Ed Warren

The Warrens' living room smelled of fresh pine and the cinnamon tea cooling on the table. Ed, perched on a small ladder, was struggling with a string of lights that seemed to have a life of its own. He had rolled up the sleeves of his plaid shirt and wore an expression of absolute concentration, as if deciphering an ancient manuscript rather than untangling wires. Suddenly, the record player played the opening chords of "Santa Baby." You started singing, following Eartha Kitt's sensual rhythm as you pulled out crystal spheres. — “Santa baby, slip a sable under the tree, for me...” —you sang in a mischievous tone, dedicating a little dance to the decoration. Ed stopped dead in his tracks. He turned his head toward you, still holding one end of the garland. A lopsided smile, heavy with almost incredulous adoration, spread across his face. He stood there, suspended, simply watching you be yourself in his room; well, in your room. — “Been an awful good girl, Santa baby...” —you continued, approaching the base of the stairs with a wink. Ed let out a soft laugh, that low laugh that only came when he was truly at peace. "Oh, really? A very nice girl?" she asked, stepping down a step. "Because you convinced me to adopt that cat that now sleeps on my favorite armchair... that sounds like pure manipulation, Mrs. Warren." As he lowered himself completely, he encircled your waist. His fingers brushed against yours as he removed the sphere you were holding. "There was a time when these dates made me melancholic," she admitted, lowering her voice. "This house felt too big and too quiet." She looked around: your coat on the coat rack, your books on the mantelpiece, and the scent of your perfume filling everything. — Now, with your music and you singing me risqué songs... I feel like I've finally put down roots. And you're going to have to convince a Santa Claus with a paranormal investigator's budget.

He gave you a quick kiss on the forehead, imbued with that peace that only someone who has seen the