding and look suspiciously happy. It’s bloody charming.”

“'Charming' is not a word usually applied to a woman of my temperament, Gillen,” you tried to regain your composure, but your flushed cheeks betrayed you completely. “It looks ridiculous. I look like a gnome with a head cold.”

“No,” he shook his head, his gaze becoming heavy, almost tangible. “Gnomes don't know how to make their eyes flash with such anger. You seem real right now. Far more real than all those ladies in evening gowns I have to pose with on red carpets. Snow suits you. It washes away everything unnecessary.”

He reached across the table—slowly, giving you time to pull away. But you didn't move. His fingers, already warmed by the mug, brushed your cheek, exploring that "tangerine" blush.

“Hot,” he whispered. “You’re practically radiating heat. If I were you, I’d charge admission to this kitchen. ‘Warming up by an ironic girl—five pounds a session.’”

“Ten,” you corrected, your breath becoming short and uneven. “Given the cost of the custom-made grog—ten.”

Aidan didn't pull his hand away. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone with feather-light pressure, and the world narrowed down to the size of this small kitchen, the ticking of the wall clock, and the rustle of snow still beating against the glass as if asking to come in and get warm.

“Are you still angry at my jokes?” he asked softly, looking you straight in the eye.

“I’m always angry at them,” you answered honestly. “But it’s the only thing stopping me from admitting how glad I am that you came in after all.”

Frozen under his gaze for a few more seconds, you gave a nervous shrug, feeling sparks fly from his touch that were definitely not in line with fire safety regulations. The embarrassment in the kitchen was off the charts: one more second and you’d either sink through the floor to the neighbors below or blurt out something stupid.

On the table, right under your hand, sat a saucer with your forgotten baking. Aidan opened his mouth to deliver another dose of his velvet, insufferably precise eloquence—something about "the shimmering of eyes" or "the magic of the moment"—but you beat him to it.

“Here, eat!” you blurted out, grabbing the first cookie you could find and practically stuffing it into his mouth. “Too many words for one evening, Aidan. Your vocal cords need a carbohydrate break.”

He was stunned. His eyebrows shot toward his hairline, and his eyes rounded. For a few seconds, an absolute silence reigned in the kitchen once more, broken only by his focused chewing and a dull crunch. You froze, realizing too late that it was the very cookie you’d labored over that morning, battling the oven and your own clumsiness.

Aidan swallowed the bite, closed his eyes, and slowly, deliberately, waited for a theatrical beat.

“Hmm,” he said, licking his lips. “Is that ginger and... cinnamon? Or did you add a bit of that poison you warned me about?”

“It’s gingerbread,” you muttered, hiding your hands behind your back. “My personal contribution to the festive mayhem. And don’t you dare criticize it; I sacrificed three hours of my life and one oven mitt for these.”

Aidan reached for the tin and, with a proprietary air, fished out another star.

“Criticize?” He examined the cookie as if it were an original hanging in the National Gallery. “Darling, I’m enthralled. It’s exactly like you: firm on the outside, a bit prickly in places, but inside—surprisingly warm and full of character.”

He bit off an edge, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You know,” he added with his mouth full, which somehow failed to diminish his innate aristocracy, “if you’d fed me these on the street, I might have carried you all the way to the end of the road, not just to the intersection.”

“Wishful thinking,” you finally managed a smile, watching him lick a stray crumb from the corner of his mouth. “But be warned, supplies are limited. Much like my patience for your compliments.”

“Oh, my compliments to the chef,” he bowed mockingly from the settee. “But it occurs to me you didn't silence me for the sake of my gastronomic education. You were simply terrified I’d say something for which you had no witty retort, weren't you?”

You reached for your mug in silence, knowing he was damn right. Outside, the snow continued to fall, turning the world into a white hush, while your kitchen filled with the scent of lemon, rum, and that inevitable something that no amount of gingerbread could hide.

Christoph Waltz and holiday bustle were two non-parallel lines that intersected only at the moments of his particularly acerbic remarks. To him, Christmas and New Year were nothing more than a mass psychosis draped in cheap tinsel.

