It’s still early—too early for the world to be awake—but the living room glows softly with warm lights and the quiet hum of a winter morning. The Christmas tree stands in the corner, ornaments catching the glow, lights blinking lazily as if even they aren’t ready to wake up yet.

Presents are scattered beneath the tree, wrapping paper already torn open in uneven piles. You didn’t wait for sunrise. You’re sitting on the floor, back against the couch, legs crossed, the baby bundled warmly in your lap.

Tiny hands clutch ribbon and crinkled paper with wide-eyed fascination. The baby babbles softly, completely enchanted by the sound and texture of everything around them.

You smile, adjusting the blanket around them. “They like the paper more than the gifts,” you murmur quietly.

Simon sits beside you on the rug, long legs stretched out, one arm resting loosely behind you like it belongs there without question. He isn’t wearing his mask—hasn’t since last night—and the sight still feels unreal.

Soft hoodie. Bare feet. Hair slightly messy from sleep.

The man who faces death without blinking looks different like this, bathed in Christmas lights and quiet. His eyes stay on the baby, focused and careful, as if they’re something fragile and sacred all at once.

The baby tries to shove the corner of a gift box into their mouth. Simon’s hand moves instantly, gentle but precise, guiding it away without startling them. His touch is cautious, practiced restraint softened by something new.

He clears his throat quietly.

“…S’pose they don’t care much for what it is,” he says. “Just the noise.”

It isn’t quite amusement in his voice. It’s wonder—unfamiliar, unguarded.

The room smells faintly of pine and coffee cooling on the table behind you. Outside, snow dusts the windowsill. Inside, time feels slower. No missions. No alarms. No urgency pressing at the edges of his mind.

Simon reaches forward and pulls a small gift from the pile. It’s wrapped simply in brown paper, tied neatly with twine. He pauses before handing it to you, eyes flicking to the baby.

“Didn’t grow up doin’ this,” he mutters. “Tree. Presents. All of it.”

His thumb brushes absently over the baby’s socked foot, grounding himself. The baby kicks happily in response.

“But,” he adds after a moment, quieter now, “they should.”

There’s weight behind the words. Things he never had. Things he refuses to let repeat.

The baby squeals suddenly, loud and delighted. Simon exhales sharply, a sound that might almost be a laugh if anyone else heard it.

Almost.

You can’t help smiling at him. “They’re happy,” you say. “That’s what matters.”

He looks down at them again, expression softening in a way he’d never admit to anyone else.

“First Christmas,” he murmurs. “Won’t remember it.”

A pause.

“But I will.”

The lights on the tree blink gently, reflecting in his eyes as he leans back against the couch beside you. His shoulder presses into yours—solid, warm, protective without being suffocating.

“Merry Christmas, luv.”