“Hey, Corbeau…what do you do for the holidays?”

You asked it casually enough—pretending to study a shelf of gift boxes—but he still paused.  His eyes flickered to you, before returning back to his phone screen.

He’d just finished snapping another photo, which he’d been doing on your walk around the mall. You had lost track after he took the sixth one in under an hour.

All of the pictures were of toys. Expensive toys. Cheap toys. Educational toys. Plushies. Trinkets. A bike. A Nintendo Switch 2. A set of mini Pokémon figurines. Every time something caught his eye Corbeau would study it, glance at his phone as if confirming, then take a picture of it.

He lowered his phone.

“Why do you ask?”

You watched as a family passed you. A little boy was swung up on his father’s shoulders, laughing and enjoying the Christmas decorations that were out. His sister, a toddler, was held in their mother’s arms as she screamed and gleefully pointed out an outdoor decoration of nine Sawsbuck (in their winter form) lined up and pulling a sleigh. The Sawsbuck at the very front had a red nose.

“Well…” you start slowly. “I was just thinking—since you don’t really have…” You trail off, wincing internally. Touchy territory.

Naturally, when the two of you started dating, you got to learn more about Corbeau’s past. A childhood on the streets. Survival with no family. Nothing to his name until Lysandre noticed him and saw potential. A boy who turned nothing into an empire because he refused to stay powerless.

“What makes you think I don’t have plans?” he asked, slipping his phone into his coat pocket.

You shrugged. “Just curious. I’ve never seen you take a day off on Christmas. Or ever.”

“That’s because I don't take days off, kid.” he said matter-of-factly.

You blinked at him. “But, holidays are meant to be shared, you know?” Your voice went soft. “I just...thought maybe you didn’t celebrate. Because every year I ask you to spend Christmas with me and you say no.”

“No,” he corrected, closing his eyes in annoyance. “Every year, you ask me to spend Christmas with Team MZ.”

“There’s a difference?”

“A significant one.” He crossed his arms. “Quasartico throws a rather large holiday party for all top-ranked trainers with Mega Rings, if you’ll remember. If I spend any more time with you all outside tournaments, I may actually initiate that team competition I threatened you with.”

You laughed, remembering it. Back before dating, before feelings, before either of you would admit anything.

“What do you say to a team competition?” he had teased. “Team MZ versus the Rust Syndicate. I bet it would be more interesting than anything Jacinthe could come up with.”

You bumped his shoulder lightly. “You still could, you know.”

He gave you a look that was half fond, half exasperated. And then, his expression shifted in something more subtle. A drop in his guard. A softness you’d only seen when he thought no one is watching.

“…I am busy on Christmas,” he admitted quietly. He glanced at the aisles, the toys, the decorations. “Very busy.”

“Oh?” You tilted your head. “Doing what?”

For a second—just a second—he hesitated. But before he could say anything, Philippe jogged over from another aisle, holding a bag of ribbons.

“Boss, found the last of the—oh!” He beamed at you, then glanced at Corbeau. “…Is she coming with this time?”

Corbeau stiffened.

“This time?” You turn sharply. “Coming where?”

Corbeau sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Philippe.”

“Yes, boss?”

“Stop talking.”

“Yes, boss.”

His jaw tightened. Then, he cleared his throat and straightened his coat. You tried to catch his eyes with your own, but he kept turning his head.

“Don’t,” he muttered, clearing his throat again. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re drawing conclusions.”

“Well,” you said brightly, “it’s hard not to when you’re secretly shopping for children’s toys—”

“I am not secretly—” He stopped himself mid-denial, jaw flexing.

“Then why are you snapping photos of all these toys?” you asked, “And apparently buying Christmas decorations…?”

You could see a tic forming on the side of his forehead. Philippe took one cautious step sideways—farther from the blast radius.

“What exactly is keeping you ‘very busy’ on Christmas?”

Corbeau adjusted his cuffs, a classic stall tactic, then met your eyes with that guarded, unreadable look he used when he was deciding how much of himself he was willing to let you see.

“It is,” he said slowly, “a matter of… obligation.”

