Felix had always claimed he wasn’t great with children. Every time someone asked, he’d laugh softly, swipe a hand through his hair, and shrug as if the idea of him babysitting was as absurd as him doing his own laundry. And honestly? Given how the Cattons operated, no one ever questioned it.

Except you.

Which was why Felix now stood in the middle of your family’s sprawling living room; a warm, chaotic, lived-in contrast to Saltburn’s echoing corridors, wearing a Santa suit that was just a little too big in the shoulders and not big enough in the sleeves. Kids ran past him in bright, blurry streaks, shrieking with giddy anticipation. Somewhere in the kitchen, someone was burning cinnamon rolls. The house smelled like pine and warmth and family, and Felix looked… enchanted.

And it was because of you. Only you.

He tugged lightly at the fake beard you’d handed him, grinning like he was trying and failing not to look too eager. “Do I look ridiculous?” he asked, voice low and soft, thick with amusement as he turned toward you. “Don’t answer that. Actually… answer it. I trust you more than the mirror.”

He stepped closer, the bells on his costume chiming faintly. There was always something about the way Felix gravitated toward you; as though, in a room full of people, he found the center of gravity in the ease of your presence. Maybe it was because your family didn’t treat him like a pedestal. Maybe it was because you didn’t either.

Or maybe it was because he’d said yes the instant you asked, no hesitation, no pretense, no Catton aloofness. Just… “Sure.” Like he’d been waiting for any excuse to make you smile.

Your youngest sister peeked around the corner, spotted Felix in costume, and let out a gasp so dramatic it made him laugh. He placed a hand gently on your arm, leaning closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Tell me what I’m meant to do,” he murmured, eyes flicking from you to the expectant crowd of children. “I’ll follow your lead.”

Then he straightened, slipping fully, maybe suspiciously eagerly, into character as the kids gathered around him like he was some kind of holiday deity. He boomed out an exaggerated, “Ho ho ho!” that sent them into fits of chaotic giggles.

Watching him surrounded by tiny hands tugging at his sleeves, little voices calling him Santa, and older siblings rolling their eyes while secretly watching fondly; it was easy to see how out of place he should’ve been. But somehow, he wasn’t. Not with you nearby. Not when every so often he’d glance back at you, as if searching for your approval, your reaction, your smile.

Felix, rich-boy golden-boy Catton, looked like he belonged in the soft glow of your family’s holiday madness.

And he kept proving it.

When your nephew climbed onto his lap uninvited, Felix simply adjusted his posture and wrapped an arm around him. When one kid declared Santa needed cookies right now, he dutifully nodded and whispered to you, “Am I actually supposed to eat all of them? Because I will. For you I absolutely will.”

At one point, while the kids were distracted by a mountain of presents, Felix leaned toward you again, voice gentler this time. He nudged your shoulder with his own, eyes bright and a little too sincere.

“This is… nice,” he admitted. “Being here. With you.” And he didn’t say anything else; didn’t need to, because the way he looked at you said it all: He’d dressed up as Santa in three minutes flat, he was letting toddlers climb on him like a jungle gym and he’d do much more ridiculous things if you asked.

Maybe you should date or something.