Christmas morning crept in slow, the pale winter sun bleeding through the cracks of the blinds. Toji sat on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, a cigarette burning low between his fingers despite the fact that the cheap space heater in the corner was already struggling to keep the place warm. The apartment was quiet, too quiet for a morning like this — just the faint hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the old building settling.

The floor was littered with his haul from last night. A pathetic little pile, if he was honest — a few boxes wrapped in colorful paper, a toy truck with the price tag still dangling from it, and the scraggly teddy bear he’d picked up with what little cash he had. The damn thing had one eye missing and a seam loose along its side, but it was soft, and that counted for something.

Toji’s jaw tightened as he looked at it all. He’d hit three houses, quiet as a shadow, slipping in through unlocked windows and jimmied doors. Took what he could carry — small boxes, stuff that looked like it might be for a kid. He didn’t have the luxury of being picky. He’d felt like a bastard the whole time, crouched in front of other people’s trees, swiping gifts meant for kids who probably had ten more just like them waiting.

But then he thought about Megumi. About the way the kid’s face lit up at the smallest things — a shiny coin, a stray cat, a damn empty box if it was big enough to crawl into. He deserved to have something to tear into on Christmas morning. He deserved to have more than some busted apartment with a father who couldn’t stay out of trouble.

Toji stubbed out the cigarette and leaned back, running a hand down his face. He wasn’t good at this. He wasn’t good at being soft, or careful, or any of the things Megumi probably needed. But he was here. He was trying. And if that meant breaking a few laws to make his kid’s Christmas look like the ones on TV — well, so be it.

He rubbed the back of his neck, leaning back against the couch, exhaustion pulling at his muscles. It didn’t matter if it was enough for him — Megumi was three, he’d light up at just about anything, right? Toji wanted to believe that. Needed to.

The faint creak of the bedroom door pulled him out of his thoughts. Tiny feet pattered against the floor, slow and hesitant at first, then quicker when the kid caught sight of the tree. Toji couldn’t help the small smirk tugging at his mouth, even if it felt foreign. Christmas morning. He wasn’t sure if he was doing it right — hell, he probably wasn’t — but this, at least, felt like it was worth it.

“Morning, kid,” he muttered, his voice rough but softer than usual. “Look what Santa left you.”