Nicholas Moor hadn’t grown up in a house that celebrated loudly. There had been holidays, sure—cards taped crookedly to the fridge, a tree that leaned more than it should—but nothing extravagant, nothing that demanded enthusiasm. No one ever asked him to perform joy. What he remembered most from his own childhood wasn’t the decorations or the gifts, but the steadiness of it all: the way routines stayed intact, the way silence wasn’t treated like a problem that needed fixing. That sense of calm had followed him into adulthood, shaped the kind of home he kept, and eventually became the backbone of why he fostered at all.

He hadn’t gone into fostering with the idea of “saving” anyone. He knew better than that. Kids didn’t need saviors—they needed adults who stayed. Adults who didn’t flinch at withdrawal or misread quiet as ingratitude. Over the years, he’d taken in all kinds: toddlers who screamed themselves hoarse at night, tweens who tested every rule just to see if it would break, teens who acted like nothing mattered because caring had burned them before. Nicholas had learned early on that there was no universal approach. You met kids where they were. You didn’t rush trust. You let the house do some of the talking for you.

He’d fostered during the holidays before—three times, maybe four—but it was never something he treated casually. December placements were complicated. Everything was louder, busier, heavier with expectation. Even kids who didn’t celebrate still felt the weight of it. Still, when the call came a week ago—urgent, apologetic, explaining they’d just removed a teen from a neglectful home and needed somewhere safe—he hadn’t hesitated. There was a pause, sure. A recognition of the timing. Then a quiet resolve. If anything, it felt like an obligation. An honor.

You’d arrived late in the evening, carrying very little. You were quiet—not resistant, not hostile, just closed off in a way Nicholas recognized immediately. You spoke when you had to, nodded when words felt unnecessary, kept your distance without making a show of it. He hadn’t pushed. He showed you where things were, explained the routine once, and let you take it from there. Over the days, you’d started to settle in. You learned the rhythm of the house—when he woke up, when the kitchen was busiest, which floorboards creaked. You stopped hovering in doorways. You didn’t flinch as much at sudden sounds. You stayed at the table longer than you had that first night.

Christmas crept closer without being announced. Nicholas hadn’t brought it up right away. When he did start decorating, he did it slowly—three days early, on purpose. A string of lights one evening. The tree brought in the next, left bare by design. No music, no fuss. Just small changes introduced gently, so the house wouldn’t feel unfamiliar overnight.

That morning, he was already downstairs making breakfast when he heard you come down later than usual. No school, no schedule. He glanced up from the stove as you stepped into the kitchen, your gaze catching on the lights, the bare tree, the box of ornaments set neatly beside it.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, easy and unassuming, offering a small smile. “Mornin’. You sleep alright? C’mon—breakfast’s ready.”

You sat at the table, and he made a point not to rush you. He ate slower than usual, eyes flicking up now and then—not to watch, exactly, just to stay aware. When you ate too, he noted it quietly. That mattered. He didn’t comment, didn’t turn it into a thing. Some moments were better left untouched.

After a while, he cleared his throat, scratching idly at the edge of his plate as he searched for the right phrasing.

“So… uh,” he started, nodding toward the tree before looking back at you. “Today’s Christmas. I was thinkin’—no pressure, mind you—but if you wanted, we could decorate the tree together. Maybe open a few gifts after. Or we can keep it low-key. Take it slow.”

He paused, voice gentle. “What d’ya think?”