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Christmas morning arrived without drama, which, for Kate, felt almost miraculous. No red alerts, no alien energy signatures and no frantic vibrations of her phone on the bedside table. Just soft light filtering through the curtains, causing her to wake slowly. The first thing she noticed was the warmth pressed reassuringly against her back, a steady arm curved around her waist, and the slow rhythm of another person’s breathing anchoring her in place. There was no jolt of urgency this time, just a sense of quiet. She stayed still for a moment longer, letting herself believe it might last.
Behind her, Christofer shifted, his face nudging instinctively into the back of her neck. His arm tightened just a fraction; even in sleep, he needed to know she hadn’t gone anywhere.
“Mmm,” he murmured, voice rough and low. “You’re awake.”
“Barely,” she said softly.
He pressed a sleepy kiss against her skin. “Good, stay that way.”
Kate smiled, turning carefully in his arms to face him. His eyes were still half-lidded, hair a complete mess, the sharp edges of the man she knew softened by rest and trust. She traced the line of his stubbled jaw with her thumb, unable to help herself.
“Merry Christmas,” she whispered.
A slow, unguarded smile spread across his face. “Merry Christmas, Kate.”
Their kiss was unhurried and tender, lingering without asking for more. When they finally drew back, he rested his forehead against hers.
“No alarms,” he said quietly.
“No disasters,” she replied.
“For once,” he added.
She exhaled slowly, the tension she hadn’t realised she was holding finally easing. “For once.”
They stayed like that for a moment longer, sharing the warmth of the bed and the steady calm of the morning. Eventually, they moved, slowly, reluctantly pulling on soft jumpers and whatever socks were closest to hand. Kate stole one of his without comment; Christofer noticed and only smiled.
They made their way into the kitchen together, the room settling easily around them. He took care of the coffee without needing to be asked, measuring and pouring with practised ease while she leaned against the counter, watching him. The kettle hissed, the scent rich and grounding, filling the space as though it belonged there.
When the mugs were warm between their hands and the day felt properly started, they drifted into the living room together, wrapped in layers and comfort, letting the morning unfold softly around them. The Christmas tree glimmered quietly in the corner, its lights casting warm reflections across the window as snow drifted lazily beyond the glass. Kate tucked herself into the corner of the sofa, and Christofer’s arm slipped around her shoulders without thought. Between them, a small stack of gifts rested, waiting patiently on the table.
He glanced at them, then at her, a hint of suspicion in his voice softened by a smile. “You’re looking at me like you’ve planned something.”
“I always plan,” she said mildly.
He snorted. “That’s what worries me.”
She set her cup aside, and after a glance at her, he did the same. Only then did she hand him the first gift, placing it carefully in his hands.
The wrapping was neat and understated, just like her, no excess, no flourish. He turned it once, as if weighing its significance, before unwrapping it slowly, careful not to tear the paper more than necessary.
Inside was a simple frame. He frowned slightly as he lifted it out, confusion flickering briefly across his face, before recognition settled in and he went utterly still.
The UNIT patch inside was old, edges frayed, the insignia from his first assignment. Kate had had it professionally preserved, the wear left visible rather than erased.
“You kept this,” she said softly. “Even when you pretended it didn’t matter.”
He swallowed. “That patch meant everything to me. It was the first time I felt like I belonged.”
“I know,” she replied. “I wanted you to have proof of where you started.”
He stared at it for a long moment before setting it aside carefully, like something precious.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know I needed this.”
She smiled. “You’re very good at not realising.”
The second gift was simpler, but it felt heavier in his hands.
Christofer turned it over before opening it, thumbs tracing the clean lines of the slim box, as if taking a moment to steady himself. He eased the lid off and stopped when he saw what was inside.
The watch was simple and unfussy, classic rather than decorative, solid in a way that suggested it was meant to be relied on. He lifted it from the box, feeling its weight settle comfortably into his palm, and turned it over.
