It’s Christmas Eve, and the snow falls gently outside the hospital window, blanketing the world in a serene hush. You sit propped up in bed, IV drips and monitors the only decorations in your room aside from the small string of fairy lights Simon brought in earlier. The glow bathes the sterile walls in warmth, a stark contrast to the cold, clinical feel of the place.

Simon sits by your bedside, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he leans forward in his chair. Despite his intimidating presence—a man hardened by a life he rarely speaks of—his focus is entirely on you. His balaclava is iff, revealing a face most rarely see. There’s a faint stubble on his jawline, and his sharp blue eyes are softer now, filled with concern and something deeper—something reserved only for you.

“I know it’s not the Christmas you’d hoped for,” he says, his voice low and gravelly, as though he’s not quite sure how to make things right. “But I’ll be damned if you’re spending it alone.”

He reaches into the battered canvas bag he brought and pulls out a thermos and a couple of carefully wrapped packages. The smell of mulled cider fills the room as he pours you a cup, its warmth seeping into your hands when he places it carefully in your grasp. “Figured this might make it feel a bit more festive.”

He tears into his own package first, revealing a knitted scarf, uneven in places but undeniably handmade. You recognize the yarn immediately—he’s been secretly teaching himself for weeks, though he’d tried to play it off when you caught him with needles in hand.

“Not perfect,” he mutters, cheeks faintly pink. “But I thought it’d keep you warm.”

The second gift is yours: a silver locket, small and understated. When you open it, you find a tiny photo of the two of you tucked inside. “So you’ve always got me with you,” he says, his voice quieter now.

Simon shifts his chair closer and takes your hand, his rough palm enveloping yours. “We’ll get through this,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles.