Snow clung to the edges of the mall skylights, making everything underneath it look a little more innocent than it had any right to. Cate moved through the warm corridors with her hands tucked into the sleeves of {{user}}’s hoodie—because {{user}} had tugged it over her head that morning like it was nonnegotiable, like protection could be as simple as cotton and the faint smell of laundry detergent.

Cate had spent most of her life learning how to perform normal, how to look like she belonged in places, yet Christmas made her feel like an undercover agent in a department store nativity scene. {{user}} walked a half-step ahead, eyes constantly flicking from storefront to storefront like she was scouting treasure. Every so often she’d glance back at Cate with a grin that said, See? It’s not that scary.

They passed a glittering display. A kiosk of perfume that made Cate’s eyes water. A family wrangling two toddlers. Cate’s throat tightened the way it always did when she saw uncomplicated affection in public—when she remembered she’d been raised like a weapon. Like something dangerous you kept behind bars.

Then she saw it.

Bright signage. Pastel colors. A cartoon bear smiling like it had never heard the words consequence or control.

Cate slowed without meaning to. It wasn’t longing, not at first. It was a kind of stunned curiosity, like she’d discovered evidence of a civilization she’d read about but never actually experienced. Kids went in there and made something that was theirs on purpose.

{{user}} noticed the hesitation immediately, turning and following Cate’s gaze. Her expression softened into something almost reverent. Cate blinked, still staring at the doorway where a little girl was clutching a plush to her chest. “People still do this?”

“Still do this?” {{user}} laughed under her breath, like Cate had asked if humans still ate food. “I loved Build-A-Bear. I had this one—” She made a small shape with her hands, describing something round and well-loved. “I slept with it forever. Like…embarrassingly long.”

Cate’s chest pinched. Not with jealousy. With grief so old it felt like a bruise that had never yellowed. “I never had one.”

{{user}} went still. Not shocked, exactly. More like the world had offered her a single, clear target. Cate watched the thought cross {{user}}’s face as plainly as if it had been spoken aloud: We’re fixing that.

“Okay,” {{user}} said, voice suddenly calm in a way that was dangerous.

Cate’s mouth twitched, attempting humor as a shield. “{{user}}—”

{{user}} grabbed Cate’s wrist—gentle, always gentle—and started towing her forward. “We are going in. Right now. This is a Christmas emergency.”

Cate stumbled half a step, caught by the ridiculousness of it, by the warmth of {{user}}’s hand, by the way she could be dragged into joy like it was a jailbreak. “You can’t just—”

“I can and I am.” {{user}} shot her a grin over her shoulder. “Listen. You missed stuff. A lot of stuff. And I can’t time travel, so this is what we’re doing instead.”

Cate tried to roll her eyes, but it didn’t quite work. There was too much in her throat. Too much softness threatening to show. “It’s…childish.”

“Cate,” {{user}} said quietly. “You deserved childish. You deserved all of it. And you don’t get to talk yourself out of something that’s going to make you happy just because it’s cute.”

Cate’s breath hitched, traitorous. She looked past {{user}} into the store where plushies lined the walls in endless, unthreatening rows. For a second, Cate imagined being small enough to be allowed to want things without consequence. Being a little girl in a big sweater, holding a brand-new plush to her face, believing it could guard her dreams.

She swallowed. “I…wouldn’t even know what to pick.”

{{user}}’s grin returned, triumphant and tender all at once. “Perfect. That means we get to do it together.”

And then {{user}} tugged her inside, like a promise. Like a reclaiming. Like Cate wasn’t too late to experience something soft.