Your brow furrowed. “Obligation?”

“To the community,” he clarified, voice clipped as if every word was being dragged out of him. “To certain individuals who—” He glanced at Philippe. “—require yearly assistance.”

Philippe brightened immediately.

“He means the—”

“PHILIPPE.”

Philippe’s mouth snapped shut.

You stared between them, trying to connect the dots. Corbeau looked… tense. Not guilty. Not embarrassed. Just unsure how much to reveal.

“You know, if you told me what you were doing,” you said, slowly, “maybe I could help...?”

Corbeau’s eyes flickered, and for a long moment, he just watched you. Studying your expression. Your sincerity. Your patience. Then, he exhaled slowly through his nose, adjusting his glasses.

“…Why don’t you come see for yourself?”

You blinked.

“What?”

He turned fully toward you now, composed but with the faintest pink touch at the tips of his ears.

“Meet up at headquarters on Christmas Eve at 7am.”

You blinked. “Seven? In the morning?”

He nodded. “Wear something warm.”

You scowled. “That’s it? You’re not gonna tell me where we’re going?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He brushed off invisible dirt off his jacket, eyes forward again.

“Because it’s a surprise.”

Your heart jumped a little.

“Are you sure? I was just kidding about you not coming over at Hotel Z,” you asked, carefully, suddenly very self-conscious that you had imposed on his plans.

Corbeau frowned. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”

Philippe beamed so hard he looked like he might float, and Corbeau shot him another warning glare.

“And like you said, holidays are meant to be shared,” Corbeau continued, his voice warm. “I want you with me.”

Philippe, who had walked away to inspect other products, whispered conspiratorially from behind a display.

“He’s blushi—”

“Zip it, Philippe.”

You laughed, shaking your head.

Corbeau was looking everywhere except at you, but the faint curve in his lips gives him away.

You asked him what he did for the holidays. And instead of telling you, he invited you into that part of his world.

=====CHRISTMAS EVE MORNING=====

You arrived at the Rust Syndicate headquarters before sunrise, your breath clouding in the icy morning air.

The courtyard outside HQ was already alive. Five black SUVs were parked in a perfect line, all engines warming, all trunks open and filled with boxes wrapped in holiday paper. Rust Syndicate members were hauling crates, checking lists, giving last-minute instructions.

It looked less like a criminal operation and more like a mobile North Pole.

Corbeau stood beside the lead SUV, coat buttoned, gloves immaculate, clipboard in hand. He looked impossibly composed for this early in the morning. When he saw you, his posture softened—just a little.

“You’re late,” he said.

You checked your phone. “Actually, I’m five minutes early.”

“Exactly.” He turned crisply toward the vehicles. “Load her bag. She rides with me.”

You blinked. “Okay—wait. Can you please tell me where we're going?"

Corbeau didn’t answer, but you didn’t expect him to. It was just worth a shot asking again. He simply opened the passenger door for you, the slightest ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Philippe jogged by with a box of cookies and a Santa hat already on his head.

“Morning!” he chirped. “I hope you’re ready!”

Another chance.

“Ready for what?” you asked.

Philippe opened his mouth--

“Philippe,” Corbeau warned.

The large man zipped his lips theatrically and hurried off.

Sighing, you slid into the SUV, still completely in the dark, Corbeau following in after you.

Philippe hopped into the driver’s seat, fiddled with the mirror, and then—

“Seatbelts!” he chirped.

Corbeau didn’t respond. He merely buckled his seatbelt with the speed of a man who had done this a thousand times.

Philippe pulled out first, the other SUVs falling into formation behind him as the convoy began rolling out of Lumiose and onto quiet, snow-brushed roads.

The city faded into farmland, then forest. For a few minutes, you rode in comfortable silence. Philippe hummed along to a holiday radio station. Corbeau sat beside you—still, collected, absorbed in some internal calculation only he understood.

Finally, you spoke. “So… all those boxes in the back?” You tilted your head toward him. “Are we delivering something?”

Corbeau didn’t look at you—he kept his gaze forward, watching the snowy treeline slide past the window. But he exhaled softly.

