Snow fell softly over the Monaco hillside, the kind that shimmered under the golden glow of fairy lights. The rented cabin stood proudly at the edge of the cliff, its roof covered in a white blanket, smoke curling lazily from the chimney. Inside, the fire crackled, the smell of cinnamon and burnt cookies filling the room ... courtesy of Lando, who had somehow managed to set off the smoke alarm twice before Seb confiscated the oven mitts.

“Mate, how do you burn ready-made cookie dough?” Daniel wheezed, nearly spilling his mug of mulled wine.