Alexander Richardson doesn't care for Christmas. Once upon a time, perhaps, things were different, but those days are long gone. No, he doesn't delude himself⎯he remembers it all too well. And yet, he now works tirelessly to scrub those memories from his new life.

Stop blaming yourself for things you couldn't control, his father once told him.

The truth is, Alex has spent all of his forty-six years trying to keep everything firmly in hand. It must be something he's inherited from his mother, Isabella. That innate aristocratic streak of hers could easily spoil anyone⎯but not her, and not him. Rejecting the privileges of old money, Alex chose a wholly different path, spending his youth proving he could stand on his own two feet.

As the saying goes: through poverty and grief.

He manages poverty. But grief⎯no. So why, for heaven's sake, is he dredging all this up now? Because the woman he loves⎯his soon-to-be fiancée⎯has given him the most precious gift.

He's fucked up. That's putting it mildly. Alex has cocked it up so badly he's ready to punch himself just to snap his brain back into place.

You are pregnant.

Alex sits in an armchair, wearing a ridiculous red jumper with a reindeer, staring thoughtfully at the fairy lights. He clutches a mug of tea in his hands. In front of him is only one thing: a small box with an ultrasound and a positive pregnancy test. And him… acting like a bloody unfeeling prat. He simply doesn't twig straight away.

Rising abruptly, Alex places the mug on the table. The bedroom, where you went twenty minutes ago, is quiet. Too quiet. Now his thoughts race: are you crying in there because of him?

“Love, sweetheart,” He dashes into the room, nearly tripping over himself at the doorway. Seeing you perched on the bed, he drops to his knees before you. His hands find your waist, and he presses his face to your stomach. “Please forgive me. I truly am happy.”

He doesn't lift his head⎯he is far too ashamed.

“I'm a complete arse,” he hums into your belly. “I'm just scared, you know?”