“Yes.”

“…To who?”

“You’ll see.”

You groaned.

He gave you a brief side glance—the exact expression of a man who was amused but determined to pretend otherwise.

“If I explain it,” he said quietly, “you won’t understand. Not truly.” He paused, the corner of his mouth tightening, almost into a smile.

The road curved into a sleepy little town surrounded by winter-bare trees. You passed a tiny bakery, a small market, and a frozen pond with children skating clumsily under their parents’ watch.

Then, the SUVs slowed.

A small stone building nestled beneath snow-dusted fir trees. Warm lights glowed from the windows. Paper garlands and handmade decorations covered the front door.

A hand-painted sign read:

Four Winds Orphanage A home for every little wanderer.

The moment your eyes landed on it, something in your chest tightened.

“This…” Your voice came out soft. “this is an orphanage.”

Corbeau didn’t say anything.

Philippe parked the SUV and cut the engine, and Corbeau opened the door to leave, reaching a hand to you.

The back doors of the SUVs opened and Rust Syndicate members piled out, already hauling gift boxes toward the entrance.

Children’s voices spilled out the front door—peels of laughter, squeals, the chaotic joy of a holiday morning.

“CORBEAU’S HERE!!!” One tiny voice shrieked.

A second later, a little boy barreled out of the doorway in mismatched pajamas and attached himself to Corbeau’s leg like a Velcro Swirlix.

Corbeau didn’t flinch. He didn’t scowl or complain. Instead, he crouched down, ruffled the boy’s hair, and murmured, “Good morning, Holden. Have you eaten yet?”

Holden shook his head, giggling.

“Philippe will fix that,” Corbeau said, standing. “Tell him I said extra marshmallows.”

Holden sprinted away, yelling,

“PHILIPPE! EXTRA MARSHMALLOW ORDER!”

Philippe popped out of the doorway, Santa hat still on. “You got it, kiddo!”

You stared at Corbeau—the hardened Syndicate leader—who stood here like this was the most natural place in the world for him to be.

“This is where I am,” he said quietly, “every Christmas.”

You stepped closer, touched the sleeve of his coat. He cleared his throat, discomfort flickering across his face.

“Get inside,” he muttered. “It's freezing out here, and the children are waiting.”

=====

The moment you stepped inside the orphanage, warmth enveloped you. It smelled like pine needles, hot cocoa, cinnamon, and childhood. Rust Syndicate members moved through the halls with surprising gentleness—carrying boxes of ornaments, setting up folding tables for food, unstringing tangled lights with solemn focus.

The kids ran everywhere, shrieking with excitement.

Two children darted past you wearing Santa hats so big they slipped over their eyes.

Another chased Philippe down the hall.

“PHILIPPE, YOU SAID YOU’D DO THE FUNNY VOICE AGAIN!”

Philippe fled for his life.

“LATER! AFTER BREAKFAST!”

Corbeau sighed. “…I told him not to do the funny voice in the first place.”

You smiled as one little girl grabbed Corbeau’s sleeve.

“Mr. Corbeau! Mr. Corbeau! You’re here!”

Corbeau knelt down—far more naturally than you expected—and said, “I told you I would be, Camille.” Then he handed her a small wrapped box. “Ahead of schedule, I believe.”

Her face lit up like a Christmas light as she squealed, thanked him, and scampered off.

Your heart squeezed.

Corbeau stood again, dusting off his coat like nothing had happened.

“C'mon,” he said. “The tree is this way.”

The orphanage’s common room was wide and bright, with high windows letting in winter sunlight. A tall, real pine tree stood in the corner, bare except for strings of lights hanging haphazardly from a ladder where someone had given up halfway.

Philippe saluted dramatically. “Tree Team reporting for duty!”

Corbeau rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I told you not to call us that.”

“But boss,” Philippe argued, “we are the Tree Team.”

Corbeau turned to you with the suffering of a man who had accepted his fate years ago.

“This is the level of competence I work with.”

"Well, I like it," you laughed “Feels festive.”

