If soone had told a few years ago that I’d wake up on Christmas morning with Celestia Valentina Moreau — the most chaotic, brilliant, bratty, unpredictable, impossibly complex and infuriatingly perfect woman on the planet — stealing all the blankets and mumbling in her sleep like she owned the place, I probably would’ve laughed, and then imdiately asked what miracle or parallel universe that was happening in.
But here we were.
I watched her breathe, slow and peaceful, one hand tucked under her cheek, completely unguarded. No plans, no projects, no grand sches that required spreadsheets and color codes.
Just Val.
It almost made forget the chaos of last night’s party — the polished smiles, the champagne chatter, and the reminder that her world and mine would never quite fit cleanly together.
She stirred then, mumbling sothing in her sleep and pulling the blanket even tighter around herself. I tried to reclaim a corner of it, but she made this tiny sound of protest that sounded way too much like "mine," so I sighed and let her win.
"rry Christmas to ," I muttered under my breath.
Her eyes fluttered open. "You talking to yourself again?"
I froze. "You were awake."
She smiled, soft, lazy, devastating. "Have been for a while. You make the best background noise."
"Wow. rry Christmas to you too."
She giggled and pushed herself up, hair ssy, eyes half-lidded with sleep. "rry Christmas, husband."
Hearing her say that never got old.
She leaned in and kissed , slow and unhurried, like the world outside didn’t exist.
When she pulled back, she whispered, "Okay. Presents first, or breakfast?"
"Breakfast," I said automatically. "You’re dangerous with wrapping paper before caffeine."
She gasped in mock offense. "Excuse , I am a professional gift-wrapper. You’re just jealous because I can tie bows better than you."
"I’m jealous because you take four hours to wrap one box."
> "It’s called attention to detail."
I laughed and swung my legs out of bed. "You an perfectionism with glitter."
She squinted at . "You say that like it’s a bad thing."
I chuckled, shaking my head. "With you, it never is."
She grinned, stretching lazily before sitting up and brushing her hair back with her fingers. "Good. Then you stay here, mister sleepyhead," she said, patting my chest before slipping off the bed. "I’ll go make us breakfast. Sothing worthy of a Christmas morning."
I raised a brow. "Breakfast? Or one of your five-star experints again?"
She shot a playful glare. "You’ll find out when it’s served."
"Should I be worried?"
> "Only if you don’t like perfection."
I laughed softly as she disappeared into the hallway, humming a carol under her breath, already in her own little world of plans, flavor ideas, and chaos that sohow always turned out perfect.
---
By the ti I dragged myself out of bed, it was almost noon. Not exactly the Christmas morning I’d imagined, but considering how late we’d gotten ho last night, I wasn’t surprised.
What did surprise , though, was the sll.
Warm, sweet, buttery, the kind of scent that could make you forget everything else. I followed it to the kitchen, half-expecting the usual pancake setup. Instead, I stopped dead at the sight in front of .
There were no pancakes. No cocoa.
There was an event.
The counter looked like sothing out of a cooking show — golden slices of brioche dusted with powdered sugar, a small tower of caralized apples glistening like they’d been kissed by sunlight, and two mugs of cocoa topped with whipped cream and crushed peppermint.
And standing in the middle of it all, flour on her cheek and a Christmas apron tied over her pajamas, was Val.
Our fifth Christmas together. You’d think I’d be used to her brand of festive chaos by now.
She spotted and grinned, holding a spatula like it was a mic.
"Behold, husband," she said dramatically. "Your Christmas brunch. A feast of love and culinary brilliance."
I blinked. "You an breakfast?"
"It’s called brunch when you spend four hours perfecting the caral," she said proudly.
My eyes moved to a small plate she was trying very hard to shield with her body.
"What’s that?"
> "Nothing."
I leaned to the side and caught sight of a slightly burnt croissant.
She gasped and imdiately covered it again. "That one sacrificed itself for flavor," she declared. "A noble death."
I couldn’t stop laughing. "You’re impossible."
"Impossible but delicious," she countered, sliding a plate toward with a playful bow.
The food, of course, tasted incredible. Every bite felt like sothing straight out of a fancy café — sweet, warm, ridiculously good.
She watched take another bite, eyes gleaming. "So?"
"I think I just fell in love again," I said around a mouthful of French toast.
She smirked. "With or the food?"
"Both."
> "Good answer."
She reached across the counter, wiped a bit of powdered sugar from the corner of my mouth with her thumb, then leaned in and kissed the sa spot. "rry Christmas, husband."
"rry Christmas, wife."
For a mont, I just watched her — hair ssy, apron crooked, smile brighter than the lights hanging on the window. And maybe it was the sugar rush or the warmth in the air, but I swear I’d never seen anything more perfect.
