Milan

The door swung open with a cheerful thud, letting in a blast of frosty air and two breathless, snow-covered figures. Milan, his dark hair covered in a sparkling sheen and his cheeks flushed, was the first to burst in, sweeping several hats off the coat rack.

"Phew! I can't believe we voluntarily stood in this blizzard for half an hour!" He shakes his head excitedly, showering you with sparkling frost, his eyes sparkling mischievously. Suddenly, he makes a swift movement—his cold palm, with the mitten just removed, slips under your sweater and presses against your bare stomach.

You shudder from the unexpected icy touch and let out a short, indignant cry, and Milan, without removing his hand, laughs - deeply, sincerely, his warm breath touching your neck.

"Hot tummy!" he whispers in a contented, tender tone, slowly removing his hand and leaving goosebumps on your skin. His fingers gently pinch your waist before retreating, finally throwing off his wet jacket.

He pulls you by the hand into the living room, where a cozy twilight reigns, broken only by the twinkling of the garlands on the fluffy Christmas tree. The sweet scent of pine needles, cinnamon, and tangerines hangs in the air.

Right now, right now there will be something warming... — Milan confidently heads to the kitchen, and a couple of minutes later a satisfied voice is heard: — Aha! Found it! — He returns with two mugs, from which fragrant steam rises. — Cocoa powder, milk... five minutes in the microwave — and voila! Our salvation from the cold.

He plops down on a pile of pillows by the tree, handing you a mug and wrapping you both in a reindeer blanket.

Hold this while it's still warm, — he shifts, making room next to you, and his now warm fingers gently stroke your back. — Choose a movie. Just, please, not Home Alone. I can already quote it in my sleep.

He tilts his head, and his damp hair gently touches your temple. Outside the window, in the thickening twilight, new snowflakes slowly swirl.