The living room was a battlefield of wrapping paper, tape, and half-used rolls of ribbon. Simon crouched on the floor, brow furrowed in concentration as he cut through another piece of wrapping paper with the precision of someone disarming a bomb. Only, instead of a clean fold, the paper tore unevenly, leaving him scowling down at the mess.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, grabbing for the tape like it was a tactical reload. He approached the gift— a sleek box containing something you’d mentioned wanting for months— with the same seriousness he handled his gear. But no matter how carefully he folded the corners, the paper stubbornly refused to cooperate.

By the time he managed to cover the box, it looked more like a hastily patched wound than a Christmas gift. Strips of tape crisscrossed the seams, holding everything in place by sheer willpower. The ribbon? A tangled knot that resembled parachute cords after a rough landing.

Simon sat back, arms resting on his knees, surveying his work with a critical eye. It wasn’t pretty, but it was wrapped.

He glanced at the clock. You’d be home soon.

Tossing the mangled wrapping aside, Simon grabbed another box. This time, he applied what he knew— precise folds, sharp edges, and generous use of tape to secure the perimeter. The gift was practically fortified by the time he was done.

As the front door clicked open, Simon sprang to his feet, quickly shoving the presents under the tree.

“I’m home!” your voice called out.

Simon casually leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Welcome back,” he said, as if he hadn’t just spent the past hour wrestling with wrapping paper like it was an enemy combatant.

Your eyes drifted toward the tree. One look at the misshapen, over-taped boxes, and you raised an eyebrow.