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December in Central is a performance.
Roy knows this. Lives this. Every year it’s the same: receptions and speeches, garlands hung by people who have never shoveled snow, orchestras playing just loud enough to drown out dissent. Christmas becomes something ceremonial, something public—something he wears like a coat that never quite fits.
Tonight is no different.
The final reception ends just after ten. Too late for the staff to pretend they aren’t exhausted. Too early for the city to sleep. Roy stands at the edge of the room with a practiced smile, shaking hands, accepting thanks he never feels he’s earned.
Riza stands beside him, as she always does.
Not touching.
Not close enough for comment.
Close enough that he knows where she is without looking.
She’s been immaculate all night—dark dress, hair swept back, expression composed. Chief of Staff Hawkeye. The one they trust. The one they watch for cues. The one who keeps the President standing upright when the floor shifts.
Roy behaves.
He behaves through the speeches. Through the last-minute donor who insists on a photo. Through the ambassador who leans too close and smells like expensive cologne and expectation.
And Riza—he knows—sees all of it.
The faint tightening of his jaw. The way his smile sharpens when he’s tired. The way he straightens when someone tests him.
She doesn’t intervene.
Not yet.
When they finally escape—slipping through a side corridor instead of the grand doors—Roy exhales like he’s been holding the breath since dusk.
The car ride home is quiet.
Snow streaks the windows, half-hearted and soft, blurring the city into lights and shadow. Roy loosens his tie. Riza removes her earrings, sets them carefully into her clutch.
Neither speaks.
They don’t need to.
By the time the door to their home closes behind them, the shift is immediate.
Roy’s shoulders drop.
Riza slips out of her heels with a soft sound, flexing her feet like she’s been waiting to do it all night. Roy watches her, something warm and dark curling low in his stomach.
She catches him looking.
Her mouth curves.
“You did well,” she says.
He huffs. “I survived.”
She steps closer, fingers already working the buttons of his coat. “You behaved.”
There it is.
The word lands between them with intent.
Roy’s hands come up automatically, resting at her hips, thumbs pressing lightly like he’s checking that she’s real.
“You were touching me all night,” he murmurs.
She doesn’t look offended. She looks amused.
“I was correcting your posture,” she says mildly.
He laughs, low. “You brushed my wrist during the toast.”
“You were fidgeting.”
“You leaned in during the donor line.”
“He was boring.”
Her fingers slide the coat off his shoulders. The fabric drops to the floor, forgotten.
Roy tilts his head, eyes dark. “You’re bold tonight.”
“It’s December,” she replies. “People get bold.”
He leans in, mouth brushing near her ear. “You say that like you’re not always like this at home.”
Her breath catches—just barely.
“That’s because you don’t always behave at home.”
She reaches for his tie, loosens it, then pulls him in just enough that their foreheads touch.
The kiss doesn’t happen.
Not yet.
They stand there for a moment, breathing each other in, the space between them charged and familiar and safe.
Roy’s voice drops. “Bedroom?”
Riza smiles. “Eventually.”
She takes his hand and leads him down the hall instead.
The lights stay low. The tree glows softly in the corner, ornaments catching the light. Snow taps faintly at the windows like it wants in.
They stop halfway down the hallway.
Riza turns, presses Roy back gently against the wall. Not forceful. Just decisive.
He lets her.
Always does.
Her hands slide up his chest, over his shoulders, fingers curling into his hair at the nape of his neck. She tilts her head, studying him like she’s taking inventory.
“You’re wound tight,” she says.
He swallows. “You noticed.”
“I always notice.”
Her mouth brushes his jaw. His throat. The place beneath his ear she knows makes him inhale sharply.
“Riza,” he murmurs, half warning, half plea.
She hums softly. “You held yourself together all night.”
Her knee slides between his, subtle but unmistakable.
“Let go,” she whispers.
He does.
His hands tighten at her waist. His breath stutters. The kiss finally lands—slow, deep, unhurried. Not desperate. Not rushed.
Claimed.
They break apart only to laugh softly when he bumps his elbow against the wall.
“Graceful,” she teases.
“I’m being ambushed.”
“You married me,” she reminds him.
He smiles against her mouth. “Best decision of my life.”
They move again, together this time, toward the bedroom.
Coats are shed. Jewelry set aside. Buttons undone with patience and familiarity. No rush. No urgency born of fear that time will be stolen away.
This time is theirs.
The door clicks shut behind them with a finality that feels deliberate.
Riza doesn’t turn on the overhead light. She never does—not for this. The room is lit only by the faint glow of the city outside and the soft spill of Christmas lights from the hallway, muted and warm.
Roy doesn’t move at first.
He waits.
It’s a habit he never quite broke—watching for cues, for orders, for the moment it’s safe to stop holding himself together.
Riza watches him from across the room, coat already gone, sleeves pushed back, hair loose around her shoulders. There’s no rush in her posture. No hesitation.
“You’re still standing,” she says.
It isn’t a reprimand. It’s an observation.
Roy exhales, slow. “You didn’t tell me to sit.”
Her mouth curves—not quite a smile.
“Good,” she says. “You’re listening.”
She steps closer, unbuttoning his shirt with unhurried precision, one button at a time. She doesn’t look down. She watches his face instead—cataloging the way his breath changes, the way his shoulders tense and then ease as her fingers brush warm skin.
“You behaved all night,” she murmurs. “You smiled when you were tired. You let them crowd you. You held yourself still.”
Her hands slide beneath the fabric now, palms warm, grounding. “That takes restraint.”
Roy swallows. His hands hover at her waist, unsure.
Riza catches his wrists easily and presses them flat against his chest.
