Clarisse glanced over at Joseph as he followed her to the corner of the room. The small tree stood there, humble yet radiant in its own way. Its lights twinkled softly, casting a warm golden glow across the room, a sharp contrast to the frosty night outside. It was far from the grandeur of the ballroom's towering tree, but to Clarisse, this tree was more meaningful—its simplicity felt more real, more personal. It was a quiet reminder of the family, of the tradition, of the warmth that Christmas had once promised her before duty had taken its place.

She allowed herself a moment to simply look at the tree, letting its calmness settle in her chest. For a brief moment, she could almost imagine herself back in the days before the weight of the crown, when Christmas was about family, joy, and shared moments. The fire crackled softly behind her, but here, in the stillness, it felt as if time had slowed—just for a breath, just for a heartbeat.

"I thought we'd do something quieter now," she said, her voice softer, almost reverent. She moved toward the small wooden box resting on a table nearby, her fingers brushing the smooth surface as she opened it slowly, unveiling its contents. There was something sacred about this moment, something deeply personal. She could feel the quiet significance of sharing this tradition with him, as if it was a piece of herself she was giving him, wrapped in candles and delicate cards.

Her eyes flickered toward Joseph, watching as his gaze shifted from the tree to the box. There was a quiet curiosity in his expression, his usual calm demeanor unshaken by the intimate nature of what she was about to show him. She felt a small flutter in her chest, a sense of vulnerability. She had never shared this tradition with anyone outside of her family. But somehow, with him, it felt right.

"What's this?" he asked, his voice soft, careful not to disturb the fragile silence.

Clarisse smiled, her eyes softening as she reached into the box and lifted a small card. The reflection of the candles flickered in her gaze, making her feel almost like she was somewhere far away—somewhere quiet, away from the pressures of the world. "A Christmas Eve tradition," she said, her voice distant as she spoke the words she had said a thousand times before, but now they felt different. "We write down a wish—something we want to carry into the next year. We light a candle for each wish. It's… a personal thing."

She handed him the pen, watching as his fingers closed around it, the weight of the card pressing against her palm. He seemed to pause, as though unsure of what to write, and for a brief moment, Clarisse felt her heart beat just a little faster. It was a simple act, but one that felt significant. It wasn't just about the tradition—it was about the vulnerability of sharing something this private, this meaningful.

Her gaze drifted down to the candles, their wax smooth and soft, the warm glow of their light making the room feel even smaller, even more intimate. The flames cast soft shadows on the walls, the delicate light dancing in her eyes as she lit each one, taking her time with the motion. It was calming, almost meditative, this act of stillness and reflection.

She glanced back at Joseph, his focus on the card in front of him. His brow furrowed slightly, and she saw the hint of a smile tug at his lips as he wrote. The sight of him so focused, so present, made her chest tighten in a way she hadn't expected. There was something about sharing this moment with him that made everything feel more real. More grounded. More... right.

As the last candle flickered to life, she stepped back, her breath slow, the room around them filled with the warm, flickering glow. The space between them seemed to shift, something unspoken hanging in the air, but there was no rush to fill it. For once, she didn't feel the need to say anything.

She looked at Joseph, meeting his eyes. There was a quiet understanding there, something gentle but steady, something that made her feel both seen and understood. The weight of the crown, of the years of responsibility, seemed to lift just a little, and in that moment, she could almost forget who she was meant to be, and simply be herself.

This simple, quiet tradition—this small, sacred moment—was hers to share, and somehow, it felt like more than just a passing Christmas Eve custom. It felt like a bridge between who she had been and who she was beginning to see herself becoming, a connection that was grounded in trust, in shared space, in understanding.

As they stood before the tree, Joseph couldn't help but notice the delicate, carefully chosen ornaments scattered across the branches. These weren't the grand, glittering decorations of the main palace hall; these were personal. Small. Meaningful.

