The Christmas Song (Merry Christmas to You)—Nat “King” Cole It was Christmas morning in Hawthorne House. You were the first one awake, rising bright and early at 4:52. You stroll down the stairs in your red flannel pajamas, a long sleeve shirt and pants. As you descend the grand stairs, you spot a familiar silhouette on the couch, arms stretched out, left hand holding a glass of something amber. Grayson Davenport Hawthorne. Once you reach the bottom of the staircase, you glance out of the floor-to-ceiling windows, where it appears to still be pitch-black. It’s always darkest before dawn. You wordlessly walk over to the couch, finding Grayson already dressed in his signature tailored ensemble, minus the suit jacket. His white shirt is slightly undone, two buttons down. His blonde hair is slightly disheveled as his storm-gray eyes are tinted by the fire as he stares into it. The grand Christmas tree is fully lit, gifts of all sizes under and around it. The fireplace is burning, small crackles the only noise in the living room. To a stranger, it wouldn’t look like Grayson reacted at all to your presence. But you knew him well enough to notice the slight tensing of his shoulders, the way his hands tightened around the glass, and the veins under his skin moving ever-so-slightly.