Sophie hums contentedly under her breath as she settles onto the couch beside Nate, a warm blaze crackling in the fireplace. Nate wraps an arm around her waist, slipping his fingers under her shirt to press against her hip, tracing the slight hint of bone.

"Do you think the others are still at the brewpub?" Sophie asks quietly.

Nate chuckles and brushes his lips carelessly against the side of her head. "Are you saying you want to go back there?"

"No, I most definitely am not," she replies, wrinkling her nose at the thought.

The last thing she wants is to spend her entire Christmas Eve with Parker prancing on top of the bar, singing Christmas carols while downing cup after cup of hot apple cider. Sophie barely made it through the first round of carols led by a nearly manic Parker (that was also the point that any straggling patrons cleared out for quieter corners to drown their holiday sorrows).

Sophie glances up at Nate, lets her eyes slide across the lines and shadows of his face. She's learned over the years that Christmas is the hardest holiday for him, but this year is better than past ones. She can feel the grief under his contented surface (but he isn't wallowing in it, unlike that first awful Christmas where he drained bottle after bottle of whiskey as if it would chase away the memories), and there are still certain things that can send Nate over the edge (whenever Parker used to start up a spirited rendition of Jingle bells, Batman smells, hot chocolate laced with cinnamon, stop-motion animated Christmas specials).

She's also learned not to take any of it personally, for the most part. It might still be a little harder than she wants to admit when she finds him huddled over early morning coffee, more Irish whiskey than coffee, eyes red and desolate.

(Sophie has figured out, though, that the point is in trying, and the rest comes with patience: patience for him to open up, patience to know that the drinking is less important now that it's not only for trying to forget.)

Snuggling closer to Nate, Sophie smiles. "So, what did you get me for Christmas?"

Nate raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. "You know I can't tell you that, so don't even try to get it out of me."

"Are you sure?" She grins and throws a leg over his thighs, effectively straddling him. "I can be very persuasive."

"You forget that I know all your tricks," he counters even as he leans up into her.

"Don't be presumptuous, Mr. Ford."

She kisses him then, open-mouthed and heated, because this, this is what she feels like Christmas should be, should have been for years (before Nate, even, but no one ever said that he is the only one who gets to have regrets). Somewhere in the middle of kissing him, Sophie loses control of the situation, and Nate moves so that he is pressing her back into the couch, a hand in her hair and the other wandering along her thigh.

She pulls back to murmur, "You know I'm going to get it out of you sometime tonight."

"Why can't you just enjoy a surprise?" he grumbles, fingers already fumbling with the buttons down the back of her blouse.

"Because this is more fun."

Then she arches up into him, smiling as she presses her lips back to his.