He had reached out but paused before touching a small, silver angel. There had been a history to these ornaments, he could tell. He had shifted his attention to Clarisse, who had been staring at the tree, her gaze soft and distant, as though lost in another time. Clarisse's fingers had hovered over the small, delicate brass angel. She had stared at it, the glow of the tree lights catching on its surface. It had been with her for as long as she could remember, a token from her father, who had passed long ago. It had been a reminder of his love, of the family she had once had, and the times before everything had changed. She had carefully tucked away these pieces of her past, keeping them close but never truly talking about them. Until now. She hadn't expected it, but here in this room, with Joseph watching her, something had shifted inside her.

"That one... was my father's," she had said quietly, her voice steady but not without the hint of a tremor. "I've had it since I was a little girl."

Joseph hadn't moved, hadn't reached for it. He had simply watched her, his eyes soft with understanding, his presence gentle but firm. And she had felt it. The way he had watched her, the way he hadn't rushed her, allowed her to hold onto that piece of herself, to let it breathe for a moment. She had looked at the ornament as if it held all the answers to the questions she had never been able to voice.

But the grief that had settled in her chest had always been present, always lurking. Her father's loss had been just one of many. She had felt that sharp edge of sadness—losing him so young, losing her husband Rupert in a marriage that had been arranged and far more complex than she had ever allowed others to see. The loss of her son, Philippe. That one had been the hardest.

"You've lost a lot of people, haven't you?" Joseph's voice had been quiet, probing but careful, and it had pulled her from her thoughts.

Clarisse had nodded slowly, her throat tight. She couldn't speak for a moment, but his words had been gentle, his gaze steady, as though he had been asking more to understand than to pity.

"Yes," she had whispered. "Loss is a rite of passage, isn't it? We all have to face it. But it doesn't make it any easier."

Joseph had seemed to consider her words for a moment, and then he had spoken, his voice filled with a quiet intensity. "I know it well," he had said softly. "In the army… good friends. Family too. Lost my parents when I was young."

She had listened, truly listened, and she had felt something she hadn't felt in years—a real, unspoken connection. He had been through it too. His pain hadn't been the same as hers, but the emptiness it had left behind—she had known it. She had felt it.

Joseph's gaze had met hers, and in that moment, the air had felt thicker, as though a veil had been lifted between them. They hadn't needed to speak the specifics. They had understood each other in a way that no one else ever could. She hadn't been just a queen to him anymore. She had been a woman who had lived through unimaginable pain and somehow made it through.

"After that," Joseph had continued, his voice a little more distant now, as if he had been pulling himself back from the depths they had just touched, "I had spent years searching. Traveling, trying to find meaning in something. But…" He had faltered, just for a moment, as if the words had been difficult to say. "The emptiness doesn't really go away, does it?"

She had shaken her head slowly. No, it didn't.

Clarisse had taken a quiet breath, feeling something inside her stir. It had been as if she had known this all along—that there had been someone, someone who could understand her loss, who could see her for more than just her title, her public image. Someone who hadn't been afraid to speak the truth. And Joseph, in that moment, hadn't shied away from her pain. He had embraced it, understood it, without offering empty words of comfort. And she had realized, with a sudden clarity, how rare this had been.

Their eyes had locked for a long moment, a lingering look that spoke volumes—about all they had both suffered, and about what they might have meant to each other in that space, at that time. It had been so intimate, so quiet, that it had felt like the rest of the world had been on pause.

She had felt the pull too, though she couldn't name it. It had been strange, this silent understanding, this connection they had shared that had been building slowly, almost imperceptibly, over the years.

Joseph had cleared his throat suddenly, and Clarisse had blinked, momentarily disoriented. He had broken the silence with a quiet chuckle. "I think we need some oxygen," he had said, his voice a bit more relaxed, though still thick with the emotions that had hung in the air between them.

Her brow had furrowed in surprise. "Now?"

"Yes," he had said, his tone firm but playful. "The storm has settled, but I bet you've never walked outside when it's snowing. Come on."