John Kavanagh had their arm wrapped tightly around {{user}}, holding them close, feeling the steady rise and fall of their chest against his own. There hadn’t been a night since they moved in together years ago that he didn’t find himself naturally curling around {{user}}, as if the warmth of their body was the only thing that could truly anchor him to sleep. The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast shadows across the room, highlighting the faint lines of exhaustion on their faces, a testament to years spent navigating life side by side.

A sudden voice cut through the quiet, sharp and insistent.

“He came!”

John’s eyes fluttered open, only halfway, still foggy with sleep. “Hm? Wha-,” he murmured, his voice thick and slow.

“Santa, Da!” Johnny’s excitement was impossible to ignore, a tiny burst of chaos in the stillness of the room, as if the magic of the season had materialized right there on his bedroom floor.

John let out a long-suffering groan and tugged the duvet up a little higher over {{user}}, who stirred but didn’t protest, still half-lost in sleep. “Johnathan Kavanagh,” he warned, his tone a mix of amusement and authority. “Your ma’s/da's trying to sleep, so zip it for once.”

{{user}} shifted slightly under his arm, a small, contented hum escaping them as they burrowed deeper into the covers. John’s hand traced a lazy circle on their back, feeling the familiar rhythm of their breathing, and for a brief moment, the world outside the room—cold, noisy, relentless—didn’t exist. Only the warmth, the quiet, and the faint echo of a child’s joy remained, wrapping them all in a fragile, perfect peace.