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The snow had started falling early that morning—fine and glittery, like powdered sugar. By evening, the whole neighborhood was blanketed in a quiet stillness that only ever came with winter, with Christmas.
Inside their little apartment, things were soft and glowing. The tree Mars had insisted on picking out the moment December hit stood proudly in the corner, decked with warm lights, unevenly placed ornaments, and a crooked star on top. Rory had tried to fix it three times before giving up. Now, it leaned just a little, like it, too, was relaxed and at peace.
Rory sat curled on the couch, a thick knit sweater wrapped around him, blanket tucked up to his chin. He was flipping lazily through an old book of poetry, half-reading, half-watching the snow fall outside the window.
Mars was in the kitchen, humming along to the old jazz Christmas record they played every year, carefully placing cookies onto a tray with exaggerated precision.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Rory called out, not looking up.
“What thing?”
“The dramatic cookie placement. Like they’re on display at a museum.”
“They’re not just cookies,” Mars replied, appearing in the doorway holding the tray like it was a treasure. “They’re gingerbread masterpieces.”
Rory raised an eyebrow. “One of them looks like it melted in the oven.”
“That one’s abstract.”
They both laughed.
Mars padded over and set the tray down on the coffee table before flopping onto the couch beside Rory, tucking himself under the blanket without invitation, cold toes immediately seeking out Rory’s leg.
“Your feet are frozen,” Rory groaned, squirming.
Mars grinned. “Mistle-toes.”
Rory shoved him half-heartedly, then leaned his head against Mars’s shoulder. “That’s your worst pun yet.”
“You say that every year.”
“And you keep topping yourself.”
They sat like that for a while, watching the snow drift lazily outside. A few houses on the street were lit up with twinkling lights. Someone across the road had put a reindeer inflatable in their yard that now sagged slightly to the left, like it was also full from Christmas dinner.
“Remember last Christmas?” Mars asked suddenly.
Rory smiled. “The power went out?”
“Yeah. We made grilled cheese on the fireplace and opened presents by candlelight.”
“You gave me that terrible mug,” Rory said, nudging him.
“Hey, that mug was heartfelt.”
“It said ‘Hot Stuff’ in Comic Sans.”
Mars grinned proudly. “You still drink out of it.”
Rory leaned into him more. “I liked that Christmas.”
Mars went quiet for a beat. Then, softly: “Me too. It was the first one where I felt like I really had someone. Not just someone to exchange gifts with, but someone to share the quiet parts with. The cold nights. The weird snacks. The space between.”
Rory looked over, heart tugging. “You have me. All of it. Always.”
Mars reached down, pulled a small velvet box from his hoodie pocket, and placed it in Rory’s lap.
Rory blinked. “Mars…”
“Don’t freak out,” Mars said quickly, nervous all of a sudden. “I know we’re not doing the big family thing or some formal dinner or a public proposal with a flash mob or whatever. But this—” He motioned to the room, the cookies, the mismatched socks, the quiet snowfall outside. “—this feels like our thing. This is home. And I want to spend every Christmas from here on out doing exactly this. With you.”
Rory’s hands shook slightly as he opened the box. Inside was a simple ring—silver, understated, with a faint engraving inside: My favorite season is you.
Tears prickled in his eyes.
“You absolute sap,” he whispered.
Mars gave him a sheepish smile. “That’s a yes?”
Rory tackled him into the couch cushions, both of them laughing, and kissed him with all the warmth he’d been carrying since the first winter walk, the first movie night, the first popcorn bowl passed between them like a peace offering.
He pulled back just long enough to say, “Yes. Of course yes.”
They lay there tangled together, hearts beating steady beneath twinkling tree lights and the soft crackle of the record player.
Later, Mars put on a ridiculous Santa hat and passed Rory a lumpy, poorly wrapped gift. Inside was a snow globe with a tiny cabin, two figures sitting outside it on a bench, scarves blowing in the wind. It looked suspiciously like them.
“I had it custom made,” Mars said sheepishly. “I know it’s cheesy but—”
Rory was already hugging him again, tight and unfiltered.
“Perfect,” he said. “It’s perfect.”
They stayed up late into the night, sipping hot cocoa, watching old movies, sneaking kisses under the mistletoe Mars had taped to every doorway. Snow fell quietly outside. Time softened. The world, for one night, was still.
The next morning, Rory woke to the smell of cinnamon and coffee. Mars was already in the kitchen, fussing over cinnamon rolls and pretending to know what he was doing.
“Didn’t you say we were just going to have cereal?” Rory asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Mars turned, face smudged with flour. “Plans changed. It’s our first Christmas engaged. Feels like a cinnamon roll kind of morning.”
Rory walked over, slipped his arms around Mars’s waist from behind. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
Rory pressed his face into his shoulder. “Yeah. I do.”
The day passed in the coziest blur. Texts from family. A video call with Mars’s sister, who immediately burst into happy tears at the ring. Leftover cookies. A snowball fight that ended in both of them landing face-first in a snowbank, laughing breathless.
And that night, curled up in bed with Pickle snoring at their feet, Mars turned to Rory, brushing a snowflake from his hair even though they’d been inside for an hour.
“Merry Christmas,” he whispered.
Rory smiled, eyes fluttering closed. “Merry everything.”