“Calisse de crisse, this is weird.” Despite the sacres, Sam's tone was contemplative, even as she shifted her weight to kick (lightly!) at Lea's door. The lid on the casserole dish in her hands clinked with the movement, but remained secure; it slid just enough to make noise, but served its purpose, as the unmarked marshmallows millimeters below evidenced. “The closest it's come to feeling like Christmas, and still warm enough for shorts. I'm not actually complaining, only observing. It's weird.”