Christmas Eve arrived without ceremony.
No snow. No grand plans. Only my parents' insistence that we come for dinner—a tradition, my mother called it, though our traditions had always been flexible, improvised.
Luna noticed the date before I did.
She asked, casually, whether my father's blood pressure had been stable. Whether my mother still avoided cold drinks after sunset. Whether Daniel preferred red or white wine when he was tired.
I looked at her for a long moment.
I had known those things once. Or so I'd thought.
—
The apartment was already warm when we arrived.
Luna slipped out of her coat and went straight to the kitchen, sleeves rolled with just enough intention, asking my mother where the ginger was kept, whether the soup needed another pinch of salt.
She didn't take over.
She assisted. Flawlessly.
My mother watched her with a softness in her eyes that usually took time—weeks, months—to earn.
I tried to help. Reached for a dish towel. Nearly knocked over a tower of plates.
"It's all right," my mother said, too quickly. "You go sit."
Luna caught the plates before they tipped, hands steady, gaze quicker than my movement.
"It's fine," she said gently.
I realized I'd been about to say the exact same thing.
—
Daniel was quieter than usual that night.
He laughed when spoken to, nodded at the right moments, but Luna noticed the pauses—the way he pressed his temple, the subtle lag of his fork mid-bite.
She refilled his glass before he lifted it.
Steered the conversation away when my father drifted too close to work.
Later, she brought him a mug of hot water instead of tea.
"Too much caffeine this late," she said lightly.
Daniel smiled at her—then paused, as if the weight of the mug had surprised him. He shook it off and kept talking.
—
Gifts came after dinner.
Nothing extravagant. No surprises.
My parents had bought two identical boxes from the same store—simple scarves, neutral colors. Practical. Warm.
"For both of you," my mother said, handing them over together. "You're always together anyway."
Luna opened hers carefully, folding the tissue paper into a neat square as she went.
I tore mine a little at the corner.
"It's lovely," Luna said, already draping the scarf around her neck. "Thank you."
I echoed her thanks a heartbeat later.
My father nodded, satisfied.
"They suit you."
Both of you.
The tag on mine read: Made in Italy.
On hers: Made in Italy – 2nd shift.
I blinked.
When I looked again, the tags were identical.
—
Later, on the couch, lights dimmed and the tree blinking slow and soft, my mother rested her head against Luna's shoulder as she laughed at something on the screen.
It happened naturally.
I didn't notice at first—until I caught Luna's reflection in the dark window.
The reflection smiled a half second before her real face did.
Not warmth.
Something quieter. Crystalline. Satisfied.
I stood to fetch more tea, caught my toe on the edge of the rug, laughed a little too loudly at my own clumsiness.
"It's okay," someone said.
Maybe Luna.
Maybe my mother.
Outside, the street was still.
It was a good Christmas Eve.
Warm.
Complete.
Nothing was missing.