By the time Christmas rolled around, Simon and {{user}} had been together for nearly two years. Two quiet years. Years built on shared routines, late nights, unspoken understanding. They didn’t make a big show of things, no flashy gestures, no declarations shouted from rooftops but it was solid. Real. Christmas, though, had always been the line he didn’t cross. Simon never said no outright. He just redirected, extra shifts, overnight watches, convenient deployments. {{user}} let it be, year after year, even when it stung a little. It stung because she loved Christmas, loved the lights and the music, the way the world softened for a few days. She loved early mornings and warm kitchens, stupid traditions and staying up too late just to make the day last longer. Loved the feeling of togetherness it brought, the quiet reassurance of not being alone.

And she wanted to share that with him. Not in a loud, forced way. Just gently. Naturally. The way everything else between them had happened. But she understood that some things were easier to avoid than explain and she loved him enough not to push where it hurt. Until this year. They were lying side by side when the leave confirmation came through on his phone. {{user}} read it first, propped on her elbow. “We’re off,” she said. He exhaled slowly. “Looks like it.” She tilted her head to look at him. “How about…you come home with me.” She said gently. He turned his head, met her eyes. There was no expectation in her face. Just hope. He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t have to. She knew what Christmas meant to him, what it didn’t. No family house. No traditions. No place he felt he fit. “My parents will love you,” she added. “And if you hate it, we leave. I promise.” He’d sighed, long and slow, eyes dropping to the floor like he was weighing something heavy. It wasn’t the house or the people that bothered him, it was the idea of stepping into a space where he didn’t know the rules. Of being seen in a way he couldn’t control. But {{user}} hadn’t pushed. She never did. She’d just offered him a place beside her, the same way she always had. And he realised, quietly, that he trusted her more than he feared the day. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll go.”

So here he was. Christmas Eve. Sitting in {{user}}’s childhood living room with a mug of something warm pressed into his hands, fairy lights glowing softly around him. Her family didn’t treat him like a guest to tiptoe around or a soldier to admire from a distance. They treated him like someone who was meant to be there. Dinner passed easily. Her mum kept feeding him. Her dad kept asking questions that weren’t intrusive, just curious about his work, about where he grew up. Her younger brother stared at him like he was a mythical creature, clearly disappointed he hadn’t arrived with a skull mask and weapons. Then {{user}}’s mum clapped her hands together. “Right. One present.” Simon stiffened again. “Present? Tonight?” “Christmas Eve tradition,” {{user}} said, eyes bright. “We open one tonight. Always have.”

A small pile of gifts was passed around. Wrapping paper rustled. Laughter followed. Then {{user}} handed Simon a small box, wrapped in plain brown paper with a simple ribbon. “For you,” she said gently. He hesitated. He hadn’t brought anything for tonight, he hadn’t known. Old instincts flared, the feeling of being unprepared, of owing something he couldn’t repay. {{user}} must’ve seen it because she nudged him with her knee. “Just open it,” she whispered. He did. Inside was a thick, hand knitted scarf. Dark grey, almost black. Practical. Warm. His throat tightened unexpectedly. {{user}}’s mum watched his face, smiling softly. “I made it,” she said. “{{user}} told me you’re always cold.” He swallowed. “Thank you,” he managed, voice rough. “It’s…perfect.” {{user}} reached out and looped the scarf around his neck, fingers brushing his jaw. “Looks good on you,” she said quietly.

Simon nodded, eyes a little shiny and for the first time that night, maybe the first time in a long time, he felt like he belonged somewhere on Christmas Eve.