You knelt by a box of ornaments—some store-bought, some obviously handmade by the children. Your fingers brushed over a painted wooden Sawsbuck, a glittery Vivillon cut-out, a crooked star made of popsicle sticks.

“These are adorable,” you said.

Corbeau’s voice was low beside you. “They make them every year,” he said. “Each child contributes one.”

You looked at him. He wasn’t looking at you—he was looking at the ornaments. At the careful handwriting. At the uneven glitter glue. Something tender flickered in his eyes.

You lifted the Sawsbuck ornament.

“May I?”

He nodded.

You stepped toward the tree, found a low branch, and hung it gently.

A warm silence followed.

You hung another handmade ornament—the crooked paper Vivillon dusted with too much glitter—onto a mid-level branch. Corbeau stood beside you, adjusting a string of lights with quiet precision.

Philippe appeared from behind the tree like a Whimsicott emerging from foliage, clutching an ornament shaped like a Drifblim.

“You know,” he said brightly, “This was all the boss' idea.”

Corbeau didn’t even look up, but you felt his annoyance.

“Philippe.”

“He practically runs the whole operation!”

Corbeau’s head snapped toward him. “Philippe.”

Undeterred, Philippe hung the Drifblim ornament—crookedly—and kept going, oblivious to the rising temperature of Corbeau’s glare.

“Every year he gets the children’s letters to Santa six months in advance!” Philippe chirped, beaming at you.

“And spends the rest of the year making sure they all get what's on their wish list! Then, on Christmas Eve, he brings the whole Syndicate over to help decorate the orphanage, put up a tree and all that! Heh, it’s become a tradition for us! One that I look forward to every year, if I'm being honest.”

Corbeau slowly turned toward Philippe with the expression of a man deciding whether he should ban someone from speaking ever again.

Philippe kept smiling.

You stared at Corbeau, eyes wide, heart swelling. “You do this every year?” you asked softly.

Corbeau shoved Philippe aside—not roughly, but with the exasperated precision of someone pushing a misbehaving sibling out of the room.

“Philippe,” he warned, “go help in the kitchen.”

“But I’m part of the tree tea—”

“KITCHEN.”

Philippe scrambled away like a startled Fletchling.

You looked back at Corbeau, who was busy pretending to examine a strand of lights that absolutely did not need examining. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t even blink. But the faint pink at the tips of his ears told you the real truth.

"I think it's sweet," you said reaching for another ornament—a little clay Litleo with uneven eyes—and hung it gently.

Corbeau mirrored you, his movements slower now, like the weight of being seen had softened him without permission.

And when he finally spoke again, it was barely above a whisper:

“No child should be forgotten on Christmas.”

Your chest warmed. “And none of them are,” you said softly. “Not with you here.”

You understood, now, that Corbeau didn’t spend Christmas alone because he wanted to. He spent it making sure no one else did.

He cleared his throat sharply.

“Finish the top branches,” he said. “And don't listen to anything Philippe tells you.”

“Too late.”

=====

By late afternoon, the orphanage was glowing. The tree sparkled in the common room, handmade ornaments catching the warm light. Children darted between tables with paper crafts, and the Rust Syndicate had split into their assigned “units,” like a tiny, benevolent military operation.

Half of them were cleaning and prepping the dining area. The other half—well—the other half was in the kitchen. You discovered this when Philippe sprinted past you, yelling.

“IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE SIMMERING, NOT ERUPTING—”

Followed by a loud FOOSH and another grunt shouting.

“I DIDN’T KNOW THE STOVE COULD DO THAT.”

You hurried to the kitchen doorway—and found Corbeau standing in the center like a commander overseeing a battlefield. Except the battlefield was a sea of boiling pots, steaming trays, and Syndicate members trying their absolute best.

Corbeau pinched the bridge of his nose. “I gave you all one task,” he said, voice calm but sharp. “One. Dinner for thirty children and ten staff.”

“Boss—boss, hear us out,” one grunt said, holding a smoking ladle. “That oven attacked me.”

“The oven,” Corbeau repeated flatly, “attacked you.”

