-Devon.
Bryce was already a blur, rushing down the spiral staircase two steps at a time, his voice carrying through the open space like the ringing of a bell. I followed slowly, my hand trailing along the polished railing, unwilling to match his reckless speed. The living room came into view in full, and for a moment I stood still, caught off guard.
The staff had transformed the space overnight. A towering tree rose at the center of the room, its branches jeweled with warm golden lights that twinkled as if holding secrets of their own. Silver and glass ornaments glimmered softly, and strands of garland trailed the railings of the staircase, their tiny bulbs casting a gentle glow that climbed upward like a constellation wrapping around the house itself. Candles in tall glass holders lined the edges of the room, their flames steady, turning the polished marble into mirrors of flickering amber. The scent of pine and faint vanilla drifted in the air, settling against the hush of the winter morning pressing at the windowpanes.
I hadn't expected to feel this—an ache I couldn't quite name, as though I'd walked into someone else's memory and stumbled into warmth I didn't know I missed.
Under the tree, gifts had been arranged neatly, their sharp corners wrapped in deep greens, reds, and metallic silvers, ribbons tied so precisely they looked like something out of a display window. My eyes lingered on the package I had placed there last night, tucked half out of sight. A surge of unease prickled in me. What could I possibly give Bryce Villa, who had everything, who could buy anything? The truth was, I had no idea what he truly wanted, what he secretly longed for when the lights dimmed and the crowd was gone. He never spoke of needs, never lingered on likes. My gift felt almost foolish—playful, more a stab at personality than certainty.
Bryce had already dropped himself onto the floor, cross-legged beside the tree, grinning like a child who'd found mischief in waiting. His hair was sticking up in a dozen places, his shirt still wrinkled from sleep, and yet he looked entirely at home there, legs folded under him in the glow of the lights.
"Let's just start," he said, voice laced with impatience. "She'll wake up. We can unwrap now, and then when she comes, we'll pretend to open them again."
I shook my head, lowering myself onto the edge of the rug, still watching him as if he might actually tear into the ribbons. "No chance. You said this was a family Christmas. A family waits until everyone's here."
He groaned loudly, throwing his head back as if the ceiling might answer for him. Then he twisted, fixing his eyes on the tiny ball of fur circling near the sofa. "Cereal, go get Gracie!"
The Pomeranian barked once and tore off like a wind-up toy wound too tight.
I blinked after him. "Did he really understand that, or is he just running aimlessly?"
Bryce turned his face up to me, eyes bright with triumph. "Oh, come on. He's well-trained. Smarter than you think."
I was halfway into an answer when the clatter of quick paws echoed on the staircase. Cereal bounded back into the room, tail thrashing in victory, a gray sock dangling from his teeth. He dropped it with ceremony onto the rug beside Bryce, who clapped as though his dog had just solved advanced physics.
I laughed before I could stop myself. "Oh my god. Look at this genius right here. The smartest fella in the house."
"Don't make fun of him," Bryce said, scooping Cereal into his lap with exaggerated protectiveness. "This is a baby."
"Yeah, whatever," I muttered, settling down properly beside him. The tree lights reflected in the gloss of his eyes. "We could've just gone upstairs and gotten her."
As if summoned by the thought, Gracie shuffled into the room, hair mussed, still in an oversized hoodie and loose pants. Her expression was murderous, eyes half-closed from sleep.
"That fucking dog bit my feet," she growled.
Bryce burst into laughter, leaning forward like it was the best thing he'd ever heard. "See? I told you he's smart! He bit off your sock on purpose. That's a sign he knew he had to wake you up."
Gracie glared at him, then at the dog, who was prancing in small victorious circles.
"Okay, fine," I said, throwing my hands up. "You win. Gracie, please, just sit down so we can start unwrapping these gifts before he explodes."
Bryce bounced slightly in place, already reaching for a package, while Cereal climbed over his lap as though he had his own present somewhere under the branches. Gracie muttered under her breath but lowered herself onto the couch, stretching her legs toward the tree.
The room felt alive then, not with the hush of luxury but with something rare—laughter bouncing off the high ceilings, the scent of pine mingling with warmth, the simple ritual of three people (and one over-excited dog) ready to tear into paper and ribbon. I glanced at the gift with my name scribbled on it and wondered, for the first time in a long time, if maybe this Christmas wasn't about what anyone needed at all.
Gracie rubbed her eyes, still half lost to sleep, and dropped herself onto the couch with the weight of someone not yet ready to face the day. Then, with a sudden spark, she straightened and clapped her hands together. "Actually, hold on. The staff wrapped all my gifts and prizes, so I don't know which is which. We'll have to leave it to chance." She grinned at us both with mischief. "We'll rock, paper, scissors for it. First round decides who starts."
