Her eyes flicked back to him, and for a moment, she hesitated. There was a part of her that knew the evening should end here, that they'd already lingered on the edge of something unspoken for longer than they should. But there was also a part of her that didn't want to say goodbye just yet.
"Where?" she asked softly.
He didn't answer immediately, his gaze settling on her. "Your room," he suggested, his tone almost casual but tinged with a quiet warmth. "With the tree. It feels... right."
Her lips curved into a faint smile. "Alright," she agreed, her voice barely above a whisper.
They walked together, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpeted halls. The air between them felt charged, as though the quiet conversations and shared glances from earlier had woven an invisible thread that bound them together.
When they stepped into her room, the atmosphere shifted again. The glow of the Christmas tree filled the space with a soft, golden light, casting shadows that danced along the walls. Clarisse moved toward it instinctively, her fingers brushing one of the delicate ornaments—a crystal star that glimmered faintly under her touch.
Joseph lingered by the door for a moment, his eyes not on the tree but on her. The way she stood there, the way the light caught her hair and softened her features—it was a sight he knew would linger in his mind long after this night.
"It's beautiful," he said finally, his voice breaking the quiet.
Clarisse turned to him, her hand still resting on the tree. "It is," she murmured, but her gaze was on him now, not the decorations. "I've always loved this room. It feels... personal."
He stepped closer, the faint scent of pine and something faintly floral—her perfume—filling the space between them. "It suits you," he said, his voice quiet. There was a softness in his expression, a vulnerability that was rare but unmistakable.
For a moment, they simply stood there, the silence between them heavy with everything they weren't saying. Then, almost without thinking, Joseph reached out. His hand brushed hers, his touch warm against the coolness of her skin. It was such a small thing, but it was enough to make her catch her breath.
Their eyes met, and in that shared glance, there was an unspoken understanding—a recognition of everything they'd felt that night, everything they'd tried to hold back. The air between them felt electric, charged with the weight of possibility.
And then Joseph stepped back, the spell breaking but not quite shattering. "Sit," he said with a small smile, "and let me serve you."
Clarisse watched as Joseph moved around her small cabinet room, opening cupboards and muttering to himself as he searched for glasses. She leaned back in her chair by the fire, unable to suppress a small smile.
"You'll find the crystal tumblers on the second shelf to your left," she offered.
"Ah, of course. Fancy glasses for a late-night drink," he teased, holding one up to examine it in the firelight. "You royals don't make anything simple, do you?"
"Would you prefer a tin mug?" she quipped, setting her chin in her hand.
He chuckled, pouring them each a small measure of Scotch before returning to her side. "You know, I don't think I've ever served a queen before. Should I bow after handing you this?"
"Only if you want to make a spectacle of yourself," she replied, taking the glass from him. The scent of the amber liquid was warm and inviting, though she hesitated before taking a sip. "I'm not sure I'll survive another drink tonight. I haven't had this much alcohol in years. I'm starting to feel it in my legs."
Joseph smirked, settling into the chair opposite her. "Imagine us both waking up with hangovers. The staff would think I corrupted you."
"The staff already think that," she said dryly, the corner of her mouth lifting.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "And you let them think it?"
She took a small sip of her drink, the warmth spreading through her chest. "I find it's best to let people draw their own conclusions. It saves time."
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the fire crackling between them. The tree in the corner cast a soft glow over the room, its delicate ornaments catching the light like tiny stars. She found herself relaxing, the weight of the day slowly lifting.
"What do you usually do before bed?" Joseph asked, breaking the silence.
"Read. Write letters," she said, swirling the Scotch in her glass. "Nothing as indulgent as this."
He tilted his head, a teasing glint in his eye. "You mean you don't end every evening with an overpriced glass of Scotch in front of a fire?"
She laughed softly, surprising herself. "Not quite."
"Shocking," he said, feigning disbelief.
The warmth of the fire and the easy rhythm of their conversation lulled her into a rare sense of comfort. It wasn't often she let her guard down, and yet here she was, laughing and trading barbs with a man who seemed to see right through her. But then she asked the question that had been pressing at the edges of her thoughts all evening.
