Archive of Our Own

Pyroar hummed softly, a rolling hum deep in her chest as she butted her forehead against the male Pyroar beside her. He answered with his own gentle rumble, pressing back just enough to say I’m here. They lay on the floorboards of the old Lysandre Café—her trainer’s sanctuary and prison both—with Charizard and Talonflame dozing nearby, the warmth of their bodies filling the empty room.

They had just helped finish putting up what little decorations Grisham and Griselle allowed themselves each year. Nothing flashy, nothing bright enough to attract attention. Just… enough. Enough to keep some thin thread of tradition alive. Enough to pretend the holiday wasn’t as hollow as the years that had carved their trainers thin.

The main lights were off. Only the faint glow of the decorations sparkled against the darkness. A few strings of tinsel sagged across the ceiling beams. One or two strands of lights flickered along the upper walls—old, uneven, a little patchy in places. On top of the counter sat a tiny Christmas tree, so small it looked almost sheepish sitting alone in a café that once bustled with noise and customers. Its lights blinked in mismatched colors. A strip of faded tinsel curled around it like an afterthought. A small, modest star—one that must have been older than Pyroar herself—rested crookedly at the top.

Griselle sat at one of the café tables, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of cocoa. Candlelight flickered over her face, softening the heavy shadows beneath her eyes. She stared at the window but didn’t see the outside world—didn’t see the children running by, their giggles like little bells bouncing against the glass. Her mind was far away.

Grisham stood at the counter near the tree, leaning against its edge. The blinking lights reflected in the lenses of his glasses, tinting his eyes in soft greens and reds. He wasn’t looking at the tree. His gaze was downward, inward, somewhere painful. Somewhere old.

Outside, Lumiose was alive with celebration. Christmas Eve. Families reunited. Lights everywhere. Songs drifting through the cold air. Warm homes, and equally warm hearts.

But in here, in the abandoned café, was silence. The holiday meant something different for Team Flare Nouveau. A reminder. A wound. A quiet ache. A childhood traded away for someone else’s dream.A future stolen before it ever formed.

Wasted youth.

Pyroar lifted her head and let out a soft, motherly grunt—calling to her trainer the way a lioness would call to her cubs. She stood up and padded across the floor and gently butted Grisham’s dangling hand with her mane. At first his hand just laid atop her head, but then she felt his fingers curl, scratching gently behind her ears, sliding down her neck the way he always did when his thoughts grew too heavy. She pressed into the touch, rumbling, offering comfort the only way she knew.

Across the room, the male Pyroar melted into Griselle’s side as she stroked his mane with one hand while the other reached up to scratch Talonflame atop her head. Talonflame warbled, leaning into Griselle’s touch, eyes half-lidded with contentment.

Charizard rose with a grumble and stomped over to Grisham. He nudged him with the blunt of his snout, then huffed a puff of warm air directly into Grisham’s face. His glasses fogged instantly.

Grisham blinked, surprised. “Oh—we almost forgot your Christmas dinner, didn’t we?” he murmured, patting the dragon on the nose. “My apologies, Charizard.”

He took the last sip of his cocoa and slipped into the back kitchen.

Pyroar grunted appreciatively, then returned to the male Pyroar, who toppled onto his side with deliberate dramatics, letting her settle over him. She licked his cheek, and he hummed, nuzzling into her mane.

“It should be illegal how cute you two are being right now,” Griselle mumbled, without any real sass behind it. She took another sip of cocoa, then turned toward the window again as more children rushed by, their scarves trailing behind them like comets. Their laughter echoed faintly through the glass.

Her shoulders slumped. Just slightly. Barely noticeable—unless you were a Pyroar who knew her heartbeat.

Then, Pyroar’s ears flicked upward.

A soft crunch of footsteps on snow outside the door. Too light to be a delivery worker. Too slow to be a running child. Not a drunk heading home. Not a passerby.

Pyroar rose from her male counterpart’s warmth, eyes narrowing, muscles alert but not tense. She approached the door on silent paws.

The bell above it jingled faintly—a soft, clear chime breaking the silence. And then, the door cracked open.

The cold air followed you in like a curious ghost, brushing past your legs as the café door swung open. The bell above it jingled—soft, surprised—before settling again.