Bryce immediately brightened, the same way he lit up when a ridiculous idea was thrown into the room. "Yes. Yes, I love this. Let's do it."
I squinted at them both. "Is this really the ritual?"
"Absolutely," Gracie said, nodding with solemn conviction. "That's how we figure out who goes first."
The three of us crouched near the tree, hands poised, and at her count we threw down. I put out paper. Bryce came in with rock. Gracie smirked with scissors.
"Shit," I muttered, realizing I'd lost.
Bryce threw both arms up in victory as if he'd just won a tournament. "Devon starts!"
"Oh my god, this is the worst," I groaned, dragging my palm down my face. They were both far too amused.
Still, I leaned forward and scooched toward the pile, rifling carefully until I found the one with Gracie's name neatly written across the corner. A small, flat envelope dressed in glossy red paper with a white ribbon. I handed it to her.
Her eyes widened, already glowing with anticipation. "Oh my god, I'm so excited." She tore through the paper and pulled the card from its sleeve. When she saw the voucher inside, her mouth fell open.
"A spa day… fully covered… and a hotel stay?" She looked back at me with unguarded admiration, her voice climbing higher. "I couldn't love you more. This is—oh my god, I don't even know what to say. Thank you so much."
Before I could answer, she scooted over and threw her arms around me. I hugged her back, laughing into her shoulder. "I could tell you need a break. Honestly, I couldn't think of anything else better for you."
She pulled back, eyes shining. "This is the perfect gift. Thank you, Devon."
Bryce, of course, was leaning forward like a kid starved for attention. "Alright, alright, my turn, my turn!"
I picked up the small box I'd hidden toward the back and set it gently in his hands. He took it as though I'd just placed some priceless gem into his palms. He cradled it with ceremony, lowering himself cross-legged in front of the tree again.
"Don't rush me," he said, already unwrapping each corner with maddening slowness.
Inside was the little device, its shell painted in a custom purple with tiny decorative stars along the edge.
His eyes lit up the moment he recognized the shape. "Oh my god, you got me a Tamagotchi!"
I held up a hand. "Not technically. It's just designed that way. It has the same features, you can raise an animal or whatever—but try turning it on."
He fumbled with the buttons until the small screen flickered awake with a cheerful beep. "Now what?"
I dug into my pocket and pulled out the second one, mine. "Click anywhere on the screen."
He tapped. Immediately, the toy in my hand buzzed alive, vibrating against my palm.
His head snapped up, startled, then his grin spread wide with awe.
"It's synced," I explained, leaning closer so he could see. "If you ever need me, for anything, no matter where you are—you ping this. I get the message, with your location and everything. It'll come straight to me."
He just stared at me, as if the little plastic shell had turned into something sacred. "This is the cutest, smartest gift ever. Devon, thank you. Oh my god. This is so cute."
"I'm sorry," I said quietly, rubbing the back of my neck. "I really didn't know what else to get you. We're going to have to sit down one day and have a long conversation about what you actually like. What you want. What you need."
He shook his head, still staring down at the toy as though he'd never seen anything so clever. "You didn't know what I wanted, and you still got me one of the best, most thoughtful gifts I've ever gotten. So thank you." He looked up, grinning, cheeks flushed with something that wasn't just excitement. "I'll just bother you non-stop now. That's perfect."
I laughed, shaking my head. "That was always going to happen with or without the toy."
Gracie, who had been watching the whole exchange with a smirk, clapped her hands together again. "Alright. My turn with Bryce. Rock, paper, scissors."
Bryce threw his hand out dramatically with paper. Gracie countered with scissors.
"Ha!" she said, triumphant. "I win. That means I will go next."
Bryce pouted in protest. "Rigged. This whole thing is rigged."
And yet he leaned back against the couch with Cereal curled in his lap, already bouncing with curiosity to see what she had gotten him.
Gracie rummaged under the tree, her grin widening as she pulled out a medium-sized box wrapped in gold foil paper, tied with a velvet ribbon. She slid it toward me with exaggerated care, as though handing over something volatile.
"This one's yours," she said, but before I could tear the ribbon free she set her palm flat on the lid. "Just so you know—there are two gifts in here. One for you, and one purely for my entertainment."
I raised a brow. "I can't be more worried right now."
Her grin sharpened. "Good. That's how it should be."