"Why did you come back, Joseph?"
He froze, the glass halfway to his lips. For a moment, she thought he might deflect, but then he set the glass down and leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable.
"Why wouldn't I?" he said lightly, dodging her gaze.
"That's not an answer," she pressed, tilting her head.
He let out a quiet sigh, running a hand over his head. "I just...thought you might need a friend tonight."
Her heart twisted at the simple honesty in his tone. "Why?" she whispered. "Why did you think that? What did I do to make you think I was feeling..."
"Lonely?" he finished for her, his voice quiet but sure.
She swallowed hard, the word cutting through her like a blade. "Yes."
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and for the first time that evening, she felt completely exposed under his steady gaze. "I saw it this afternoon," he said gently. "The way you looked when the staff left for the holidays. You were smiling, but it didn't reach your eyes. And then, when you walked through the foyer, you paused for just a moment, like you weren't sure where to go."
Her breath hitched, and she turned her face away, unable to meet his eyes.
"I wasn't trying to pry," he said softly. "I just...recognized it. That look. I've been there."
She looked back at him, her throat tight. "And what look is that?"
"That moment when the silence gets too loud," he said simply.
The fire crackled, filling the space between them as his words sank in. She hadn't realized how carefully she'd been holding herself together until now, when his quiet understanding made her feel as though it was okay to let go.
"You see too much, Joseph," she murmured, her voice trembling.
He smiled faintly, leaning back in his chair. "It's a gift."
She couldn't help but laugh softly, the sound breaking through the heavy emotion that had settled over them. "Is that what you call it?"
He shrugged, his lips curving into a smirk. "That, or a curse. Depends on the day."
Her gaze lingered on him, taking in the way the firelight softened the sharp lines of his face. He was looking at her, too, but not in the way most people did—not with expectation or judgment. He looked at her as though she were a puzzle he wanted to solve, not for his own satisfaction, but because he truly cared about the answer.
"Thank you," she said softly, the words barely audible over the crackling fire.
"For what?"
"For coming back," she said simply.
He smiled, lifting his glass. "To late-night Scotch and questionable choices."
She laughed, clinking her glass against his. "And to friends who see too much."
Joseph leaned back in his chair, the firelight casting flickering shadows over the room. Clarisse rose slowly, her movements a little unsteady, whether from the Scotch or the long evening, and wandered toward the window. Her fingers, slim and precise even in this unguarded moment, brushed the heavy velvet curtain aside, revealing the quiet snowfall outside.
The sight pulled a soft sigh from her lips. "It's so beautiful, isn't it? The way the snow falls—silent, steady. As if the world is holding its breath."
Joseph watched her from his chair, the curve of her silhouette backlit by the fire. Something about the way she stood there—poised yet contemplative—stirred an ache in his chest he hadn't fully acknowledged before. Rising from his seat, he crossed the space between them, his hands slipping into his pockets more for steadiness than warmth.
"I don't see it," he said after a moment, his voice low as though afraid to disturb her. "Not the way you do. Help me out here."
She turned toward him slightly, her lips curving into a faint smile. "You have to stop thinking for a moment," she replied softly, her voice tinged with the warmth of Scotch and a distant melancholy. "Just…look."
He followed her gaze to the window. The snowflakes danced in the moonlight, blanketing the world in a pristine, silent white. It was beautiful, yes. But his attention drifted back to her. The soft glow of the fire lit her golden hair, and the faint reflection of her in the glass seemed like a dream—fragile, fleeting.
"Were you taught to be this way?" he asked suddenly, his voice breaking the stillness.
She blinked, her brows knitting together in faint confusion. "What way?"
"To see the beauty in things. Your impeccable manners. Your perfect poise." His voice dropped, quieter now. "Who taught you that?"