Inside, the Lysandre Café was dim and warm, lit only by a handful of mismatched string lights and the faint shimmer of a tiny Christmas tree on the counter. You blinked against the contrast, breath catching in your chest at the sight of it all. It looked…cute. A little sad, but cute.

And very different from the bustling, jolly Quasartico holiday party you were meant to be walking toward.

“Pyroar?” you whispered as the fire-lioness came padding toward you immediately, her big mane catching the colored glow of the lights. She chuffed at you and pushed her head into your palm the moment you reached down.

“You’re spoiled, you know that?” you murmured, scratching under her chin.

Charizard wasn’t far behind. He rumbled a greeting deep in his chest, warm breath puffing against your cheek. He nudged your shoulder like he expected something—probably food, or praise, or the usual chin scratch he demanded every time he saw you.

You laughed softly and obliged, running your hand along his jawline. “I swear… you two are worse than Stoutlands when it comes to greeting people.”

Only when both Pokémon were satisfied did you lift your gaze to take in the room.

The little tree. The garland. The flickering lights. Two stockings—one stitched with G, one with Gris—hanging from a shelf.

Your smile faltered.

It was festive, yes. Warm, yes. But underneath… everything felt heavy. Sparse. Like someone had tried to make a space cheerful with whatever scraps they had, and it wasn’t quite enough to fill the emptiness.

Your eyes shifted to the far table.

Griselle sat alone, fingers wrapped tight around her mug of cocoa, her posture too tense for someone supposedly enjoying a holiday evening. Candlelight flickered over her face, illuminating the deep-set aching she was trying—and failing—to hide.

She didn’t even look up at first. When she finally did, her eyes widened slightly. Not annoyed. Not dramatic. Not sing-song sassy like usual. Just… tired.

“…What are you doing here?” she asked, voice dull in a way you weren’t used to.

You hesitated, suddenly feeling intrusive. “I saw the lights on,” you said gently. “I was headed to Quasartico, and—well—the café usually isn’t lit at this hour. I just wanted to check everything was okay.”

Her jaw tightened. There it was—the spark of irritation she had been too hollow to summon earlier.

“And you thought barging in uninvited was the best way to do that?” she snapped, but even her annoyance sounded half-hearted. Like the season had wrung out all her sharper edges.

“I didn’t barge,” you countered softly. “And Pyroar let me in, anyway.”

The female Pyroar immediately let out a proud little noise as if to say, Yes. I did. And I’d do it again.

Griselle shot her a betrayed glare.

Pyroar didn’t care.

You set down the bag you had been carrying, and stepped a little closer to the tree, lowering your voice. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just… didn’t realize you two were here. Alone.”

Something flickered in Griselle’s eyes. Something like a wound being touched.

“Yeah, well, we do this every year,” she muttered, staring into her mug. “That’s all.”

Before you could respond, the kitchen door swung open.

“Alright, dinner’s rea—”

Grisham froze mid-step.

His glasses caught the colorful lights from the tiny tree, reflections scattering across his lenses. He held a large metal tray piled with carefully prepared Pokémon meals, steam rising in soft curls.

His gaze locked onto you. For a moment, he looked like he wasn’t sure you were real— like you were a memory he had once tried very hard not to want. He cleared his throat.

“I see we have company,” he said quietly. Not a question. Not a reprimand. Just soft and open. Almost hopeful.

Behind you, Pyroar nudged you forward—subtle, but firm, mothering instinct and matchmaking intent all rolled into one.

“Yeah,” you breathed, offering him a small smile. “I… saw the lights and wanted to check in.”

His shoulders lowered, tension loosening just slightly. “Oh,” he said, swallowing once. “Good. I—” He stopped, words failing him. Feelings too close to the surface.

The tray in his hands trembled just a little.

Griselle groaned into her cocoa.

You stepped further into the café, your boots leaving faint prints across the old wooden floor. The warmth hit your cheeks, soft and inviting—nothing like the loud, boisterous cold of the city streets outside.

Grisham carefully set the Pokémon dinners on a table, wiped his palms against his apron, and attempted something like a polite smile.

“Did you… need something?” he asked, quietly. “Or were you just passing by?”

You shrugged, light and teasing. “I saw the lights, thought someone broke in. Turns out it’s just you two, having your own Christmas celebration.”

Griselle made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a groan, dropping her face into her cocoa.

