As Avery was about to head to the bathroom fir a shower, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. "Emergency meeting," Avery said, sighing. "One of the international partners jumped the schedule."
Noël rubbed his eyes. "On New Year's Eve?"
"Money doesn't sleep," Avery muttered, pulling on his blazer. "But I won't be long."
They headed to the dining room, where Sylvie was already seated, arms folded, hair still styled from the night before. She looked flawless and sleep-deprived.
"Good morning," Noël offered gently as he poured her a cup of tea.
"Morning," she said flatly, not meeting his eyes.
The three of them shared a simple breakfast of buttered toast, scrambled eggs, and sliced fruit. The silence was tense. Avery made casual conversation here and there, but Sylvie didn't speak unless prompted, and Noël mostly kept his head down.
After breakfast, Avery gave Noël a quick kiss on the cheek—subtle, but enough to make Sylvie raise an eyebrow—and disappeared out the front door, car engine revving softly as he left.
Noël started clearing the dishes. Sylvie remained for a while, sipping her tea, before silently rising and heading back to her room. The moment she passed behind him, he could feel it—that pressure, like a low hum crawling under his skin. Alpha aura. Dominance unspoken.
He didn't flinch. He didn't challenge it either. He just kept cleaning, humming softly to himself.
For hours, the house was quiet.
Sylvie lay in bed scrolling through her phone, every few minutes glancing toward the closed door as something wafted through the hallway.
At first, she ignored it.
But then the scent intensified. Rich, savory, warm, and oddly nostalgic. Garlic simmering in oil, a hint of spice, something sweet baking in the oven, and something buttery, probably slow-cooked for hours.
Her stomach growled.
She threw her phone aside and buried her face in her pillow. He better not be good at cooking, she thought irritably. But the smells continued to seep into her room, curling around her like a siren's call.
By the time Avery returned, the table in the dining room was half-filled with beautifully plated dishes: a honey-glazed roast, sautéed greens with crushed cashews, tender stewed mushrooms, crispy potato stacks, and some sort of custard tart cooling beside a bottle of juice.
Avery leaned on the wall, watching Noël work his magic in the open kitchen.
"You've been busy," he said.
Noël turned, cheeks pink from the heat of the stove. "I thought it'd be nice to celebrate here. Just the three of us."
Avery sat at the table, and Noël plated a few finished dishes for him to taste. As he took a bite, his expression melted into one of smug satisfaction.
"I think Sylvie's going to cave."
As if summoned by name, footsteps echoed down the hallway. Sylvie appeared at the dining room entrance, still dressed in her lounge clothes, hair messily pulled up now.
She didn't say anything. Just stood there, arms crossed, gaze flicking from Avery to Noël… to the food.
"Hungry?" Noël asked softly.
She raised an eyebrow. "Is that stew?"
He nodded. "Made with oxtail and cinnamon bark. It's an old recipe I learned in my second year."
She approached slowly, almost reluctantly, as if she didn't want to look too eager. Noël turned back to the stove, lifted a plate off the counter, and handed it to her.
"I made this one for you."
Their fingers brushed. Sylvie took the plate wordlessly, eyeing the food like it might explode.
She sat. Ate.
And said nothing.
But her plate emptied faster than Avery's.
Avery shot Noël a knowing look, smugness tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Sylvie helped herself to seconds without comment.
"Where did you learn to cook like this?" she asked suddenly.
"Oh," Noël looked down shyly. "I went to culinary school before… dropping out."
Sylvie blinked at him, studying him for a moment. "Waste."
Avery raised an eyebrow. "What, now you care?"
Sylvie ignored him. But when Noël passed her a slice of tart, she accepted it quietly, then muttered, "Thank you."
______
That evening, the three of them sat together around the table under soft lights. The tension had faded to something gentler. Sylvie still didn't talk much, but she didn't leave either. And when Noël asked her if she liked the custard tart, she gave a faint nod and murmured, "It's good," without sarcasm.
That was enough.
Around 11:30 pm, Noël excused himself for a moment and stepped out onto the balcony with his phone. The city was already alive with anticipation—music drifting from apartments, laughter on the streets below.
He dialed Leo.
The call connected instantly.
"Hey!" Noël greeted. "Happy almost-new-year!"
"NOËL," Leo practically yelled. "Oh my god, I was just thinking about you!"
They chatted for nearly twenty minutes about the house, the food, the fact that Sylvie hadn't tried to kill him yet. Leo laughed at everything, his joy infectious, grounding Noël like always.
Behind him, fireworks began lighting up the sky.
Noël leaned against the railing, smiling as the colors exploded above.
Avery joined him on the balcony, sliding an arm around his waist. A minute later, Sylvie followed, carrying a wine glass and her usual air of disinterest, but she stood beside them anyway, watching the fireworks without saying a word.
The sky shimmered with gold and red.
A new year.
A quiet peace.
And for once, Noël didn't feel like the outsider in the room.
"Avery," Noël said after a while, softly.
"Hm?"
"Thank you. For today."
Avery looked down at him, his gaze warm. "You made today what it was."
Sylvie didn't say anything. But she took another sip from her drink, and in a rare moment of openness, said under her breath:
"I'd forgotten what what a normal new year felt like."
Noël turned to her, blinking. Sylvie didn't meet his eyes, but the tiniest smile played at the corner of her lips.