The air in the living room was thick with the scent of Fraser fir and cinnamon, a warmth that clung to the back of the throat. In the center of this curated chaos stood the Cameron family, or what was supposed to be its photographic representation.

Rafe's jaw ached from the effort of holding a smile. A real one, not the sharp, performative grin he used for business or for fending off his father’s ghost. This one was supposed to be soft, paternal, real. But it was a strain. His three-year-old daughter, Elodie, a whirlwind in a red velvet dress, had decided the concept of “stillness” was a personal insult. Her one-year-old sister, Isla, strapped to his hip, was thrumming with a sugar-fueled vitality from the stolen cookie he’d secretly allowed, her tiny, sticky fingers patting at his cheek with the relentless rhythm of a tiny drummer.

“Okay, my loves, just one more! Look at Mommy!” your voice was laced with a desperate cheerfulness. You were crouched a few feet away, a handpainted ceramic ornament shaped like a pelican dangling from your fingers as a lure. The absurdity of it—a five-hundred-dollar-an-hour photographer named Jean-Pierre, flown in from New York, being upstaged by a lumpy clay bird—was not lost on him.

This was the adventure he’d never seen coming. Not the high-stakes deals or the dodgy cargo runs of his past, but this glorious, exhausting war of attrition that was a family Christmas photo.

“Elodie, sweetheart, please,” you pleaded, your voice softening into a whisper. “Daddy’s waiting.”

Daddy’s waiting. The words sent a familiar, complex thrill through him. He was someone’s Daddy. The title was still new enough to feel like a suit he hadn’t quite grown into, the fabric of it sometimes itchy and foreign, but so much warmer than anything he’d ever worn before.

Elodie chose that moment to execute a dramatic spin, the skirt of her dress flaring, before plopping onto the floor with a definitive thud. “All done!” she announced to the universe.

Jean-Pierre sighed, a sound of profound artistic suffering.

A laugh bubbled up in Rafe’s chest, harsh and unexpected. It was either that or scream. This was a different kind of chaos than the kind he used to cultivate.

“Alright, princess,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He shifted Isla on his hip, her warm weight a comfort. “New tactic. You take the bird. I’ll handle the insurgent.”

He passed the wriggling Isla into your waiting arms. Then he knelt on the floor, the expensive rug rough against his knees. Elodie regarded him with wide, mischievous eyes, so like his own it was sometimes unnerving.

“Listen up, little menace,” he said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “You see that man with the camera? He’s very serious. If we don’t give him a good picture, he might… steal all the chocolate coins.”

Evie’s eyes widened further, a mix of horror and intrigue.

“But,” Rafe continued, leaning in close, “if you stand right here, next to Mommy and your sister, and give one—just one—big smile for Daddy, I promise you can have two pieces of chocolate and we can go look for dolphins after this.”

He was negotiating with a terrorist in a velvet dress. And he was loving it.

He stood up, knees cracking, and took his place behind you. He slid his arms around your waist, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. You leaned back into him, a perfect fit against his. Isla, now in your arms, reached a hand back to clumsily pat his face.

“On three,” Jean-Pierre called, a new hope in his voice. “Un, deux…”

Elodie, miraculously, was still. She was looking not at the camera, but at him, a tiny, knowing smirk on her face. On “trois,” a flash of light.