Philippe ran back into the kitchen holding a fire extinguisher. “BOSS, THE BREAD CAUGHT—it’s fine now, I handled it!”

“You nearly froze the counter,” Corbeau said.

“I said handled, not perfectly handled.”

You bit back a laugh. Corbeau noticed. He turned to you, eyes narrowing.

“Don't encourage them.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You were thinking something,” he muttered.

You stepped in fully, tying the apron someone had tossed your way. “Here, let me help.”

“I do not require—”

“You do. Trust me.”

He hesitated. Then nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

You immediately jumped into action, turning down a burner before a pot boiled over, reseasoning a tray that had been tragically undersalted, and redirecting a Syndicate grunt holding a knife like it was his first time touching one.

“No, no—cut away from you,” you said, guiding his hands.

“Yes—yes ma’am,” he stammered.

Philippe popped up behind you, holding cocoa powder like he was about to summon a legendary. “Should I add more—”

“No,” you said gently, grabbing the ladle and giving the pot a smooth stir. “It’s perfect as is.”

Philippe blinked at you like you were performing sorcery.

Corbeau watched all of this from where he stood beside the counter—arms crossed, expression unreadable, but his eyes following your every motion. He had seen you battle. He had seen you strategize. He had seen you face down rogue mega evolution pokemon, battle against legenary pokemon, and him.

But clearly, he had never seen you cook. Sure you cooked for him, but he always saw the aftermath, not the process.

One Syndicate member bumped into another carrying a tray.

Disaster loomed.

You stepped forward just in time, catching the tray before it dropped, steadying both men, and sliding the tray onto the counter in a single smooth motion.

Both Syndicate members froze.

“…Boss,” one whispered, awed, “she’s a natural.”

Philippe nodded vigorously. “She’s saving Christmas dinner.”

Corbeau’s gaze sharpened. He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear.

“Where did you learn to do this?”

“Do what?”

He gestured vaguely at the entire kitchen—the rescued dishes, the organized counters, the suddenly competent Syndicate.

“This. All of this,” he said. “You’re… competent." He paused. "Highly competent.”

You tried not to laugh. “That’s not a compliment.”

“I’m not complimenting you,” he said quickly. “I'm making an observation.”

You raised a brow.

He cleared his throat, realizing that sounded even more like a compliment. “Well?” he pressed.

You continued stirring a sauce as you answered. “My grandmother taught me,” you said softly. “Every holiday, every birthday—we cooked together. A lot of the recipes I know came from her.”

Corbeau watched you more closely now. Not just impressed., just curious.

“And you retained all of it?” he asked.

“I guess so. I enjoy cooking,” You shrugged, tasting the sauce before adjusting it. “It makes me happy. And it makes other people happy, so… yeah.”

Philippe appeared again at Corbeau’s elbow, whispering far too loudly, “Boss, she singlehandedly prevented a food-based catastrophe.”

Corbeau shot him a withering side-eye. “I am aware.”

“And the sauce?” Philippe pointed to the pot. “That wasn’t edible before. Now, it smells amazing.”

Corbeau ignored that, focusing only on you.

“You take charge well,” he said quietly.

"Is that another observation?” you said, teasing gently.

He glared. “It is definitely not a compliment.”

You smiled into the steam of the pot.

“Sure.”

He leaned slightly closer, his voice even lower now. “It suits you.”

Your cheeks warmed. That was a compliment. Even if he’d sooner fling himself into a Snorlax pile than admit it.

Then someone yelled.

“THE POTATOES ARE ON FIRE—”

Corbeau turned away, sighing.

“I swear—”

You placed a gentle hand on his chest.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”

=====

By evening, the long tables in the common room were packed. Kids chattered excitedly, banging their spoons, showing off holiday drawings. Syndicate members served plates like a well-oiled machine, Philippe wearing an apron that said “Kiss the Cook” (probably stolen from the orphanage storage closet).

You helped set plates in front of the younger children. Corbeau moved between tables, ensuring every child got exactly what they liked—steering peas away from the picky ones, spooning extra potatoes onto another’s plate, passing napkins to a little girl who’d spilled cocoa on her sweater.