I peeled away the paper and lifted the lid. Inside were two smaller packages, one a leather box no larger than my palm, the other a rectangular parcel still wrapped tight. I reached for the leather box first, the weight of it cool and precise.
The lid clicked open, and for a moment the world fell quiet around me. A watch lay inside, sleek, steel and black, the kind of design that was impossible not to notice. It wasn't gaudy; it was deliberate, eye-catching without trying. A piece made to last.
My throat tightened as my mind betrayed me. I remembered the old watch still strapped to my wrist—Treasure's gift on my twenty-first birthday. I had worn it every day since. Changed its batteries, had the band repaired, polished the glass when it scratched. It had become the one tether I still allowed myself, the last fragment of him I carried openly. And here, in my hands, was a new weight, a reminder that maybe it was time to let go. Or at least to admit that I'd been holding on too long.
I glanced up at Gracie, the words snagging in my chest. "I'm… speechless, really. Gracie, you didn't have to go this hard."
"I mean, you really deserve it, Devon. Don't fight me on this one." She nudged my shoulder. "Now go on, open the other one. That's the one I've been waiting for."
With a steadying breath I set the watch box aside and picked up the second parcel. The wrapping paper crinkled as I tore it open. Inside was a framed photograph.
I froze, then laughed in disbelief. It was me, stretched out on the couch, one arm draped over my face, asleep. And perched proudly on my chest was Milk, her white fur spread like a regal cloak. Underneath, written in thick black marker: Caught in 4K, Calloway.
Gracie clasped her hands together, beaming. "I took this one day and didn't know if it would ever come in handy. But here you go—for your office someday, or maybe your bedside table. Proof you're not the unapproachable statue you keep pretending to be."
The laugh tore out of me before I could stop it, deep and warm. "This is actually really sweet. Thank you, Gracie."
She leaned in, and we hugged again, laughter still caught between us.
From the other side of the tree came Bryce's groan, long and theatrical. "Are you going to keep hugging every time there's a sentimental moment? My turn, please."
Gracie rolled her eyes, pulling away from me with a mock sigh. "Sheesh. Impatient."
She reached for the last of her gifts, a large, flat square wrapped in crimson paper. It was obvious from the size and shape that this wasn't anything ordinary. She hauled it over with both hands and dropped it into Bryce's lap.
"Here. Don't bend it."
Bryce tore at the paper eagerly, the sound sharp in the quiet glow of the lights. The wrapping fell away, revealing a collage under glass, framed neatly in black. His laughter came first, bright and incredulous, before silence wrapped around him.
It was his life, captured and pinned in fragments. A torn flyer from the messy days of his first band when he was barely eighteen. Glossy passes from old tours, ticket stubs from theaters and clubs. The bold, neon design of the Crescent Theater's programs. And at the center, the clean lines of his latest playbill.
Gracie leaned back against the couch, brushing her hands together like the job was done. "Figured someone had to be the historian of your chaos. You're too busy living it to keep track. Now you can actually see what you've built."
Bryce laughed again, but it was softer this time, cracking in the middle. "God, you're such a sap." He tried to play it off, shaking his head, but his hand lingered on the glass longer than it needed to.
I watched the shift in his face. The teasing fell away, and what remained was something I hadn't seen in him often—quiet recognition. He was looking at proof, not just of concerts or shows, but of a life that had weight, a life that had mattered enough for someone to hold onto all the pieces.
Gracie looked satisfied, not triumphant. She didn't say anything more, didn't need to.
And me—I felt it too, the subtle weight of it. That she knew him this well, that she had been holding him together in ways most people would never see. I glanced at Bryce, softened in the glow of the tree lights, and thought, not for the first time, that maybe he deserved this kind of remembering, this kind of care.
Bryce clapped his hands together as if he were about to unveil the finale of a magic show. "Alright, finally my turn." He leaned forward, plucked a slim white envelope from under the tree, and handed it to Gracie with theatrical care.
She narrowed her eyes at him and then glanced at me. "Is this part two? Are you two conspiring to give me nothing but envelopes this year?"
Bryce pressed his hand dramatically to his chest. "I swear I had no idea what he got you. But I promise—different kind of ticket."
Gracie tore it open without patience, and when her eyes landed on the card inside, her jaw fell open. "No way. No. Oh my god, Bryce. Are you serious? These are impossible to get!"
"Jude Astrid's recital," he confirmed, grinning like he had just pulled off a heist. "It was hard, but I called in a favor. Liberty owed me one—Jude's sister. She got me a seat."
He turned suddenly to me. "And before you ask—she's way older than me."
I gave a short laugh under my breath. "I wasn't worried about that."