"Okay," she said after a while, eyes bright. "Now presents."
I raised a brow. "You an the ones you hid under the tree last night while threatening to bite if I peeked?"
"Exactly those."
She turned with that mischievous little glint in her eyes, already plotting sothing. "But first," she said, clapping her hands lightly, "we need to wrap the gifts we got for everyone."
I groaned, dragging a palm down my face as we both walked to the living room. "You an the mountain of gifts sitting under the couch that you swore you’d wrap yesterday?"
"Correction," she said, already heading toward the pile, "we swore. As in, both of us. Don’t act innocent, you helped pick them out."
"I picked them," I corrected, "you overruled on half of them and replaced the other half with sothing shinier."
"Exactly." She knelt beside the heap of boxes, ribbons, and rolls of gold and red paper, her hair falling over her shoulder like silk. "Efficiency, Kai. You can’t put a price on style."
I chuckled, taking a seat beside her. "Oh, I’m sure Lucien will appreciate his ’stylish’ bottle of whiskey that cost more than my first laptop."
She grinned. "It’s not just whiskey. It’s aged whiskey. He’ll love it. Besides, it’s a peace offering for calling ’Princess Chaos’ at the party."
"Right, because nothing says peace like alcohol."
"Alcohol solves everything," she said with mock solemnity, passing a roll of tape. "Now, hold that while I get Marina’s gift."
I raised a brow as she pulled out a delicately wrapped box covered in pastel pink paper with gold snowflakes. "Let guess, perfu?"
She gasped dramatically. "How dare you? Marina gets custom French skincare and a matching silk sleep mask. Do you think I’d just toss her perfu like a commoner?"
"Because you are?" I teased.
She stuck her tongue out. "Careful, Mr. Tanaka, or your present might mysteriously vanish."
I shook my head, chuckling.
We went through the pile together — Trent’s gym gear and a new set of wireless earbuds ("because he keeps losing his like a toddler," she said), Derrick’s sleek black wallet and cufflinks ("he’ll probably pretend he doesn’t care but secretly he’ll use them every day"), and even one for Mr. Clarkson, my boss.
I blinked when I saw it. "You got my boss a gift?"
She nodded like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Of course. He puts up with you."
"He’s paid to put up with ."
"Exactly. So I got him a stress ball shaped like a brain and a mug that says ’Future CEO Whisperer’."
I couldn’t help laughing. "You’re unbelievable."
"Thank you," she said, beaming.
Then I saw it, an envelope sitting off to the side with my na written in her looping cursive. Except under it, in parentheses, it said: ’Do not open until I’m there to watch your face.’
I sighed. "I should be scared, shouldn’t I?"
She only humd and moved on to another envelope, one with the na Tasha written on it in a perfectly neat hand.
"Wait," I said slowly, "you got Tasha a card?"
She grinned, eyes full of dangerous amusent. "Oh, absolutely. I’m feeling generous."
I reached for it, but she tried to hide it behind her back. "No peeking."
"I just want to make sure you didn’t write anything that’ll get fired."
She hesitated, just long enough for to snatch it. "Kai!"
I flipped it open before she could protest. Inside, in looping elegant handwriting that almost made it worse, it read:
Dear Ms. Team Leader,
May this festive season bring you joy, success, and perhaps a good man of your own... if you start looking for one instead of looking at soone else’s.
Warm regards,
C.V.M. 🎄
I stared at her, completely speechless.
She tried so hard not to laugh, biting the inside of her cheek, but her eyes betrayed her.
"Val," I said slowly, "we are not sending this."
"Why not?" she asked innocently, batting her lashes. "It’s honest. And festive."
"It’s a threat wrapped in Christmas stationery."
"It’s a gentle reminder," she countered, crossing her arms. "You know, peace, love, and boundaries."
"Boundaries?" I repeated, barely holding back a laugh. "You literally signed it with your initials like a mafia boss."
She pressed her lips together, pretending to think. "Too much?"
"Way too much."
"Hmm." She took it back, holding it up to the light. "Alright, maybe I’ll take out the part about ’looking at soone else’s man.’"
"That’s the entire point of the letter."
"Fine," she sighed dramatically, then smiled again. "I’ll just attach a fruitcake instead. That should confuse her."
I chuckled, shaking my head. "You’re dangerous."
"Dangerously charming," she corrected, sticking a gold bow onto the envelope anyway.
Sohow, in that cozy chaos — the paper, the laughter, the faint scent of cinnamon from the kitchen — I couldn’t help thinking that maybe this was what Christmas was supposed to feel like.
Just her. Just us.
Before the world got complicated
---
To be continued...
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