You watched him quietly. The tenderness was subtle but unmistakable. He wasn’t smiling—Corbeau rarely did—but there was a warmth in his expression that softened every sharp line of his face.

One child tugged at his coat.

“Mr. Corbeau, can you cut my meat? It’s too tough.”

Corbeau knelt beside him without hesitation. “Sure, kiddo,” he said, slicing the food with surprising gentleness. “Small pieces. So you don’t choke.”

The boy grinned. “Thanks!”

The look Corbeau gave him—quick, protective, unmistakably fond—nearly melted you into the floor. You found yourself staring.

He caught you.

“…What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” you said, smiling softly.

Dinner was mostly quiet, and delicious (thanks to you). The children excitedly told them what they hoped Santa would bring them. You learned from your talks with the grunts that they normally ordered catering, and the company they used had to cancel last minute, which meant they had to come up with something else. And unfortunately, that meant cooking. A skill that no one in the Rust Syndicate, apparently, had.

Once the children were ushered toward bedtime stories and pajamas, the common room grew quiet. Syndicate members cleaned up leftovers and wiped tables.

Corbeau stood by the doorway, watching the kids shuffle off with their caretakers.

You came to stand beside him.

“They adore you,” you said gently.

“I am…useful to them.”

“You’re more than useful.” You nudged him. “You’re important.”

He stiffened, eyes flicking to yours.

“…Don't say things like that,” he murmured. “It makes it difficult to maintain a reputation.”

“Good.”

His stern façade almost—almost—broke. Almost. “Go to bed,” he muttered, recovering. “Tomorrow will be busy.”

“You mean when Santa arrives?”

He glared.

“Philippe is Santa.”

“Yes, but you’re the one who—”

“Sleep.”

You laughed again and headed for the guest room the caretaker had prepared for you, heart warm, full, overflowing.

Behind you, Corbeau watched until you disappeared around the corner.

His shoulders eased.

=====

You woke before dawn to the soft sound of snow tapping against the window. The orphanage was still quiet, the kind of hush that only happened on Christmas morning, right before the explosion of tiny feet. You slipped into a sweater and followed the faint noise of rustling down the hall.

The Rust Syndicate was already up. Some looked half-asleep, clutching coffee. Some were in holiday sweaters that clashed violently with their usual uniform aesthetic. One was trying to tape jingle bells to his boots until Corbeau confiscated them.

“No,” he said flatly.

“But—”

“No.”

You hid your smile. And then, when Corbeau wasn't looking, you quietly handed them back. The grunt shot you a grateful look.

Corbeau wore his usual immaculate suit—but someone (likely Philippe, likely under duress) had fastened a miniature red bow to his lapel. You noted, however, that he had not removed it. And you never wanted to laugh so hard in your life.

He caught you staring. “Don’t,” he warned.

From the common room, you heard tiny whispers.

“Is Santa here?” “I heard something on the roof!” “NO YOU DIDN’T.” “I DID SO—”

Corbeau sighed. “They are awake.”

“Don’t act like you don’t love it,” you teased.

He stiffened. “I do not ‘love’ anything.”

“Ouch. That hurt.”

“You know what I mean.”

You sighed. “Corbeau, you get their letters six months in advance—”

“That is called planning.”

“—and you make sure every single wishlist item is delivered—”

“That is called efficiency.”

“—and you’re wearing a Christmas bow.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Philippe did it. Without consent.”

Speak of the devil—Philippe emerged from a side room in full Santa attire. A custom-tailored crimson coat. Black boots with polished buckles. A beard that was definitely made of Mareep wool. And a Santa hat tilted at a jaunty angle. All complete with a huge bag.

“HO HO HO—” Philippe boomed.

Corbeau grabbed his arm. “No. Try again.”

Philippe cleared his throat. “Ho ho… ho?”

Corbeau stared at him like he was reviewing a performance evaluation. “Acceptable,” he said at last. “Go.”

Philippe marched toward the common room, sack over his shoulder, and the moment he walked in—

The orphanage ERUPTED.

