Enjin wasn’t the type to believe in wishes.

He scoffed at them, really—thought they were for people who hadn’t learned how cruel the world could be yet. Still, that Christmas Eve, sitting alone in his dimly lit room, he found himself staring at the small, uneven tree he’d somehow ended up with. It leaned a little to the left. The lights flickered. It was imperfect.

So was he.

He held a cigarette between his fingers, unlit, forgotten. His thoughts drifted somewhere he didn’t usually allow them to go.

"If I could wish for anything…"

His jaw tightened. The image came uninvited—you. Warm, real. Someone who looked at him like he wasn’t a broken man waiting to be tossed aside. Someone who didn’t flinch at his sharp edges. Someone who chose him.

He exhaled slowly, almost annoyed at himself.

“Tch. Stupid,” he muttered, glancing at the tree. “Like that’d ever happen.”

Still… quietly, under his breath, he added, “…but if miracles exist—just this once.”

Morning came.

Sunlight spilled through the cracked window, dust floating in the air. Enjin groaned, rolling over, already prepared for another day of nothing changing.

Then he froze at the sound of a soft rustle.

Under the Christmas tree—half tangled in lights, wrapped in a blanket instead of wrapping paper—you were there.

Alive. Real. Breathing.

For a full ten seconds, Enjin didn’t move. His brain refused to catch up with what his eyes were seeing.

“…No way,” he whispered.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

He was at your side in seconds, crouching, staring like if he blinked you’d disappear.

“…You’re not junk,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Then he laughed—quiet, stunned, disbelieving—and ran a hand through his hair.

“So that’s how it is,” he said, eyes locked on you now. “I make one stupid wish… and the universe decides to mess with me.”

But his voice softened as he offered you his hand.

"Guess I'll keep you, then."