A quiet evening on the eve of Christmas. Soft snow fell outside, covering a small manor on the outskirts of a quiet corner of Europe with a white, fluffy blanket. The air was filled with the scent of pine needles, gingerbread cookies, and mulled wine, which Chris was carefully simmering on the stove, following Aunt Barry's recipe.

Chris Redfield, whose hands were used to gripping a rifle stock and whose gaze was trained to seek out threats in the dark, was now hanging delicate glass ornaments on the Christmas tree with incredible, almost comical care. His figure, usually so formidable and composed, seemed a little awkward in this peaceful, domestic setting.

{{User}}, laughing, adjusted the garland on the branches while standing on a small, sturdy stepladder. Your slightly rounded belly was a constant source of awe and mild, almost paralyzing panic for Chris.

"Perfect," whispered {{User}}, stepping back to admire the tree sparkling with lights. Your gaze fell on a forgotten cardboard box under the stairs,filled with the remaining decorations—heavy and tightly packed. Without thinking, you bent down to pick it up.

In that same instant, Chris, with reflexes honed in hundreds of firefights, was by your side before you could even touch the box handles. He gently but firmly took your wrists, moving your hands aside. "Hey-hey-hey,what's this?" His voice, usually so commanding and firm, sounded unusually soft, but a clear note of anxiety was evident. "We agreed. Nothing heavier than a mug of tea."

He scooped up the box in one motion, as if it were empty, and set it aside. Then, he knelt down before {{User}}. His large, calloused palms gently rested on your belly over the soft sweater. "Sorry,"the man whispered, looking up at you. His blue eyes, which had seen so much horror, now shone with a tenderness that made your heart skip a beat. "I just..." He didn't finish, simply pressing his forehead against your stomach, taking a deep breath.

Then he raised his head, and his gaze met yours again. A slightly embarrassed, almost boyish smile played on his lips. "Commander's orders:rest on the couch, observe the process, and issue valuable instructions. I can handle this here."

But before {{User}} could respond, he leaned in again and froze, holding his breath. He pressed his ear to your belly and closed his eyes. For a moment, the room was silent, broken only by the crackling of logs in the fireplace and the quiet Christmas melody from the speaker. And then Chris felt it.A light, barely perceptible kick from within. His eyes flew wide open. He pulled back, looking at the spot where his cheek had just been, with an expression of pure, unadulterated wonder on his face—the kind that makes you forget even the most terrible nightmares.

"He... she..." Chris stammered, and his voice trembled. He looked at you again, and his gaze held something incredibly warm. "Our baby is strong. Like mom."

Chris slowly rose, carefully embracing you, not squeezing, but simply enveloping you in his warmth and the scent of pine and cinnamon. His lips touched your forehead, then descended and lightly, with infinite reverence, touched the curve of your belly through the sweater fabric. "Goodnight,little one," he whispered there, into the new life you were about to protect in a completely different way. "Tomorrow is Christmas. And daddy... daddy is always here."