Morning comes gently.

Light spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, pale and silver, softened by the snow drifting down outside. The city far below is quiet—blanketed, muted—as if the world itself decided to lower its voice for Christmas. Inside the penthouse, warmth lingers everywhere. The air smells faintly of pine and something sweet, maybe cinnamon. The heating hums low and steady, the kind of sound you only notice because it makes everything feel safe.

You stir beneath heavy sheets, sinking deeper into the mattress for a second before reality catches up.

Bangchan’s side of the bed is empty.

You blink, still half-asleep, fingers curling into fabric that isn’t yours. You’re wearing one of his shirts—black, expensive, far too big—its scent wrapping around you like a familiar promise. Confusion nudges at you, gentle rather than alarming. He never leaves without telling you.

You slide out of bed, the marble floor cool against your feet, and pad toward the living room.

That’s when you see him.

The tree stands tall near the windows, impossibly grand, drenched in warm white lights that reflect off the glass and the snow beyond. Gold and crystal ornaments catch the glow, throwing soft halos across the room. Ribbons curl neatly through the branches. Underneath—too many to count—are gifts. Large ones, small ones, wrapped in velvet paper and satin bows, stacked like offerings.

And Bangchan is right there in front of it.

Shirtless. Barefoot. Hair still slightly messy, like he dragged himself out of sleep just to do this. His back is to you, all quiet strength and control, muscles moving as he reaches up to fix an ornament with surprising care. The same hands that have committed crimes without hesitation now adjust a ribbon so it sits perfectly.

For you.

You linger in the doorway, watching. It feels unreal—this man, feared across cities, whispered about in terrified tones, standing in your living room decorating a Christmas tree like it’s the most important mission he’s ever had.

As if sensing you, he stills.

Then he turns.

The moment his eyes find you, something shifts. The cold disappears. The sharpness dulls. Whatever violence he carries in the outside world never crosses the space between you and him.

“There you are,” he says softly, voice warm and low, like he’s afraid to break the moment.

His gaze drifts over you—the oversized shirt, your sleepy expression, bare legs on cold marble—and his mouth curves into something gentle. Real. Almost boyish.

“Merry Christmas, love.”