On the back, engraved in small, unobtrusive lettering, were the words:
Come back to me.
Christofer froze as he read them over.
Kate watched his face carefully. “You’re always giving orders,” she said gently. “Always watching the time for everyone else. I wanted you to have something that reminds you that you’re allowed to come home.”
His voice was barely above a whisper. “Kate…”
She reached out, fastening it around his wrist herself, her fingers lingering over the pulse there.
“I don’t need grand gestures,” she continued. “I just need you safe.”
He pulled her into his arms suddenly, holding her tightly.
“I’ll always come back,” he said into her hair. “Always.”
The third gift was the one he hadn’t expected.
Kate placed it in his hands carefully, a small bundle of envelopes, each one neatly folded and tied together with a simple ribbon. It was understated, almost unassuming, and yet something about it made him still and look at her, confused.
“What’s this?”
“Open one,” she said.
He did, fingers suddenly careful as he unfolded it.
Inside was a short letter, written in Kate’s precise handwriting.
For the days when you doubt yourself.
His breath caught. There were more, each envelope was labelled carefully: for when UNIT feels heavy, for when you miss home, for when you forget how loved you are.
Kate watched him read in silence as understanding dawned.
“I know you don’t talk about it,” she said quietly. “But you carry so much. These are for when I can’t be there to remind you.”
He blinked rapidly, voice unsteady. “You wrote all of this for me?”
“Yes,” she said simply.
He didn’t speak for a long time. He just held the letters against his chest like they were fragile and irreplaceable.
“No one’s ever done this for me,” he admitted.
Kate leaned in and kissed his temple. “Someone should have.”
Christofer didn’t rush, and Kate noticed immediately. He drew the remaining gifts closer, arranging them on the coffee table with unhurried care, as though each one carried something quietly personal he needed her to see. There was a faint tension in his shoulders, not nerves, exactly, but the soft vulnerability of someone offering pieces of himself and trusting they would be received with care.
“I didn’t want to overwhelm you,” he said quietly. “So one at a time.”
Kate turned fully toward him, giving him her complete attention. “I’m here.”
He nodded once, steadying himself, and reached for the first parcel.
“This one,” he said, already smiling faintly, “took longer than anticipated.”
She took it from him, fingers brushing his. The weight of it surprised her, thick and solid, warm even before she unwrapped it. When the paper fell away, she froze.
The scarf was hand-knitted, deep UNIT blue threaded subtly with gold. The stitches varied slightly, uneven in places, but each one carried the quiet evidence of care and the hours spent making it.
“Christofer,” she breathed.
He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “I know it’s not perfect. I had help, tutorials, and I had to start over twice.”
Kate laughed softly, eyes stinging.
“You made this,” she said again, like she needed to hear it out loud.
“I wanted you to have something warm,” he explained. “Something you could wrap around yourself when I’m not there. You never slow down, Kate. I thought maybe this could help.”
Her throat tightened. She lifted it, pressing the wool briefly to her cheek before wrapping it carefully around her neck.
“I love it,” she murmured. “I’ll wear it constantly.”
His smile deepened, relief and pride warring gently in his expression. “Good, that was the intention.”
She leaned into him then, resting her forehead against his. “No one’s ever made me something like this.”
“I’m glad I could be the first,” he murmured.
The second gift was smaller, held carefully in his palm.
Kate took the box, a quiet tightness settling in her chest even before she opened it. Inside, nestled against dark velvet, lay a delicate gold necklace, with a single gold star pendant, simple and elegant, clearly meant to be worn and lived in rather than admired from afar.
Her breath caught.
“I wanted it to feel like you,” Christofer said softly. “You don’t need grand gestures. But you’ve always reached for the stars, always kept going, even when it costs you.”
She lifted it carefully, the gold catching the light from the tree.
“I wanted you to have something that stays,” he continued. “A reminder that you’re allowed to hope, and that you don’t have to carry the sky alone.”
Kate swallowed hard. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“May I?” he asked.
