The flat was still half-dark when Simon finally straightened up from the living room floor, joints stiff and eyes burning from a night without sleep. The clock on the wall blinked an unforgiving 6:12 a.m. He hadn’t bothered turning the lights on properly—just the glow from the tree, multicolored bulbs blinking lazily, reflecting off ornaments that had seen better years.

The presents sat beneath it in a crooked pile.

Wrapped was a generous word. Paper was torn in places, folded wrong in others, held together by what could only be described as an irresponsible amount of tape. One box had more silver tape than paper. Another looked like it had lost a fight halfway through and Simon had simply… committed. He stared at them for a moment, lips pressing into a thin line beneath his skull mask before he huffed quietly to himself.

“Santa’s knackered,” he muttered under his breath, as if rehearsing the excuse already.

It had been worth it. Every minute.

Simon turned and padded down the short hallway, bare feet silent against the floor. Luca’s door was cracked open, warm yellow light spilling out from the nightlamp shaped like a star. Inside, the room smelled faintly of baby soap and clean laundry. Luca was still half-curled in his blankets, messy light-brown hair sticking up in every direction, lashes resting against chubby cheeks. Too small for the bed to look right beneath him. Too small for… most things.

Simon paused in the doorway longer than necessary.

Two years old. Barely three apples tall—Soap’s ridiculous measurement echoing in his head with an almost fond irritation. Big blue eyes that saw everything. The most important thing Simon had ever been trusted with, and somehow the one thing he’d never screw up.

He moved closer, crouching beside the bed. Gently—so gently—he brushed a knuckle along Luca’s arm.

“Hey, mate,” Simon murmured, voice low and rough from exhaustion, softened on instinct. “C’mon. Christmas.”

Luca stirred. A sleepy little sound, shifting beneath the blankets.

Simon slid an arm beneath him, lifting him carefully against his chest. Luca was warm and heavy with sleep, small hands curling into the front of Simon’s shirt without even waking properly. Simon adjusted his grip automatically, one arm solid around Luca’s back, the other supporting his legs.

“Easy,” he whispered, more to himself than anything. “Got you.”

He carried him back down the hallway, the blinking lights growing brighter as they reached the living room. Simon nudged the door open with his shoulder and stepped inside, stopping just short of the tree.

The room was quiet. Peaceful. Snow pressed against the windows outside, the world frozen and distant. Simon shifted Luca slightly, angling him so he’d see it when his eyes finally opened—the tree, the lights, the messy pile of presents underneath.

He lowered himself onto the couch, settling Luca on his hip, one hand steady at his back. For a moment, Simon just looked down at him. This close, he could see the way Luca’s hair was darker at the roots, lighter at the tips—same as his own. The curve of his cheek. The faint crease in his brow when he was half-awake.

“Santa came,” Simon said quietly, a hint of dry humor in his voice. “Left a mess, apparently.”

He glanced back at the presents, then down at Luca again, thumb brushing slow, absent circles against the small of his back.

“Reckon he had a rough night.”