A flicker of something shadowed her features, the faint smile dimming. "It was…drummed into me as a child," she said, her voice softer. "At the time, I hated it. Every lesson, every correction. I used to dream of running away from it all. But later, I came to see it differently. It gave me something to hold onto when everything else felt like it was slipping away."
She was silent for a moment and then she looked at him, her eyes loaded with emotion. "I'm so grateful you're here with me."
Her words hung in the air between them, fragile yet heavy. Joseph watched her closely, sensing the weight behind her confession. Beneath her grace and elegance, he saw something else—a resilience forged in pain, a strength that had carried her through moments of loneliness and loss.
"You're stronger than anyone realizes," he murmured, the words escaping before he could stop them.
Clarisse turned to him fully then, her expression softening as her gaze moved over his face. She took in the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the warmth in his eyes, the solid set of his shoulders. Her gaze lingered on his hands—weathered and steady, hands that seemed to hold a quiet strength of their own.
The admission hung between them like a tangible thing, heavy with meaning. She studied him, her lips parting slightly as though to respond, but no words came. Her chest rose and fell with a quiet breath as her gaze flicked back to the snow outside. For a moment she could no longer face him, fearing he'd see too much.
"Do you want me to go?" he asked softly, his voice rough with uncertainty.
The question lingered between them, as delicate and unspoken as the fall of snow outside the window. For a moment, Clarisse's chest tightened, as though some invisible weight had settled there. The carefully constructed walls she had long ago erected around herself began to stir, instinctively drawing themselves up once more—an automatic reflex against the vulnerability she refused to entertain. Yet in the quiet of the room, in the unhurried rhythm of their exchange, something shifted within her. She didn't want him to go.
Her mind, ever composed, began to whirl. The logic of her thoughts was sharp, practical, yet, beneath that, a quiet unrest. She should want him to go. To maintain the distance, the boundaries, the distance that had always kept her safe. To shield herself from this unsettling pull between them, this intimacy that seemed to come without invitation, yet felt inevitable all the same.
But the longer she stood there, the more she realized the truth, a truth she had neither anticipated nor been prepared for: He made her feel seen, in a way no one ever had. Not merely as the public figure, not the queen or the poised woman with the practiced smile, but as herself—fragile, vulnerable, real. And that quiet understanding, that unspoken connection, made her feel not less, but more. She wasn't a puzzle to be solved, but someone worthy of being known.
Slowly, as though her very soul had weighed the consequences and found them wanting, she turned her head back toward him. Her lips parted, but no words came, not immediately. A softness seemed to dance across her features. The realization was subtle but unmistakable.
Her voice, when it came, was steady, imbued with a soft certainty that surprised even her. "No, Joseph," she said, each syllable measured, but not distant. "I don't."
The words felt simpler than she expected, more final than she had planned. But as she said them, the rush of relief that flooded her chest was immediate, as though she had untangled some knot she had unknowingly tied within herself. The stillness in the room was thick with everything left unsaid, but it was a comfort, not a burden.
She didn't need to explain. He already understood. Her voice was quiet but firm, and he felt something in his chest loosen at her words. But the space between them seemed to shrink without either of them moving. There was a pull now, an invisible thread tying them together, fragile yet unbreakable.
She shifted slightly, her hand brushing the window frame for balance, and the movement brought her closer to him—so close he could feel the faint warmth radiating from her skin, hear the soft hitch in her breath.
He fought the urge to reach for her, his hands flexing at his sides. There was a war raging inside him now, the part of him that wanted to respect the boundaries they'd carefully maintained clashing with the part that wanted to throw caution to the wind.
And Clarisse—she felt it too. Her heart raced in her chest, her body betraying her usual composure. She tried to focus on the snow, on the distant tolling of church bells, on anything but the man standing so close she could feel the heat of his presence.
Her eyes lifted to his, and in that moment, everything else fell away. She saw the quiet strength in him, the way his life had shaped him into someone solid and steady. She saw the vulnerability in his gaze, the way he looked at her as though she were the most beautiful thing in the room.
And suddenly, the weight of their shared history, the loss, the unspoken feelings—they all collided in the space between them.