She turned instinctively, lifting her hair as he moved behind her. His fingers were careful as he fastened the clasp, lingering just long enough to press a kiss against her skin once the pendant once it settled in place.
The intimacy of it made her heart ache. She turned back to him and kissed him slowly, letting all the gratitude she couldn’t quite voice settle there instead.
“Thank you, I’ll keep it with me,” she said. “Always.”
The last gift altered the moment completely.
Christofer lingered over it, his expression solemn now, as though he were choosing his movements with particular care.
“This one,” he said quietly, “took the longest.”
Kate’s pulse quickened as she accepted it.
She peeled the wrapping back slowly, and there he was.
Not the Brigadier preserved in records or legend, not the figure history remembered, but her father. Young and unguarded, caught mid-smile, eyes warm with quiet amusement, as if someone just out of frame had said something that made him laugh.
Kate’s breath left her in a small, broken sound.
“I thought it was gone,” she whispered.
“I know,” Christofer said. “You mentioned it once, years ago. I never forgot.”
Tears blurred her vision as she traced the edge of the frame.
“It was damaged,” he continued gently. “Misfiled. I had it restored. Every mark left intact, just clearer.”
Kate pressed a hand to her mouth, emotion overwhelming.
“You found him,” she said shakily. “You gave him back to me.”
Christofer shook his head. “He was never really lost, just waiting.”
She leaned into him then, pressing the frame close to her chest as quiet tears slipped free. He gathered her in without a second thought, arms steady and warm, holding her as though he understood precisely how much this moment meant.
“You honour him,” he murmured into her hair. “Every day. I wanted you to have this piece of him with you.”
Kate lifted her face, eyes wet. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
He kissed her forehead. “You already have.”
Eventually, Kate set the photo on the mantel, glancing at it fondly every few minutes as they moved into the kitchen.
“Okay, I’ll make a start on dinner, you pour the wine.” He told her while picking up the apron and tying it around his waist.
“Bossy,” she said with a smile, reaching for the bottle of wine and two glasses. She poured generously into both before handing one to him.
He accepted it with a quiet smile, their fingers brushing briefly, before turning back to his task, of collecting his knife and the vegetables he needed and laying them out neatly on the counter.
Kate leaned against the counter, watching Christofer move with an ease she rarely got to see outside of strategy rooms and briefing halls. Here, there was no clipped efficiency, no weight of command, just confidence softened by comfort. His sleeves rolled up, apron tied securely around his waist, making him look entirely at home.
“You’re enjoying this far too much,” she observed, taking a small sip of her wine.
He smiled without looking up, deftly chopping vegetables into neat, uniform pieces. “I like knowing exactly what’s supposed to happen,” he said. “Ingredients behave, most of the time.”
She laughed softly. “That’s a UNIT man’s idea of relaxation?”
“After years of unpredictable alien incursions?” He glanced at her. “Absolutely.”
Kate moved closer, peering over his shoulder. “I didn’t realise you were this good.”
He smiled faintly. “I’m a colonel, not a chef. This is just practical experience.”
She hummed, watching his hands move with quiet precision. “Still feels like a shame.”
He answered by leaning over and slipping a chopped carrot into her mouth, entirely unapologetic. She paused, chewing slowly, then glanced at him with a look that was more than reproachful.
“You really are very good at this,” she said once she’d swallowed, the words warm rather than surprised.
“I like being useful,” he replied, a small, contented smile settling in.
She bumped her hip against his, affectionate rather than challenging. “I chose the wrong life. I should’ve learned to cook properly.”
“There’s still time,” he said easily. “I’d be happy to teach you.”
She smirked up at him. “Only if you promise to be very patient.” She leaned in to kiss his cheek, but he turned his head at the last moment, catching her lips instead, just enough to make her laugh softly against his mouth.
“You don’t have to supervise,” he murmured.
“I like watching,” she replied. “It’s soothing.”
He softened at that. “Then stay.”