“Not yet,” she says softly.
The words settle over him like permission and command all at once.
He nods.
She steps back, just enough to look at him fully, eyes dark and intent.
“Sit,” she says.
Roy obeys immediately.
The bed dips beneath his weight. The sound feels loud in the quiet room.
Riza doesn’t touch him for a moment. She lets the pause stretch, lets the tension build until he shifts restlessly, breath shallow.
“Riza,” he says quietly.
She tilts her head. “You sound impatient.”
He lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “I’ve been patient all day.”
“That’s true,” she agrees. “Which is why I’m not going to be.”
She steps between his knees, hands bracing on his thighs, leaning in just enough that her shadow falls over him.
“You don’t have to be careful tonight,” she says.
Roy’s breath stutters.
“You don’t have to lead. You don’t have to decide. You don’t have to hold anything together.”
Her fingers slide up, firm and knowing, settling at his jaw and tilting his face up to hers.
“I’ve got you.”
The words undo him.
His hands grip the sheets, knuckles white, like it’s the only way to keep himself grounded as she kisses him—slow at first, then deeper, claiming. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask. The kind that says you’re mine and you trust me.
When she pulls back, his lips are parted, his eyes dark and unfocused.
“There you are,” she murmurs.
She moves with intention now—guiding him back against the pillows, hands firm, sure, never cruel. Everything she does is deliberate, anchored in trust and years of knowing exactly how far she can push him.
Roy lets himself go pliant beneath her, breath uneven, every response written plainly across his face.
“You always do this,” he manages.
“Do what?”
“Take control,” he says. “Right when I need it.”
Her mouth curves. “That’s because I know when you’re about to break.”
She leans down again, voice low and close. “And because you let me.”
The night stretches around them—unmeasured, unhurried. Clothes are forgotten. Time loses its shape. The room fills with quiet sounds and softer words meant only for each other.
When it’s over—when the intensity ebbs and leaves warmth in its wake—Riza curls in beside him, one hand resting steady on his chest, feeling his heartbeat slow beneath her palm.
Roy lies boneless against the mattress, spent and content in a way the world never sees.
She traces idle patterns along his arm, grounding him back into himself.
“Still with me?” she asks quietly.
He laughs, soft and wrecked. “Always.”
Outside, snow continues to fall, patient and quiet.
Inside, the lights remain low.
And nothing—no title, no duty, no watching world—matters more than this.
Morning arrives quietly—late enough that the light has already softened, filtering through the curtains in pale gold bands.
Roy wakes to warmth.
Not just the room, but her—Riza sprawled half across him, tangled in sheets and his shirt, hair a complete mess in a way that only ever happens when she’s truly exhausted. One arm is thrown over his chest, fingers curled loosely like she fell asleep mid-thought and never let go.
He smiles.
Carefully, he shifts just enough to look at her face. She’s asleep so deeply it borders on unfair, lashes resting against her cheeks, mouth slightly parted. No tension. No vigilance.
He presses a slow kiss to her temple.
She makes a quiet sound—something between a hum and a sigh—and presses closer without waking.
“Good morning to you too,” he murmurs.
She stirs again when he shifts his arm beneath her, tucking it more securely around her shoulders. Her brow furrows faintly, then smooths as she settles back into him.
“Roy,” she mumbles, eyes still closed.
“Yes, love.”
“Is it… morning?”
“Technically.”
She exhales. “Unacceptable.”
He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “You’re the one who insisted we didn’t need to sleep.”
One eye cracks open. “You didn’t object.”
“I’m merely pointing out the cause of your current condition.”
She squints at him, clearly trying to summon authority through exhaustion—and failing. Her grip on his shirt tightens slightly.
“You’re smug,” she says.
“I’m well-rested,” he corrects gently.
She makes a noise of protest and drops her forehead against his collarbone, hiding her face. The tips of her ears are unmistakably pink.
Roy notices immediately.
“Oh,” he says softly, delighted. “There it is.”
She groans. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Use that tone.”
He grins. “Which one?”
“The one that means you’re about to say something you know will make me blush.”
He considers for half a second, then leans down, voice dropping into something warm and intimate.
“You know,” he says, “I think I finally understand why people get so sentimental about Christmas.”
She stills.
“…Why,” she asks carefully.
Roy’s thumb traces idle circles against her arm. “If this is what happens every year,” he continues lightly, “I might start lobbying to make it a daily occurrence.”
She lifts her head just enough to look at him, eyes narrowed—but her cheeks are definitely flushed now.
“Roy.”
“Yes?”
She tries for stern. Misses by a mile. “It’s not meant to be taken literally.”
He feigns thoughtfulness. “That’s disappointing.”
She pushes weakly at his chest, which only results in her collapsing back against him with a small huff of breath.
“You’re enjoying this,” she accuses.
“Immensely,” he admits. “You’re usually so composed in the mornings.”
“I am tired.”
“I can tell,” he says fondly. “You didn’t even correct my phrasing.”
Her eyes drift closed again despite herself. “I don’t have the energy.”
“Tragic.”
She murmurs something unintelligible against his skin.
Roy smiles, presses a kiss to her hair. “Merry Christmas, Riza.”
Her reply comes slower this time, voice soft and sleep-heavy. “Merry Christmas… Roy.”
She relaxes completely, weight settling into him like she has nowhere else she needs to be.
Roy stares at the ceiling, content, one hand resting securely at her back.
“If I play my cards right,” he murmurs to himself, “I might convince her Christmas should be every day.”
Outside, snow blankets the city.
Inside, the morning lingers—warm, quiet, and unhurried.
And neither of them is in any rush to move.