“‘Celebration,’ she says…” she muttered.

You grinned, undeterred. “So, what’s the tradition? You two always decorate the café on Christmas Eve?”

Grisham stiffened as Griselle’s eyes snapped up, and for a moment she just stared at you, wide-eyed, like you’d stepped directly on a bruise she didn’t know was exposed.

Then—softly, unexpectedly—she let out a brittle laugh.

“Oh, if only,” she muttered, fingers tightening around her mug. “You should’ve seen Christmas when we were with Team Flare.”

You blinked. Neither she, nor Grisham, ever talked about the old days unless they were forced to.

Griselle continued anyway, voice drifting somewhere far away.

“There were parties. Real, big, ones. Whole rooms drowning in gold ribbons and chandeliers. Trees so tall you had to fly up to decorate the top. Light shows, music, performances…” Her lips twitched. “Lysandre used to demand elegance at every corner. Nothing was ever too much. Holidays least of all.”

She looked around the dim café—the tiny tree, the mismatched lights, the sparse garland—and something in her expression cracked.

“And now,” she murmured, voice tightening, “it’s just… this.” Not angry. Not self-pitying. Just sad.

“After everything fell apart,” Grisham added quietly, “it seemed easier to keep things small. Quiet. Not to draw attention.” His gaze dropped.

“And the memories… aren’t always easy to face.”

Your heart squeezed. The sharp sting of instant regret blooming hot in your chest. You hadn’t considered why they might be here, alone in an old café, trying to summon warmth from scraps. But it all made sense. Why you only saw two stockings hung on the wall, or why the garland was short and sparse. The tiny tree, and the candles. The decorations were barely enough to light the room

And it wasn’t that they didn’t want to decorate.

It was that they wanted to so badly that it hurt.

These were the only decorations they could bear to put up. Anything else must’ve held memories too old, too heavy.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured. “I didn’t mean to bring up anything painful. I just—”

“It’s fine. We’re used to it,” Griselle snapped, though it lacked venom. More brittle than angry. “We put out what we can handle. That’s enough.” But you heard it—the strain. The longing. The ache.

And the way Grisham confirmed it with a small nod made your chest twist even harder.

“Are these the only decorations you kept?” you asked, gently.

Grisham shook his head. “No. There are totes—many totes—in the lab storage. Old decorations, from… before.”

“We don’t need all that,” Griselle quickly tacked on, her voice tightening like a pulled thread.

But her eyes lingered on the tiny, crooked star atop the miniature tree—and, you realized she was lying to herself more than to you.

The silence stretched, gentle and uncomfortable all at once.

Then Grisham cleared his throat and offered a small bow of his head. “Thank you for stopping by. Really. I—we, appreciate it. But you should go. Quasartico’s holiday party will be starting soon, won’t it?”

You tilted your head. “You’re not going?”

He gave a tiny, humorless smile. “It’d be easier for everyone if we didn’t show up. Our presence can be… upsetting at public functions.” He nudged his glasses higher. “Besides. It’s Christmas Eve. You should enjoy yourself. Go. Have fun.”

You looked at him. At his downcast eyes. At Griselle trying to pretend her cocoa was more interesting than the empty café. At the Pokémon curled together, doing their best to fill the space with warmth that their humans struggled to give tonight.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket when you pulled it out. You tapped away on it, the sound of messages sending and coming filling the air.

It seemed like forever, but finally, you put your phone away, heart warm despite the cold outside.

Then, you turned toward Grisham, hands on your hips. “Actually,” you announced, “I’m not going anywhere tonight.”

Grisham blinked. Griselle’s head snapped up so fast her curls frizzed.

“You’re—what?” she sputtered. “Why?!”

You pointed toward the tree.

“Because this room is not nearly festive enough,” you said with a bright grin. “Now show me those storage bins.”

Grisham stared at you. Long. Quiet. Almost disbelieving. And in the faint glow of the tiny tree lights—his shoulders loosened. Just a little. His expression softened.

“…All right,” he said, voice low. “This way.”

He led you toward the familiar basement where the labs were, Pyroar trotted after you both, tail high, whiskers twitching with approval.

Griselle groaned loudly into her cocoa.

But even she couldn’t hide the tiny smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

The stairwell creaked under your boots as you followed Grisham downward, Pyroar’s warm body brushing your hip every few steps as she insisted on staying between you and the shadows.