"Good. Good." He turned back to Gracie, triumphant. "You've sat through enough of my shows. It's time I pay you back with something you actually enjoy."
Gracie's eyes softened, and she leaned forward, hugging him with genuine warmth. "Thank you," she whispered.
When they pulled apart, Bryce rubbed his hands together, eyes glinting again. "Okay, for my next magic trick, I present Devon's gift." He looked at me then, and something in his expression shed its playfulness. His voice steadied. "I want to start by saying it was an easy buy. You pointed at it, and the way you looked at it—I mean, I would've bought you the whole damn gallery if you had looked at everything else the way you looked at that thing."
My chest tightened. His sudden sincerity had a way of terrifying me more than any of his chaos. I only managed a nod, silence heavy in my throat.
He noticed the unease in my face, and with that instinctive ease of his, he reached out and cupped my cheek. "Don't worry. It's nothing crazy. Relax."
The touch steadied me, and I let out a thin smile, nodding once more.
He stood, reached behind the tree, and pulled out something large and flat, wrapped in thick brown paper. I rose slowly to my feet, my palms already damp as I took it from him. My fingers found the edge, and I tore the wrapping carefully.
The painting revealed itself like a wound reopening.
It was the one from that night in the gallery. The small kitchen rendered in oil strokes—claustrophobic, cluttered with towers of plates, a sink brimming with water so dark it looked bottomless. A single chair crooked at the table, abandoned mid-thought. The light fell from one overhead bulb, sharp and unforgiving, splitting the room into uneven halves of clarity and blur. The yellows were sickly, the blues too sharp, the reds deepened until they resembled bruises.
And in the corner, half-swallowed by shadow, sat a pair of sneakers. Worn, scuffed, tossed off carelessly and left as though their owner had vanished mid-motion.
My breath snagged, my hands tightening on the frame. For a moment I forgot how to function at all. That painting had caught me in its gravity the first time I saw it, the way grief catches in your ribs when you least expect it.
I looked up, the frame heavy between my hands. Bryce was standing behind it, his eyes lit with excitement but his body still, as though waiting for me to find words. My voice broke in a whisper. "This… this is mine now?"
He nodded eagerly. "Yes."
"You got it from the gallery?"
"Yes," he said again, simple and sure, his grin pulling wider.
I scoffed and shook my head, glancing at Gracie as if she might anchor me. Then back at him. "You're spoiling me. Both of you. Bryce, this is…" I faltered, forced the air back into my lungs. "This is too much."
Gracie cut in, her smile sly. "Remember when I told you you could've given him a pebble? And you said he deserved a mountain?"
Bryce's head snapped toward her. "He said that?"
"Yes. He did indeed."
The admission burned at the edges of my throat. I swallowed hard and held Bryce's eyes. "Thank you. I'll… I'll forever cherish it."
For a heartbeat he only stared, lips parted as though he wanted to say something but couldn't decide how. Then he leaned forward, over the painting still balanced in my arms, and pressed his mouth to mine. Soft, unhurried, deliberate.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his eyes still locked with mine. "The least I could do. Literally."
My hands tightened on the frame again, the sneakers in the corner staring back at me.
"Time for breakfast!" Gracie announced, her voice breaking the spell of the tree and the gifts. She clapped her hands once, already bouncing toward the kitchen. "French toast as usual, right?"
"Yeah!" Bryce called back, springing to his feet, Cereal at his heels. He trailed after her, tugging at the hem of his shirt, humming some half-formed tune that belonged only to his head.
I stayed where I was. The tree glowed quietly in the corner, the scent of pine faint against the lingering trace of Bryce's cologne on my shirt, and the weight of the painting leaned against the sofa like a question I wasn't ready to answer.
The moment stretched, and memory intruded. Years collapsed into each other. The narrow corridors of my stepfather's house, air always thick with the stale weight of arguments, silence sharpened to a blade. The rundown apartment where I counted coins just to cover heat, where I learned the texture of loneliness more intimately than the shape of furniture. The nights in Elias' mansion, marble floors beneath my boots, yet never belonging, every glance shadowed with suspicion. The countless times I told myself it would never shift, that I would always be the one guarding at the edge of someone else's life, never invited fully in.
All the years I believed I would not be loved back, not cared for, not chosen. All the times I thought no one would ever listen long enough to hear me.
And now, with ridiculous ease, the weight of those years felt as though it had been swept aside. Maybe it wasn't truly ease—it was years of fighting, grinding, enduring—but in this quiet morning, under a tree wrapped in lights and with a new watch resting in its box, it felt unsettlingly simple. As if the universe had forgotten to make me earn it this time.