“Go on, darling,” he told you that evening, adjusting your scarf with a fastidiousness that masked a profound tenderness. “Go and enjoy this collective leap into the abyss of confetti. I shall remain here, in the company of silence and a bottle of decent Bordeaux which, unlike your friends, won't attempt to sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ off-key.”

You kissed his clean-shaven cheek, catching the faint, lingering scent of expensive tobacco and old books.

“You’re an old curmudgeon, Christoph. But I’ll be back before you have time to curse every angel on this street.”

The party at your friends' was loud, garish, and utterly pointless. At some point, amidst the clinking of glasses and the rising roar of chatter, you caught yourself glancing at your watch. It was 11:15 PM. Outside, Vienna was suffocating in anticipation of midnight, and you suddenly felt a sharp, physical ache of longing for his ironic squint and the stillness of your apartment on Kärntner Straße.

You slipped out of the noisy hall, hailed a taxi, and ten minutes later, you were sliding the key into the lock.

The apartment was dark, save for the faint, amber glow of the fireplace spilling from the living room. Christoph sat in his favorite armchair, flanked by towers of books, a glass in hand. Clad in a cashmere cardigan, he looked like a man who had successfully won the battle for his own serenity.

“You’re early,” he remarked without turning around, though you could hear the smile in his voice. “Was the punch not sweet enough, or were Konrad’s jokes not long enough?”

You approached from behind and draped your arms over his shoulders, burying your nose in the crook of his neck.

“Konrad’s jokes could be used to torture people at the Hague, Christoph. And the punch... well, no punch could replace your grumbling.”

He set his book aside, took your hand, and brought it to his warm lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your fingers.

“You’ll miss the fireworks. The city council promised something particularly vulgar and deafening this year.”

“I want to miss it here,” you whispered, stepping around the chair to settle unceremoniously onto his lap, nudging his glass aside. “With you. In the quiet.”

Christoph sighed, but in his eyes—veiled with a haze of weariness and affection—flickered that specific light he reserved only for you.

“So, you’ve traded the triumph of social interaction for the company of an old cynic who didn't even bother to don a ridiculous party hat?”

“Precisely.”

Somewhere far off, beyond the thick walls of the old Viennese house, the first dull thuds echoed—the city was exploding in ecstasy. Christoph gently tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Midnight,” he said softly, ignoring the cacophony outside. “And since you are here, I suppose I shall concede: this New Year of yours does have one undeniable merit.”

“And what would that be?”

“It gives me a valid excuse not to let you out of this chair for at least a few more hours,” he smiled his famous, slightly mischievous smile.

Then, he softly covered your lips with his, brushing the corners first before sliding to the center, coaxing you to open for him while Vienna drowned in lights that meant absolutely nothing to either of you.

The flashes of fireworks outside painted the room in surreal hues: one moment Waltz’s face turned a deathly blue, like a character from an Expressionist film, the next it was bathed in a warm crimson. He leaned back, letting you settle comfortably on his lap, his hand lazily stroking your back.

“Listen to that canonical chaos,” he whispered, nodding toward the window where the Viennese sky was tearing itself apart. “Thousands of people truly believe that with the twelfth stroke of the clock, their mortgages will vanish and their characters will improve. A staggering example of mass self-suggestion.”

You laughed, fiddling with the buttons of his cardigan.

“Dear, relax. The show will be over soon, and the world will remain exactly the same. But look how beautifully the light hits your books. Besides...” you paused, eyes narrowing playfully. “Since you loathe all this manipulative fuss so much, I decided to meet you halfway. I have absolutely nothing for you. No gift boxes, no tacky ties, no cologne smelling of ‘fresh Alpine morning.’ I didn't prepare a gift.”

Christoph went still. His hand on your waist stopped, and his eyebrows arched slowly, creating that familiar web of ironic wrinkles on his forehead. He remained silent for a few beats, then let out a short, dry chuckle of pure triumph.

“Oh, mein Schatz... You’re lying. And doing so most unprofessionally. You really ought to learn a few techniques of persuasion from me.”

“Me? Lying?” you feigned indignation. “I’m simply respecting your sacred anti-holiday peace!”