"Merry Christmas, Joseph," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.
"Merry Christmas, Clarisse," he murmured in reply.
Slowly, he leaned in, his breath mingling with hers. His lips brushed her mouth —tentative, warm. He hesitated, just a breath away from her, as if waiting for her to pull away. Instead, her eyes fluttered closed, and without thinking, she leaned toward him, her lips meeting his halfway. The kiss was soft at first, hesitant, and he felt her tremble just as much as he did.
He pulled back slightly, just enough to take her in, his gaze lingering on her face as though it were something precious and fleeting. Her eyes were still closed, her breath shallow, and her lips softly parted, waiting for him. The sight of her, so open, so luminous, made his chest ache with something too big to name.
A quiet sound escaped him—a mix of wonder and surrender—as he kissed her again, this time with more certainty. His lips moved over hers with a tenderness that felt sacred, deliberate, as though he were pouring every unspoken word, every secret yearning, into that moment. She met him halfway, her lips answering his so warm and so tender, it made his heart race.
The world outside seemed to fall away. There was only her—the warmth of her trembling body, the faint scent of lavender and snow, the softness of her lips. His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of her face as if trying to memorize it. When her fingers found the front of his shirt, gripping the fabric lightly, it sent a shiver through him.
It felt like a dream—a perfect ending to a night that had felt enchanted from the start. He thought of her laughter when she'd thrown the snowball at him, of her bright smile as she'd guided him through the grand halls, of her small, sheepish grin when he knelt to unlace her boots after their walk in the snow. Little moments that didn't seem significant on their own but wove together into something extraordinary.
And here they were. Inches apart, but closer than he ever thought possible. Miracles happen, he thought, as his lips moved over hers, a quiet reverence mingling with the growing warmth between them.
Clarisse felt her thoughts dissolve, overtaken by sensation and the dizzying realization of how much this night had changed. Her stomach tightened, her heart pounded, and yet, somehow, she felt weightless in his arms. The warmth of his hand against her cheek, the slow, deliberate way he kissed her—it wasn't just tender; it was overwhelming.
This wasn't reality—it couldn't be. It was too perfect, too magical, like something conjured by the soft glow of Christmas lights and the snow still falling outside. The way he kissed her, the way he looked at her, made her feel not just wanted but cherished.
Her lips softened under his, and she leaned closer, pressing into him as though daring to believe in the moment. Her hands trembled against his chest, anchoring her to him as her thoughts slipped further away. She could feel his pulse beneath her fingers, quick and steady, mirroring the racing of her own heart.
Joseph couldn't hold back any longer—not when every part of him was consumed by her. He slid his arm around her waist, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. His other hand stayed at her cheek, his thumb brushing her skin with a tenderness that made her breath hitch.
"Clarisse," he murmured against her lips, her name a prayer, a confession.
She opened her eyes then, just briefly, catching his gaze. It was like looking at him for the first time, seeing not just the man she'd spent the evening with, but someone she had grown to trust with the parts of her.
The snow outside fell softly, the faint sound of bells chiming in the distance. Time seemed to stand still, and for once, neither of them tried to catch it. It was as though Christmas itself had conspired to bring them here, to this perfect moment, to remind them that miracles could happen—even for hearts long guarded.
"Joseph," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "this feels like a dream."
"It's real," he replied, his lips brushing against hers again, soft and reverent. "But it's the kind of real I never want to wake up from."
Clarisse rested her head against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart as his arms wrapped securely around her. Through the frosted window, the snow fell thicker now, its swirling dance painting the world in a soft, dreamlike white. The ache of loss she had carried for so long seemed to lift, replaced by a quiet warmth that spread through her with every beat of his heart.
The snow outside fell softly, the faint sound of bells chiming in the distance. Time seemed to stand still, and for once, neither of them tried to catch it. It was as though Christmas itself had conspired to bring them here, to this perfect moment, to remind them that miracles could happen—even for hearts long guarded.
Merry Christmas everybody! It's good to be back in Genovia. For old times sake!