The deeper you went, the more the air changed—colder, sharper, charged with the faint hum of old, dormant machinery.

Dim red emergency lights flickered every few seconds, washing the hall in pulses of color that made Grisham’s silhouette shift and blur. It felt like the labs were breathing again after years of holding their breath.

You exhaled softly. “I forgot how creepy it gets down here.”

Grisham let out a quiet, humorless hum. “I find it peaceful. But… that might be because I’m used to it.”

“Right,” you said with a grin, “you practically live down here.”

His ears turned faintly pink.

“I do not—”

A sudden, echoing hiss sliced through the hallway. Pyroar instantly stepped in front of you, mane flaring bright.

You froze. Grisham did too.

From the shadows, an Arbok uncoiled itself from around a cluster of metal crates, hood stretching wide as its dark eyes flickered in the dim light. It wasn’t attacking—just startled, territorial. And still very, very big.

Grisham moved without thinking. His arm shot out in front of you.

“Stay behind me.”

The firmness in his voice made your heart jump in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

Pyroar growled low, embers licking between her teeth.

“Easy, girl,” Grisham murmured to her. “Just warn it off.”

Pyroar’s mane ignited, warmth blooming across your face. She took one step forward, powerful and regal, and gave a roar.

Arbok hesitated, tongue flicking. Then—with a low hiss—it slithered back into the dark, vanishing a hole in the wall.

You exhaled shakily. “Um. Thanks.”

Grisham didn’t look at you. His eyes remained on the spot where Arbok had disappeared. “Arbok here tend to be skittish, not aggressive,” he said quietly. “They won’t bother you as long as we give them space.” He finally turned his head just a little.

“But… still. I’d rather you stayed close.”

Your pulse thrummed. “Noted.”

When Pyroar was satisfied the threat was gone, she returned to your side, brushing your leg as if in approval that you had survived a near-death experience (that she absolutely had under control).

You smiled and scratched behind her ear. “Good girl.”

Grisham cleared his throat softly.

“The storage room is just ahead.”

He led you to a wide, heavy metal door. With a beep of his ID key, it slid open, revealing—an avalanche waiting to happen.

Boxes. Totes. Crates. All stacked precariously under flickering overhead lights.

Each one was labeled in Grisham’s meticulous handwriting:

Griselle’s voice echoed faintly in your mind.

We put out what we can handle.”

“Wow,” you said, slightly impressed, “This is way more than I thought you all had.”

Grisham stepped beside you, adjusting his glasses in that tiny nervous habit of his.

“Like Griselle said, we used to do… more.” He paused, hands tucked behind his back. “Team Flare holiday displays were—well.” He made a helpless gesture. “Excessive.”

“I can see that, now”

He crouched beside a bin labeled CAFE STOCK and cracked it open. Inside were strands of lights in every color, rolls of ribbon, a few ceramic ornaments with faded patterns, and—

“Oh wow, is that a Litleo plush?” you laughed, pulling it out.

He reached up to steady it, hand brushing yours before he jerked back. “It’s… Griselle’s,” he muttered. “She was very attached to it as a child.”

You softened. “Then we’re definitely bringing it upstairs.”

A small smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

As you rummaged further, you uncovered decorations older than you expected—sleek white-and-red ornaments adorned with the stylized flare emblem, metallic ribbon spools, glittering gold tassels Lysandre himself would’ve approved of.

Your hand hovered over a box labeled FLARE ORNAMENTS — DO NOT OPEN.

“Should we…?”

“No.”

You turned.

He wasn’t angry. Just… sad. “We only keep them…because throwing them away feels like erasing our childhood,” he said quietly. “But using them…” He shook his head. “It feels wrong too.”

You closed the lid gently. “I get it,” you said, gently. “It’ll stay here, where it belongs.”

He met your eyes then—his filled with gratitude—and for a heartbeat, something soft and unguarded passed between you.

Pyroar chuffed quietly as if to say, Good. He needed that.

You cleared your throat, forcing brightness back into your tone.

“Okay! Let’s start bringing everything we’re using upstairs. We’re going big.”

Grisham blinked. “But—”

“No buts,” you grinned, grabbing a tote of lights. “Tonight, Grisham, we’re bringing joy back into this place.”

