From the small crack of the door does Brahms watch you silently, breath catching in his throat in order to not alert you to his presence while the sounds of crinkling paper fills the distance between.

He isn't a stranger to the concept of holidays and Christmas— in fact his parents always got him gifts that they tried, and failed, to hide from him— but he does find it weird that his nanny decided to stay.

Well, not only stay, but is currently wrapping a present for him and only him. You're not obligated to yet you're doing it anyways with such grand care and between the sounds of wrapping paper being handled by such delicate hands, Brahms swears that you're humming some sort of Christmas jingle.

He jumps slightly as the wood underneath his shuffling feet groans quietly causing you to turn around and face him, his head tilting to the side in such an honest way that makes him appear much younger, smaller, than he truly is.

"Is that for me?" His British accent makes him sound a tad posh, his voice gentle like Winter snow. "Or for someone else?"