Kate lingered a moment longer, leaning against the counter and watching him work, how steady his movements were, how at ease he seemed in the small space. Eventually, a familiar tug of guilt nudged her into motion. She straightened, reached for the potatoes, and decided she should probably help.
Christofer noticed almost immediately.
From the corner of his eye, he tracked the hesitant angle of the peeler, the way Kate’s grip tightened just a fraction too much. He kept stirring the pan for another moment, long enough to be certain he wasn’t imagining it, before finally turning his attention her way.
“Careful,” he said gently, voice warm with amusement rather than criticism. “You’re holding it wrong.”
Kate didn’t look up. “I am not.”
He smiled faintly. “You absolutely are.”
That earned him a look, arched brow, dry and unimpressed. “I’ve saved the world,” she reminded him.
“Yes,” he agreed easily, stepping closer. “Several times. But you’re also about two seconds away from losing a finger.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then hesitated as he moved behind her.
Christofer placed his hands over hers, careful and steady, adjusting her grip with practised ease. His chest brushed lightly against her back, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, the quiet solidity that always made her feel inexplicably calmer. Kate stilled without quite meaning to, suddenly very aware of the space he occupied, and how naturally he fit there.
“Like this,” he murmured, leaning in just enough that his breath warmed her ear.
“I know how to peel a potato,” she muttered, though there was less conviction in it now.
“I’m sure you do,” he replied, entirely unbothered. “Just humour me.”
She did and let him guide the motion, slow and unhurried, the peel coming away in neat strips as his hands steadied hers. It was a simple thing, almost absurdly so, but the intimacy of it settled into her bones.
When he finally stepped back, she exhaled softly and glanced at him sideways, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “You enjoyed that.”
His answering smile was unapologetic. “I really did.”
She flicked a scrap of potato peel at him in mock retaliation. It missed its mark entirely, landing harmlessly on the counter.
Christofer laughed, a low, warm sound that filled the kitchen, and shook his head fondly as he turned back to the stove.
As the meal came together, the kitchen filled with rich, comforting smells. Christofer checked the roast, adjusted the temperature, and moved around it with calm, practised confidence.
Kate wrapped the scarf he’d made tighter around her neck, watching him with something like fond awe.
“You’re very competent,” she said suddenly.
He paused. “Is that a compliment?”
“It’s the highest one I know.”
He smiled softly. “I like taking care of people.”
Kate stepped closer, resting her head against his shoulder, the weight of the day finally settling somewhere safe. She felt him shift slightly to accommodate her, instinctive and careful, until she fit there easily.
Her hand hovered uncertainly at his side for a moment before he reached for it, threading his fingers through hers with gentle confidence. His grip wasn’t tight, just steady, reassuring, his thumb brushing slow, absent circles against her knuckles as if committing the shape of her hand to memory.
“You’re very good at it,” she murmured, eyes closed now, her voice softened by how close he was.
He lifted her hand and brushed a gentle kiss across her knuckles, unhurried, familiar, full of care. “So are you,” he said quietly. “You just don’t always remember to include yourself.”
She didn’t answer right away. She simply leaned into him a little more, breathing him in, letting herself be held without needing to manage or plan or decide anything at all.
They stayed like that for a while, no rush, no urgency, just the shared warmth of being exactly where they were meant to be.
When everything was finally ready, Christofer plated the meal carefully, with surprising attention to presentation.
Kate raised an eyebrow. “You’re showing off.”
“Only a little.”
She laughed, taking a seat at the table as he set the plates down.
“This,” she said, gesturing to the food, to him, to the quiet glow of the room, “is dangerously close to perfect.”
He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her temple. “We earned it.”
Outside, snow continued to fall in thick, quiet drifts, softening the world beyond the windows, while inside, warmth lingered, carrying the fading scent of dinner that lingered in the air, rich and comforting, layered with the faint scent of pine from the tree in the corner of the living room.