He stared at you.

Then—

“…All right,” he said softly.

And the two of you began hauling boxes up the stairs, step by step, warmth growing between you with each movement.

The moment the two of you stepped out of the secret entrance, Griselle nearly dropped her mug.

“…WHAT in Kalos is THAT?” she demanded, staring at the three totes you carried between you.

“Festive spirit,” you chirped.

“It’s an invasion,” she muttered.

Pyroar padded proudly behind you, tail held high like she was leading a parade. Charizard watched from the counter, eyes narrowing as if judging your audacity… before rumbling approvingly when he saw the ribbon spools.

“You’re helping,” you informed him.

Charizard snorted. Translation: Fine.

Grisham set the totes down gently, dust puffing up around them.

You clapped your hands together.

“All right! Let’s transform this place.”

Griselle sighed dramatically into her cocoa. “Arceus preserve us…”

But even as she said it, she didn’t leave. She didn’t retreat. She stayed right where she was and watched—eyes softening slightly with every new light you hung.

You started with the lights first. Standing on a chair on a chair, you carefully draped a long strand of multicolored lights along the support beam. Grisham steadied the chair below.

“You don’t have to hold it,” you teased. “Even if I fall, I don’t have a long way down.

He shot you a dry look. “Humor me.”

Every time you leaned forward, you felt the light brush of his fingertips hovering near your ankle—never touching, but close enough to warm the air between you.

When you were finished with the lights, you began doling out jobs to the pokemon.

Pyroar proudly carried pieces of tinsel in her teeth, depositing them where you pointed. Charizard claimed the highest shelves, draping gold garland with surprising gentleness.

“I didn’t think he liked decorating,” Grisham said, watching Charizard work.

You whispered conspiratorially, “He likes being helpful. Don’t tell him I know.”

Charizard snorted out puffs of smoke from above, pretending he didn’t hear.

Griselle finally caved and helped you arrange small candles and ribbon centerpieces on the tables.

She muttered, “Don’t make them too cute.”

Five minutes later she had crafted the most adorable ribbon bows and denied everything.

With the help of both of their Pokémon, you strung new lights around the tiny tree, added bright ribbon spirals, and topped it with the Delibird plush you found downstairs.

Griselle actually gasped. Grisham rubbed the back of his neck, looking at the newly brightened corner of the café with a strange, wistful smile.

“It looks… lively,” he said quietly.

You nudged him with your shoulder. “That’s the point.”

His cheeks flushed faintly.

“Thank you.”

Later, when Griselle and her Pokémon were tangled up in tinsel and arguing over ornament placement, you and Grisham ended up hanging the last ribbon strand together near the window.

Snow drifted outside, glowing gold in the warm café light.

You reached up to pin the ribbon in place, and Grisham held the other side.

Your hands brushed.

Both of you froze.

“…Sorry,” he murmured.

“You’re good,” you said, smiling.

He swallowed.

“You know,” he said after a moment, his voice low, “I didn’t expect you to stay. Not tonight. Not when you have other places to be.”

You gave him a quiet smile and shrugged.

“I wanted to be here.”

“Why?”

It wasn’t defensive—more… unbelieving. Fragile.

You met his eyes.

“Because no one should spend Christmas Eve alone,” you said. “And because… I like being around you.” The words hung between you, warm as the lights.

Grisham’s breath caught. He looked away, just for a moment, gathering himself. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips.

“I’m… glad you’re here,” he whispered.

You let out a soft breath. “I was thinking about my first time down in the labs,” you said. “When you unlocked everything for me. When I learned the truth about AZ, and Ange…” You paused. “And about you.”

He stiffened. “You don’t have to bring that up.”

“I know,” you said gently. “But I will. Because it’s part of who you are. And part of why I trust you.”

His eyes widened. Trust. The one thing people rarely gave him.

“You defended Lumiose,” you continued. “Even when it hurt. Even when it risked everything. You cared. You always cared.”

Grisham swallowed hard. “You don’t know what that means to me,” he whispered.

You smiled softly. “I think I do.”

The café glowed around you—warm, bright, full of life again.

Grisham looked at you the way someone looks at a small miracle they weren’t sure they deserved.

Then—

“It’s beautiful,” he said, staring at the transformed café.

You hummed in agreement.

