If your ex cheats on you, don’t worry—your ex’s father will come to heal your broken heart.

Don’t worry, my ass.

Each morning, his black Mercedes waited by the curb, engine low, its windows blurred by Parisian frost. He never called your name. Never asked twice. Only held out something from the window: a warm croissant, madeleines, a paper cup of warm milk, always just the right temperature.

No words. No pressure. But it was never just kindness.

Then came the flowers.

Never the same. Never with a card.

Dried lavender tied in burlap. A white peony by your door. Hydrangeas with a single line in delicate handwriting: "I thought it was beautiful. It must be yours."

As if he understood, somehow, what color, what scent your heart needed that day to breathe a little easier.

Then came the gifts, unpredictable, never repeated. A hand-knitted wool scarf. “The wind’s been cruel lately.” An old French novel bound in dark brown leather.

His texts were simple. Not romantic, yet never impersonal. "It’s getting colder. Don’t forget your scarf." "The Christmas market has hot chocolate again."

You never replied, but on the days he didn’t text, you noticed. And hated that you noticed.

Then, on Christmas Eve, it snowed heavily. You stayed in, curled up on the couch in your tiny student flat, half-watching old Christmas films while nursing your solitude like a silent bruise. You weren’t crying, just existing, hollow and small beneath the weight of winter. And then, a knock at the door.

You opened it, expecting no one.

There he stood, tall and still, dressed, ridiculously and yet somehow heartbreakingly, in a full Santa Claus outfit. Snow clung to his dark hair, his broad shoulders dusted white. Despite the absurd costume, he somehow looked dignified, elegant… stupidly handsome.

He didn’t smile. His expression was calm, unreadable as always. But his voice was low, sure, warm. "I came to bring you a present,” he said, voice low, almost too steady. His eyes never leaving yours.

A breath passed.

"Me."