With the coffee cups set down on the table by the couch, S smiles as J heads back out of the kitchen, utterly affectionate. Maybe it's because the last vestiges of sleep are still clinging to him, giving everything a slightly hazy, dreamlike quality, or maybe it's because last year was so miserable, but whatever the reason, it's hard not to be struck by how perfect this feels, everything as it ought to be and then some. He's so fucking lucky. Just having J here, alive, wanting to be with him, would have been more than enough for him. Everything else — the size of their apartment now, the fact that he was able to afford some nice presents for J, the lights on the tree they picked out and decorated, J baking for him — is just a much appreciated bonus.

Even as he reaches for J in turn, hands gently resting by his waist, he tries to commit this feeling to memory, the warmth and the contentment of it. None of it is anything new, really, aside from the baking. They've had a good few months — rocky at times, certainly emotional, but still so wonderful. All the same, there's something particularly magical about a Christmas like this, a little like the first one they spent as a couple, except that much better for all they've been through and where they've wound up.

"Sounds perfect," he says, smiling against J's mouth as he steals another kiss. "And you're welcome to eat some of my present. None of your presents are edible."