Before either of you could say anything else—

“IF ONE MORE LIGHT STRAND FALLS OFF THIS STUPID WALL I’M SETTING FIRE TO ALL OF IT—”

Talonflame chirped in offense as Griselle grumbled as the two of them set about to hang the offensive blinking strand back up.

You and Grisham burst into soft laughter.

And the warmth between you settled in, deep and sure.

The café glowed with a gentle gold warmth—garland shimmering, candles flickering, the tiny tree glowing brighter than it ever had.

Griselle had gone into the back room to “get more cocoa powder,” which you suspected was code for letting you and Grisham breathe for five seconds. Pyroar sprawled at the foot of the tree, pretending to nap but watching with one open eye.

You and Grisham stood near the counter, both of you quietly admiring the results of your hard work. The lights reflected in his glasses—soft blues and reds and greens—like they were painting stories across his face.

"I know this place holds a lot of memories for you both. Some good, some bad. Mostly bad right now, I think." You paused, looking at him. "I can't erase those bad memories. But, I thought, perhaps, I could help make new ones. Better ones."

He hummed. "I...am very grateful."

You smiled, and then you remembered something. “Oh! I have something for you.” You went to find your bag you placed on the floor when you first arrived.

His head lifted slightly, confused. “For… me?”

You smiled and reached into your bag. What you pulled out was a small cloth bundle wrapped carefully in tissue, tied with a silver ribbon.

He accepted it with both hands—as he always did—gentle, cautious, like the world might break if he handled it wrong. He slowly untied the ribbon. Unfolded the cloth. Unwrapped the layers.

And froze.

Inside was a small, living sapling—tiny emerald leaves reaching, roots wrapped neatly in protective soil, the stem delicate but determined.

On the small label you’d written:

Café Montmélus Arabica

Heirloom Kalos variety — high-altitude, premium-grade beans

Grisham stared, and you watched his whole world tilt.

“I know Café Nouveau uses cheaper beans,” you said softly, “because that’s what you can afford. But you deserve something better. And… I thought maybe you could grow your own. With the labs and all, I figured you could set up grow lights or a greenhouse, or something.”

Still, he didn’t move. Nor did he speak.

“Grisham?” you said, carefully.

His breath trembled out of him.

“You…” He swallowed hard, voice cracking. “You found Montmélus?”

You nodded. “I know it’s rare and expensive. But it’s known for being the best in Kalos. And I thought Café Nouveau should have something that’s truly yours. Something you don’t have to compromise on. Because even those who can’t afford the most expensive things deserve to enjoy nice things.”

He closed his eyes. And when he opened them, grief and awe and something unbearably warm all reflected back at you.

“You brought me something alive,” he added, voice unsteady. “Something that grows. Something that doesn’t come with memories attached. Something new. Something good.” He pressed a shaking hand to his chest, sapling cradled in the other. “For the café. For me. For… us.”

The last word slipped out before he could stop it.

Your throat tightened, and you stepped closer, hands trembling slightly.

“No one has ever believed in me like this,” he continued. “No one has ever given me something with this much hope in it. I don’t—” His voice cracked entirely. “I don’t know how to hold this feeling.”

You touched his free hand.

He looked down at your fingers against his. Then up into your eyes.

“I…love you.”

You opened your mouth slight, a small gasp escaping at the confession.

“I’ve been trying to ignore it,” he said, voice trembling, “because I thought it would be easier. I thought you’d never look at me that way, thought it was enough just to… stand near you. Enjoy battling you if we were ever matched up in the Royale.” His breath hitched. “But tonight—seeing what you did for me… for Griselle… for our café—I can’t hide it anymore.”

Your throat tightened.

“Grisham…”

He looked terrified. Hopeful. Ungrounded.

“I want to build something with you,” he whispered, raw and honest. “Something real. Something that grows. Like this.” He lifted the little sapling just slightly. “A new life for me, but with you in it.”

The warmth in your chest nearly melted you. You took his face in your hands. And he let out a shaky breath of relief— as if he’d been waiting his whole life for someone to hold him gently.

You leaned up and kissed him.

He stilled for a heartbeat—then softened, melting into you like warmth into winter. His hand slid to your waist, careful but sure, pulling you closer as your lips moved together in a slow, tender, breath-stealing kiss.