The clink of cutlery gradually disappeared, the oven ticking softly as it cooled, and the house settled into a comfortable, contented silence.
Kate stood for a moment by the sink, watching Christofer dry his hands carefully, as though even that small, ordinary task deserved his full attention.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He looked up at her, brows drawing together slightly. “For what?”
“For dinner,” she said after a beat. Then, quieter, “For today.”
Understanding crossed his face, slow and gentle. “You’re welcome,” he replied. “I’m glad we had it.”
They moved into the living room together, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the other’s presence. The lights were lower now, the Christmas tree casting a soft glow across the walls, gold and blue reflections shifting with every small movement.
Christofer lingered by the stereo, hand resting there as though he were weighing the cost of breaking the quiet. Eventually, he made a small, deliberate choice and pressed play.
The music that followed was soft and familiar, unhurried and warm, filling the room without demanding anything from it. It settled easily into the quietness, like it belonged there.
Kate felt her shoulders ease, breath steadying as the tension she so often carried slipped away, just enough, in the warmth of something uncomplicated and safe.
“You remembered,” she said quietly.
He nodded. “I hoped you’d like it.”
He turned to her and held out his hand, no hurry, no pressure, just an open invitation.
She slipped her fingers into his without hesitation.
He drew her in gently, his hand settling at her waist as though it already knew where it belonged. Kate rested her head against his shoulder almost at once, her free hand slipping to his chest, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his jumper. They didn’t bother with proper steps; they didn’t need anything more than each other.
Kate let her eyes fall closed, feeling his breathing, slow and steady, and felt the warmth of him through layers of fabric. His thumb traced a quiet, absent pattern on her back, not asking for anything, just there, grounding her in the moment.
For the first time in longer than she could remember, her thoughts fell quiet. There was nothing to plan for, nothing to anticipate, nothing to brace against, only this moment, warm and unguarded.
“This feels…” she murmured, searching for the word. “Safe.”
His arm tightened slightly around her, a subtle reassurance. “It is.”
They turned slowly, their movements unhurried, drifting closer to the tree. The lights shimmered in the window, soft halos glowing against the dark beyond the glass.
Kate opened her eyes just long enough to notice what hung above them.
“Mistletoe,” she murmured, a hint of amusement in her voice.
He followed her gaze, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I put it up last night,” he said quietly. “After you’d gone to bed.”
She looked up at him, fondness softening her expression. “You planned this.”
“Of course I did,” he replied, calm and unapologetic.
She tipped her face toward him, unhurried, her smile soft. “Then I’d say your plan worked perfectly.”
He leaned in slowly, close enough that she felt the warmth of him before his lips ever touched hers. The kiss was soft and lingering, familiar in the way of something deeply known—steady, sure, and unguarded. It asked for nothing and promised everything all at once.
When they parted, neither of them moved. Their foreheads rested together, noses almost brushing, breaths shared in the small space between them. The music continued softly around them, distant and unimportant.
When the song finally faded, Kate stayed exactly where she was, her forehead settling against his shoulder as his arms remained securely around her. His hand rested at her back, warm and grounding, his breathing slow and thoughtful beneath her ear.
She didn’t pull away. Instead, she stayed exactly where she was, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear, allowing herself to sink fully into the moment, the weight of the day easing, the tenderness settling in, his hands at her back resting there with a familiarity that felt earned, as though they had always known where they belonged.
“Chris,” she said quietly.
He hummed in response, tilting his head so his cheek rested against her hair. “Mm?”
“There’s one more thing.”
His hold shifted, just a little, with quiet anticipation rather than fear.
“All right,” he said softly.
She eased back just enough to really look at him, her hands still resting lightly at his waist. The glow from the tree softened his gaze, making his eyes warmer than usual. For a moment, she simply took him in, this quiet, steady man who had somehow made his way past all her defences.
She took a careful breath, then turned toward the coffee table, sliding open the shallow drawer with deliberate calm. Her hands were steady as she reached inside, even as her pulse quickened, suddenly becoming loud in her ears.