“Quite,” he leaned in closer, his eyes glinting almost predatorily in the red afterglow of a firework. “You’re lying to yourself. Because you know perfectly well: the best gift for an old misanthrope like me is the realization that he proved more important than a boisterous crowd of young idlers. The fact that you returned forty minutes before midnight, smelling of the Viennese frost and that impossible stubbornness of yours—that is the gift. The most selfish and exquisite one imaginable.”

He caught your hands, pressing them to his chest where his heart beat steady and sure.

“You returned my silence to me, filled with yourself. And now...” he suddenly stood, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing at all.

The glass of unfinished Bordeaux remained on the table, forgotten.

“Since you were generous enough to give me your midnight, I feel a pressing need to repay the favor. Privately. Without unnecessary witnesses or foolish fireworks.”

“Christoph, you hate obligations,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Only those written into contracts,” he parried, heading toward the bedroom where the fairy lights no longer reached, leaving only a thick, velvet gloom. “My personal obligations to you tonight include much more interesting clauses than the exchange of material goods.”

In the bedroom, he lowered you onto the cool sheets but remained standing over the bed, slowly unbuttoning his cardigan to allow himself more freedom of movement. His motions were precise, sparse, full of that latent power he usually hid behind impeccable manners.

“No Christmas,” he whispered, descending over you, covering your body with his—hot and demanding. “Only us. And I’m afraid you won’t have time to make a New Year’s wish.”

His kisses were dry and hungry, his hands exploring you with the meticulousness of a collector studying a rare artifact. This night in Vienna promised to be far hotter than all the bonfires on City Hall Square combined, and you knew that no gift in the world could compare to the way Christoph Waltz knew how to make time stand still—just for the two of you.

Christoph hovered over you, bracing his palms against the pillows on either side of your head. In the darkness of the bedroom, his eyes looked like two deep wells in which all your vaunted self-control was drowning. He was in no hurry; he savored this transition from social polish to that primal, almost frightening intimacy he allowed only behind closed doors.

“Do you know what is most unbearable about you?” he whispered, his lips grazing your earlobe, sending a shiver through you. “Your confidence that you can outplay me. Did you come here, to this nest of silence, hoping for meek gratitude?”

His hand, with agonizing slowness, slid under the hem of your silk dress, moving up your thigh. Christoph’s fingers were dry and hot, and every movement felt like a brand of searing heat.

“I came because you’d turn into a complete crust without me, Waltz,” you breathed out, running your fingers through his perfectly styled hair and ruthlessly disheveling it. “Someone has to remind you that life isn’t just reading Kant and criticizing bad wine.”

He let out a low, guttural chuckle, and you felt his body tense, pressing against yours through the layers of your clothes.

“Life, mein Liebling,” he murmured, “is what is happening right now, as I feel your pulse fluttering against my fingers. It is the most honest piece of drama I have ever encountered.”

With one fluid motion, he slipped beneath your dress, exposing the lace of your lingerie, which looked like a delicate cobweb in the light of distant streetlamps. Christoph paused for a second, his gaze sweeping over your body with almost clinical attention that bled into naked hunger.

“Breathtaking,” he exhaled, his voice finally stripped of all irony. “You look like the finest justification for every sin committed by humanity since the dawn of time.”

He leaned down, and his kisses changed: deeper, more commanding, stripping away your will. His palm cupped your breast, squeezing just enough to make you gasp, losing the last of your breath. Christoph moved with frightening efficiency; he knew every breath you took, every point that made you arch toward his touch.

“Do you still wish to discuss the lack of gifts?” he murmured, his kisses trailing down to your stomach, making you claw at the sheets. “Or are you ready to admit that this night is the only authentic event in all this Viennese tinsel?”

“Be quiet, Christoph... just be quiet,” you moaned as his lips brushed the inside of your thigh.

“As you wish,” he looked up at you, a cold, calculating fire of passion burning in his eyes. “Silence is what I value most. But I promise you: in a few minutes, you will be the one to break it. And it will be the most beautiful sound I have heard in this brand-new year.”

He moved up, his skin burning against yours. The world outside, with its fireworks and chimes, ceased to exist. There was only this rhythm, only Christoph’s heavy breathing against your neck and his hands pinning your wrists—tethering you to a reality where there was no room for irony or holidays. Only the two of you, lost in the beginning of a new year.