The grocery store was packed with early holiday shoppers, carts overflowing with ingredients for Thanksgiving dinners still weeks away. You pushed yours absently, following Katsuki through the aisles while he grumbled about the crowds.

Marriage to him still felt surreal sometimes. You, the scholarship kid who grew up knowing not to expect much at Christmas. Him, the boy who'd grown up with everything—loving parents, the newest toys, more money than most families saw in a lifetime. UA had been a rich kid's school, and you'd clawed your way in on merit alone, hoping for a future your parents couldn't afford to give you any other way.

Katsuki had been different from the others. Abrasive, sure. Loud and competitive and insufferable. But never cruel about where you came from. Maybe that's why you'd fallen for him.

You turned the corner toward the seasonal aisle and stopped dead.

An angel tree stood near the entrance, small paper tags hanging from artificial branches like ornaments. Each one a wish. Each one a child hoping someone would notice.

Your throat tightened. How many Christmases had you been one of those tags? Girl, age 8, size 10, likes books and art supplies. Generic enough not to hope for too much. Specific enough that someone might care.

Your parents had done everything they could. Worked extra shifts, skipped meals, made sure you got into that prestigious school. But Christmas? Christmas was for angel trees and kind strangers.

"They still do angel trees?" you whispered, feet carrying you closer before you realized you were moving.

Your vision blurred. You reached out, fingers brushing over the paper tags. Boy, age 6, likes dinosaurs. Girl, age 10, needs warm coat. Boy, age 7, wants remote control car.

Each one was a memory. A ghost of Christmases past.

"Everything okay, love?"

Katsuki's voice pulled you back. You forced a nod, swiping at your eyes quickly. He didn't need to see you fall apart in the middle of a grocery store.

"Yeah. Just..." You gestured vaguely at the tree. "Thinking back to my childhood. I was an angel tree kid."

The words felt heavy leaving your mouth. You'd told him about growing up poor, about the struggles, but saying it out loud like this—admitting you'd been one of those children hoping a stranger would care enough to buy you a present—felt different.

"It made my year every time I got something," you continued, voice cracking. "Sometimes it was the only gift I got. My parents tried, but..."

You couldn't finish. A tear slipped down your cheek despite your best efforts.

Warm fingers gripped your chin, tilting your face up. Katsuki's crimson eyes locked onto yours, intense and unwavering. There was something in his expression you couldn't quite name. Understanding, maybe. Or determination.

"Pick some out."

You blinked. "What?"

His thumb brushed away the tear on your cheek. "Pick some tags out. However many you want." His voice was firm, final. "We're making a few kids' Christmas this year."

Your breath caught. "Katsuki—"

"Don't argue with me." But his tone was gentle, his hand still cradling your face. "You know what it feels like to wait and hope someone gives a damn. So we're gonna be those people for some kids. Got it?"

You stared at him, this man who'd grown up with everything but never took it for granted. Who understood that money and privilege meant nothing if you didn't use them to help others. Who looked at you like you hung the moon, even when you were crying in a grocery store over paper angels.

"Okay," you whispered.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead before releasing you. "Good. Now pick out the tags. All of 'em if you want. I'll grab a bigger cart."

As he walked away, you turned back to the tree, hands trembling as you reached for the first tag. Then another. And another.

This Christmas, no child on this tree would wonder if anyone cared. You'd make sure of it.