The box she picked up was small and simple, unadorned cardboard with nothing to draw the eye. No ribbon, no flourish, just something chosen carefully, the weight of its meaning resting quietly in her hands. She turned back around and held it out to him.
Christofer frowned faintly as he took it, confusion softening his expression. “Kate—”
“Just open it,” she said, gently but firmly.
He did, lifting the lid with careful fingers. Inside lay a single key, silver and unassuming, tied with a thin blue ribbon she’d clearly spent far too long choosing.
It took him a heartbeat to understand. When he did, his breath hitched, sudden and soft, as though the air had forgotten how to reach him.
“Kate,” he whispered.
She watched his face carefully, every emotion flickering across it in real time: surprise, disbelief, something dangerously close to awe.
“My flat,” she said softly. “Not for emergencies. Not for when it’s convenient. It’s yours, if you want to share it with me.”
He looked up at her, eyes shining. “You’re serious.”
“I wouldn’t give you this if I wasn’t,” she replied. “I don’t give parts of my life away lightly.”
He swallowed. “This isn’t just a key.”
“No,” she said, voice low. “It’s trust. It’s me choosing this, choosing us.”
His fingers curled around it protectively, like it might disappear if he didn’t hold on tightly enough.
“You already feel like home,” she continued quietly. “This is just me making it official.”
Christofer stepped closer without thinking, his free hand rising to cradle her face, warm and steady. His thumb traced a gentle line along her cheek, a quiet caress that grounded him just as much as it did her.
“I’ve never had anyone give me something like this,” he said quietly. “Not without conditions.”
“There aren’t any,” Kate said. “Just you.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. He just leaned his forehead against hers, eyes closed, breathing her in like he was committing the moment to memory.
He took a steady breath, as though grounding himself, before looking at her again.
“I want it,” he said quietly, the certainty in his voice unmistakable. “I want you. I want this, what we’re building, what we already have.”
The tension she hadn’t realised she was holding finally eased from her shoulders, relief washing through her in a warm, unsteady wave. She let out a soft breath and smiled, touched with a vulnerability she rarely allowed anyone to see.
“Good,” she murmured. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
He laughed softly, a sound full of emotion, and pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly like he needed to be certain she was real.
“This means I get to make you tea in the mornings,” he said quietly. “And leave my boots by the door.”
She huffed a soft laugh into his shoulder. “Don’t push your luck.”
He lifted his hand to her face, thumb brushing gently along her jaw before tilting her chin up with quiet care. He kissed her then, unhurried and certain, like he had nowhere else to be and no doubt about staying. It wasn’t a kiss of urgency or claim, but one that rested easily between them, holding a quiet promise and the unspoken understanding that this was real, and this was something they were choosing together.
When they finally drew apart, they stayed close, hands still linked. Christofer’s fingers brushed briefly against the key now resting safely in his palm, as if grounding himself in its weight. Kate noticed the small, almost unconscious motion and smiled softly.
Beneath the soft glow of the tree, its lights warming the room, the gold star cool against her skin, the meaning of it settled quietly between them. It wasn’t really about the key, or even the flat, it was about choosing each other in small, steady ways, about building something shared through trust, care, and time rather than grand promises.
He closed his hand around the key, grounding himself in its weight. “I’ll keep it safe,” he said, voice low and certain. Then, after a measured breath, “And I’ll keep you safe too, always.”
Kate’s smile was small, glowing with something deep and unshakeable. She covered his hand with hers, thumb brushing his knuckles. “I know,” she replied, her voice calm with absolute trust.
They stayed there, unmoving, cradled in the glow of the lights while snow fell endlessly outside, as though time itself had slowed for them.
For the first time in a long while, Kate wasn’t thinking ahead or bracing for what might come next. She was rooted entirely in the moment, surrounded by warmth, and grounded in the simple truth that this, right here, held in Christofer’s arms, was home.