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You were expecting peace, maybe a mug of hot cocoa. At worst, another one of Johnny’s chaotic texts.
You were not expecting this.
Your living room lights were warm, the Christmas tree glowing softly, and the faint sound of holiday music played from the kitchen. Everything looked normal.
Except for the man on your couch.
Kung Lao was curled up like a cat who pays rent, blanket around his waist, slippers on, hair tied back messily like he survived a wind tunnel.
And in his arms—clutched to his chest like a newborn—was your stuffed Christmas plushie.
A round, dorky, fluffy little reindeer.
Big eyes. Red nose. Tiny scarf.
He wasn’t just holding it.
He was in love.
His cheek was squished flat against its plush face.
He mumbled something into its head.
You swear you heard, “You understand me.”
You stood silently in the doorway, processing the situation like a Windows XP loading screen.
Then he wiggled.
The man wiggled in his sleep like he was snuggling deeper.
You slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the snort.
Enough was enough.
“Ahem.”
Kung Lao’s entire spine straightened like he’d been yanked by a fishing hook.
His eyes popped open, frozen like a deer in headlights. Then, with the speed of a man who has been caught doing something absolutely not manly, he yeeted the plush off the couch with a panicked face.
You stared at him.
He stared back.
“…Hey.” he croaked, voice cracking like a teenager.
You crossed your arms. “Enjoying your… decorative integrity tester?”
He blinked once.
Twice.
Then placed his hand over his heart.
“That is… strictly a display item.”
“Mhm.”
“A prop.”
“Mhm.”
“A solemn, artistic centerpiece of—”
“You cuddled it like it was your emotional support potato.”
He sputtered. “It— I— Listen, appearances can be deceiving—”
“So you weren’t cuddling it?”
“I was stress-testing the stitching.”
“By spooning it?”
He glared at you, betrayed. “It was… LISTEN… it FELT… LONELY.”
You lost it.
You legitimately bent over cackling.
Kung Lao threw his head back with a tortured groan, collapsing dramatically into the couch dying of embarrassment.
“You are insufferable,” he muttered, covering his face with an arm.
You picked up the plushie, dusted it off, and plopped it back in his lap.
He jerked like it was radioactive.
“Stop giving it back to me!”
“You love him.”
“NO, I DON’T.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I— I—” He crumpled, unable to speak. “He has… soft fur…”
“Ah. So you do love him.”
He pointed aggressively at your face. “If you tell anyone, I will— I will drop-kick a wreath.”
You raised a brow. “Very festive of you.”
He groaned again, flopping onto his back, hand over his forehead like a tragic rom-com hero.
You climbed onto the couch beside him, nudging the plush aside and curling gently against his chest.
His arm snapped around you instantly.
You smiled. “You know… if you want something cozy to hold, you don’t have to steal a stuffed reindeer.”
He stiffened.
“I wasn’t stealing!”
“You kidnapped him.”
“It was TEMPORARY BORROWING.”
You kissed his jaw.
He melted instantly.
“Next time,” you murmured, “just ask for cuddles.”
He huffed. “…Didn’t want to bother you.”
Your heart squeezed.
“You could never bother me, Lao.”
He went quiet then buried his face in your hair.
“…Still don’t tell anyone,” he whispered.
You smiled against him, warm, safe, cherished.
“Not a soul,” you whispered back. “Though he is pretty soft.”
Kung Lao groaned into your shoulder like he regretted everything.
And you?
You cuddled him closer.
The plushie slipped from his lap and rolled off the couch again.
No one cared.