When you finally broke for air, foreheads touching, he whispered:

“Thank you… for giving me a future. And…and for helping me believe again.”

You brushed your thumb along his cheek, smiling, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes.

“Merry Christmas, Grisham.”

He leaned in, closing the distance between the two of you.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered back, lips barely touching yours, “my—”

The front door slammed open.

Griselle poked head out of the kitchen.

"What the hell--"

“HELLOOOO? ARE WE LATE? WHO STARTED WITHOUT US?!” Urbain hollered as the entire Team MZ squad and familiar Royale trainers poured in behind him, arms full of presents, cocoa, pastries, decorations, and noise.

You and Grisham broke apart instantly—but his hand around your waist stayed.

Lida came in behind him, balancing a crate of pastries. “I swear, how did you convince me to carry this— oh wow. This looks amazing.”

Naveen followed, arms crossed, unimpressed. “You did a good job,” she said, which was her version of high praise.

Then came Canari, Gwynn, Ivor, Terragon, Lebanne, Jacinthe, Philippe—

And finally…

Corbeau.

Wearing his signature coat lined with magenta drips and an expression like he was evaluating a piece of art. He stepped inside, looking around the newly decorated café with a slow, approving nod.

“Well,” he murmured, “it seems the old Lysandre haunt has found new life.”

Corbeau’s yellow eyes flicked toward the two of you—lingering on your joined hands—then drifting to the arm Grisham had gently, protectively settled around your waist. He smiled. That dangerous, slow, amused smile.

“Well, well,” he drawled, closing the distance with a smooth, elegant stride. “I leave you alone for five minutes, and Grisham accomplishes what I could not.”

You blinked.

Corbeau offered Grisham a small bow of respect. “Congratulations. Truly.”

You looked back and forth between the two men. “Mm…I feel like I’m missing something here…”

Grisham—calm, steady, composed—rested his hand a little more firmly on your waist. “No need for theatrics, Corbeau,” he said smoothly. “She chose me.”

Corbeau laughed softly. “Oh, I know. I can see that.” His gaze flicked to the way Grisham held you—possessive, but gentle. “You always did have a quiet strength beneath it all. I should have taken the competition more seriously.”

“C-competition?” you sputtered.

Corbeau turned his attention to you, expression warm and wicked. “Ma chère, did you truly not realize? The moment you entered our lives in Lumiose, half of us fell in love with you.

“Half— HALF—?!”

Grisham’s fingers stroked your waist in a soothing motion. “Pay him no mind, sweet. Corbeau envies what he cannot have.”

Corbeau placed a dramatic hand over his heart. “Ah, but I am a gentleman. I know better than to pursue a woman who is already claimed.”

You felt yourself grow how with annoyance. “CLAIMED!? EXCUSE ME, SIR—"

Then, Corbeau’s eyes slid to you.

Lingering.

Smoldering.

“Or do I?”

Completely stunned at the turn of events, you could only gap.

Then, Philippe swooped in with supernatural speed, grabbing Corbeau by the back of his jacket, and started dragging him away towards the pastries.

“ALRIGHT, THAT’S ENOUGH, BOSS,” Philippe barked, before turning and hollering over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, he doesn’t mean it! I promise!”

Corbeau lifted his hands in surrender but flashed you one last teasing grin. “Congratulations, again,, Grisham,” he called out. “Be sure to treat our angel well, or someone else will!”

“Aww, jeez, boss! Knock it off!”

And just like that—the café exploded into warmth and laughter.

Gwynn hung extra lights. Naveen put music on. Terragon started passing out cider. Jacinthe insisted the decorations needed “just a little more sparkle” and dumped glitter everywhere. Ivor tried to stop her and failed instantly.

Through all of it, Grisham stayed right beside you. Cool, calm, and entirely unfazed. He leaned close, voice a soft rumble meant only for you.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “There was no competition.”

You lifted a brow at him.

His thumb stroked your hip gently.

“Because I knew…that your heart was already coming to me.”

You almost swooned.

Team MZ cheered as Philippe announced cocoa for everyone. Pokémon chattered happily around the tables. The tiny coffee sapling glowed in the warm lights of the café.

And surrounded by laughter, friends, found family, and a tiny Montmélus coffee sapling glowing softly under the café lights…

It felt like the beginning of something beautiful.