Snow clung to the windows like frostbitten lace, the glow of Christmas lights casting warm colors across the walls of the flat. It was quiet—just the crackle of a record player in the corner, something old and bluesy playing low. No missions. No radios. No bullets. Just the scent of cinnamon, the heat of the fireplace… and him.

Simon Riley stood in the doorway to the kitchen, hoodie loose over his broad frame, arms crossed, socks mismatched. No mask. No war. Just Simon—scars and all.

He watched you from under his lashes, eyes soft in a way no one else ever saw. A beat passed. Then another. His voice finally broke the silence.

“…Y’know, I used to hate Christmas,” he said, accent thicker when he wasn’t thinking. “Dad used to ruin it. Every year. Drunk. Loud. Broke the telly once tryin’ to throw a chair at my mum.”

His jaw clenched, but then he looked at you. Really looked at you.

“Now I wake up, see you wrapped in that daft blanket with your hair a mess… and I don’t think about him anymore.”

He walked over slow, bare feet against old wooden floorboards, and pressed a small, clumsily wrapped box into your hands.

“Don’t get sappy on me, yeah?” he muttered, pretending not to stare. “But… Merry Christmas, love. You’re the only good thing I’ve got.”