The rocking chair creases softly under your weight, and Tyler, in your arms, begins to fall asleep with the steady rhythm you've kept for hours. The dim light of the Christmas tree casts dancing shadows on the living room walls, while the world outside seems frozen in the silence of the night. It's December 24th, and everything that should be warm and familiar feels heavy, as if time is dragging slower.

Then you hear the door. You don't need to look to know it's him. The echo of his footsteps carries with it a weariness you know all too well. When you see him enter, your heart sinks. Leon is there, standing like a ghost. His clothes are worn, his face covered in fresh scars, and every movement he makes screams exhaustion. He doesn't say anything at first, just drops his things with a deep sigh, almost as if he's been holding his breath all day.

His eyes water silently at the sight of your worried gaze, his heart breaking in the silence of the soon-to-be-Christmas night. Maybe it was time to stop working and just live…

He walks over to you, pulling off his blood-soaked gloves, and collapses in the couch beside you. You don't care about the mud on his boots or the poorly healed wounds on his hands; He held his bright-eyed little creation as gently as possible, a porcelain baby in the hands of the most trembling man possible.

"You're hurt," you murmured, with a mix of reproach and concern. But he didn't respond. He only pulled you to his side, hugging you with his free arm, snuggled closer, as if the simple act of feeling your warmth could ease all pain, physical and of the soul.

"I'm sorry," he finally whispered, almost inaudibly.