“IT’S SANTA!” “SANTA’S HERE!!!” “SANTA, HI SANTA, HI!!!”

Kids swarmed him from every angle. Philippe handled it like a seasoned veteran, hoisting kids, passing out hugs, using his Santa voice to perfection.

You watched, heart full. Then you turned toward Corbeau—and froze.

He was watching the kids with a face you weren’t meant to see. Soft. Warm. Heartbroken and heart-full at the same time.

He hid it quickly behind his usual stern expression, but you’d seen it.

“…You love them,” you said quietly.

His jaw tightened. “I care that they are safe.”

“That’s not what I said.”

He didn’t look at you. But he didn’t walk away either.

Philippe called out the first name.

“ADELINE!”

A little girl in braids ran forward. Philippe reached into the sack and pulled out a neatly wrapped package. The second she opened it, she screamed.

“A SYLVEON DOLL!!!”

You glanced at Corbeau. He was watching her reaction with a carefully masked softness, his gloves clasped behind his back.

“You remembered her letter?” you said.

“I remember all of them.”

Before you could speak again, Philippe called another name.

“HOLDEN!”

The boy from yesterday ran forward. Philippe handed him a wrapped box almost as big as he was. Holden tore it open—and revealed a mini electric train set. His eyes lit up.

“That one,” Corbeau murmured beside you, “was difficult to find.”

You turned to him. “But you went out of your way to get it.”

He didn’t meet your gaze. “He wanted it,” he said simply.

Toward the end of gifting, Philippe pulled out a small box and checked the tag.

“Oh! This one’s for our guest helper!”

You blinked. “For… me?”

A tiny girl with round glasses ran up to you, clutching the box. “Open it! Open it!!!”

You knelt, smiling as you accepted it. Inside was a necklace—handmade, strung with beads in every color of the rainbow.

The child beamed. “I made it,” she said proudly. “I wanted you to have it because you helped with dinner and you’re nice and you make Mr. Corbeau less grumpy!”

Corbeau inhaled sharply. “Less grumpy?” he repeated.

“You’re still grumpy,” she said matter-of-factly. “Just not as bad when she’s here.”

Philippe burst out laughing.

Corbeau stared at the child, betrayed.

You squeezed the girl’s hand. “Thank you,” you whispered. “It’s beautiful.”

You felt Corbeau’s gaze flick toward you— the necklace around your neck, the smile on your face, the warmth in your eyes.

Something shifted in his expression. Something unmistakably tender. Something dangerously close to love.

When the last of the gifts were handed out and the children scattered to play, the common room glowed with warm lights and gentle chaos.

You stood beside Corbeau near the tree, watching a little girl proudly show off her Sylveon doll to anyone who’d look. A boy was already assembling his train set.

A few of the grunts were pretending to be reindeer, complete with antlers, with Philippe saying all of their reindeer names.

Corbeau watched all of it in stillness. But not his usual controlled, calculating stillness. A different kind. Soft. Quiet. And full.

You stepped closer to him. “You did something really special here,” you told him.

He didn’t correct you. He didn’t deflect or tense. Instead, he exhaled—slowly, deeply—as though letting go of something heavy he’d carried for years.

“…Thank you,” he murmured. It wasn’t stiff or forced. “I’m...glad that you came with me.” He met your eyes. And for the first time, he didn’t guard anything.

Your heart squeezed.

“I’m glad too.”

There was a silence, gentle and warm, before he suddenly shifted his weight, clearing his throat.

“…I have something for you.”

You blinked. “For me?”

He reached into his coat pocket—and froze.

“…I…” He looked again. Patted another pocket. Then another.

Philippe glanced over. “Oh no,” he whispered dramatically. “He forgot it.”

Corbeau glared daggers at him. Then he turned to you—with a rare flicker of panic—before clearing his throat.

“I… appear to have left it at headquarters.”

You stared at him for a heartbeat. Then, you smiled.

“Corbeau,” you said softly, “it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he said quickly, jaw tightening. “I intended—”

You reached up, touching his arm gently. “It’s okay,” you repeated, voice warm. “I didn’t come here for a gift.”

