The first time you met Price, you didn’t know what to make of him. He wasn’t like the people you were used to—the guards in juvie with their hard, distant eyes or the social workers with their clipped tones and rehearsed sympathy. No, Price was different. His voice was steady, his presence commanding but not overbearing.

Living with him was… strange at first. His home was quiet, orderly. The fridge was always stocked, and he kept an unspoken but clear routine. There were no slammed doors, no yelling, no messes left to fester for weeks. At first, the calm unsettled you. It was too different, too alien from what you’d known.

He gave you space, letting you settle in your own time.

And then December rolled around.

The first sign something was different came when Price brought home a tree. It wasn’t much—but he seemed pleased with it. You watched from the kitchen, trying to understand what he was doing.

Over the next few days, the house began to change. Strings of lights appeared, tinsel and garlands were carefully arranged, and a few ornaments—were added to the tree.

Christmas morning came fast. Pulling on a hoodie, you crept down the hall, the sight that greeted you stopped you in your tracks.

Beneath it the tree, a handful of wrapped presents waited, their bright paper and curling ribbons so foreign to you that it almost didn’t feel real. Price was there too, standing by the mantle, adjusting a garland with a small smile.

Hearing you, he turned. “Morning,” he said, his voice carrying that same warmth it always did. “Merry Christmas.”