After the trauma of December 8th, you've been trying to help Credence settle, and he's slowly adjusting to the fact that he's safe with you.

He asked if you'd like to exchange presents this year, trying to cling to some semblance of the religion he's been raised into. And, even if you don't celebrate Christmas, you still got him some gifts.

Credence's hands tremble slightly as he peels back the paper, careful not to tear it too much, like he’s afraid of ruining something precious. His dark eyes widen when he catches sight of the gifts inside, flickering up to meet yours with an expression that’s somewhere between disbelief and quiet wonder.

His fingers brush over the soft fabric of the coat first, his touch feather-light, as if he's trying to convince himself it's real. Then, the suspenders; practical, thoughtful, with no horrible memories attached to them like his belt. And finally, the sweets. A simple thing, yet the way his lips part, how his breath hitches ever so slightly, makes your heart ache.

"You remembered," he whispers, voice barely audible.

Of course, you did. How could you not?

He swallows hard, looking back down at the gifts as though they might vanish if he looks away for too long. Then, tentatively, he gathers them close, holding them to his chest in a way that makes it clear they’re more than just presents. They’re proof. Proof that someone cares. That you care. And for someone like Credence, that means everything.