He went still, and you stepped closer, lowering your voice so only he could hear it.

“If you really want to give me something…” You swallowed, heart trembling. “…then make me part of this. Next year?”

He stared at you, stunned.

“And the year after,” you continued, breath soft. “And the one after that. I want to be here with you. With them. I want to be part of your traidtion.”

Corbeau’s breath broke. Just faintly. Just enough. He looked down, eyes half-lidded, as though the weight of your words hit a part of him he had never let anyone touch.

Then, slowly—very slowly—he lifted his gloved hand to your cheek. His thumb brushed your skin, careful, reverent, almost hesitant.

“…You want to come back, here, next year? With me?” he asked quietly.

You leaned into his touch.

“Yes.”

His gaze softened so visibly it stole your breath.

Then—in a moment that was painfully human, painfully tender— he pressed his forehead against yours. You felt his breath against your cheek. His other hand cupped your jaw with reverent precision, almost trembling.

“If that is your wish,” he whispered, voice low and warm, “then it will happen. Next year. And every year you desire.”

He dropped a hand to your waist. The other slid behind your head. A soft, involuntary sound escaped him—half relief, half disbelief. He pulled you closer, breath mingling with yours.

You barely had time to inhale. And then—

He kissed you. Not cautiously. Not restrained. A soft, earnest, sweeping kiss, warm and deep and full—his thumb brushing your cheek, his fingers curling into your sweater like he’d been waiting years for this moment and finally let go.

A small voice somewhere behind you gasped.

“AHHHHH!!! THEY’RE KISSING!!!”

And then another.

“MR. CORBEAU HAS A GIRLFRIEND!”

Another shrieked at the top of their lungs.

“EWWW—WAIT NO I LIKE IT—WAIT NO I DON'T—”

One little girl clapped her hands so hard she dropped her Sylveon doll.

"KISS, KISS, KISS!" a few others began chanting.

You broke away for half a second, breathless—Corbeau followed, kissing you again like the chanting meant nothing. (But the faint upward pull at the corner of his mouth said it meant everything.)

Philippe dropped a stack of plates. They shattered spectacularly.

“Oh my ARCEUS—BOSS HAS EMOTIONS—” Philippe screamed, hands on his face like a soap opera actress. “EVERYONE STAY CALM—NO, WAIT, DON’T—THIS IS NOT A DRILL—”

Another Syndicate member whispered, emotional, “I didn’t think this day would ever come.”

One wiped a tear.

Another fainted.

A third was fanning herself aggressively with a napkin.

“Is… is he SMILING?” someone whispered in awe.

“TAKE A PICTURE,” someone else hissed.

“NO—DON’T—HE’LL KILL US—”

“WORTH IT.”

Corbeau pulled away last. Barely. He kept his forehead against yours, breathing softly, still holding you as though you were the last warm thing in the world. His voice was low, hushed, intimate.

“…That,” he murmured, “is what you do to me.”

You opened your mouth to respond—

A child squealed,

“THEY’RE STILL TOUCHING FACES—THIS IS SO ROMANTIC—”

Corbeau closed his eyes, exhaled, and somehow—somehow—did not let go of you. Instead, he answered just loudly enough for the room to hear.

“Children,” he said, voice perfectly even, “return to your gifts.”

They screamed, giggling, and scattered like Skitty on sugar.

The Syndicate tried (and failed) to act normal.

Philippe wiped tears from his face. “It’s—sniff—it’s so beautiful,” he choked.

Corbeau glared at him without moving away from you. “If any of you speak of this,” he warned, “you will be reassigned to city sanitation.”

Another grunt saluted, also crying. “Worth it, boss.”

You laughed, leaning into Corbeau’s chest. He held you tighter—openly, without fear, without hiding. The room buzzed with joy and mischief and awe. But Corbeau looked only at you.

“This,” he murmured, voice soft enough only you could hear, “is the beginning of our tradition.”

You hummed.

“Merry Christmas, Corbeau.”

“Merry Christmas, kid.”

And then—he kissed you again.