I looked down at my wrist. The old watch clung there, stubborn, scratched, the last tether to a version of myself I no longer had to be. Treasure's gift, still steady after everything. I pressed the clasp, slid it free, and for the first time in years, I set it aside. My fingers lingered a moment on the band, then moved to the new one. The leather was smooth, cold against my skin as I fastened it, its weight unfamiliar yet grounding.
I breathed out, slow.
From the kitchen came the sounds of clatter—plates pulled down, the fridge door opening, Gracie's voice scolding Bryce for trying to dip bread into the batter before it was ready. He yelped like a child caught stealing candy. Cereal barked once in solidarity with him, and Gracie threatened to put both of them in the yard.
I smiled despite myself.
And with that, I pushed off the sofa, leaving the watch behind on the table. I walked toward the kitchen, the smell of cinnamon already filling the air, and joined them.
The kitchen was alive by the time I stepped in. Gracie was already at the counter, sleeves pushed up, whisk in hand, a bowl of frothy eggs and milk gleaming beneath the overhead lights. She worked quickly, efficient in a way that came from long practice, but her mouth was set in a smirk aimed at Bryce, who hovered dangerously close with a slice of bread pinched between his fingers.
"Don't you dare," she warned, brandishing the whisk at him like a weapon.
Bryce froze mid-reach, his grin betraying him. "I was just inspecting the quality of the bread."
"You were about to dunk it raw," she said, rolling her eyes. "Out of my kitchen."
"This is my kitchen," he countered, tugging the hem of his t-shirt as if that somehow proved ownership. "I'm the king here. I decree that I get first dip."
"King or not, you'll sit your royal ass down or I'll crown you with this pan," Gracie replied, sliding the skillet onto the burner.
He gasped, clutching his chest. "Violence, on Christmas morning? Scandalous."
Cereal barked at his feet, tail a frantic metronome. Bryce pointed at him immediately. "See? Even my son agrees."
"You're turning him into a menace," Gracie muttered, pouring the first swirl of egg mixture into the hot pan. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla bloomed at once, heavy and warm, settling in the air like a blanket.
I moved toward the counter, leaned my palms against the cool marble, watching them with the kind of detachment you get when you realize you're smiling and can't remember when it started.
Bryce noticed me then, bright eyes flicking up. "Devon, tell her she's cruel. It's Christmas, she should let me live a little."
"Live a little?" Gracie shot back, flipping the first slice with a satisfying hiss. "You live too much."
I shook my head slowly, the weight of the new watch snug around my wrist, grounding me. "I'm siding with the chef. No raw bread in the batter. Sit down, Villa."
Bryce dropped into a chair with exaggerated obedience, muttering, "Dictators, everywhere I look."
Gracie plated the first toast, dusted with sugar, and slid it in front of him. "Merry Christmas, your majesty."
He perked instantly, cutting into it like he hadn't eaten in days. Cereal whined, and Bryce broke off a corner, sneaking it under the table until Gracie snapped, "Don't feed the dog sugar!"
"He's family," Bryce said through a full mouth, feigning innocence.
I sat down beside him, the warmth of the food spreading through the room, through me. For once, there was nothing to guard against. Just the sound of forks against plates, the smell of cinnamon and butter, the steady hum of voices I trusted filling the air.
The day melted away before I noticed it slipping. Morning bled into noon, and noon gave itself over to evening as though time had chosen to soften just for us. The house smelled faintly of cinnamon still, though butter and sugar had long faded into memory. We ended up tangled in the living room, the television flickering with the kind of films you only ever played in December, the ones predictable enough to feel safe.
Bryce lay stretched across the sofa, his head pillowed on my thigh, the weight of him warm and heavier than I thought it would be. He shifted every now and then to laugh at something on the screen, his hair brushing against me, his mouth curling into that lopsided grin before he settled back down. Gracie sat curled in the chair nearby, her legs tucked under her, her phone resting loosely in her hand.
It buzzed, and she picked up, voice brisk but gentle. "Hello? … Yes, Lionel, what's up? … Oh, okay. Did you do the safety checks? … Just keep his phone with you, escort him in. That's fine."
She ended the call and set her phone aside. Then her eyes moved to me, almost teasing. "Someone's here for you."
Bryce sat upright, nearly knocking his head into my chin. "What? Who?"
I blinked, shaking my head, baffled. "That's impossible. I never told anyone where I am. Who is it?"
Gracie gave a little shrug, casual in a way that didn't match the tremor starting in my chest. "They said he has the badge. From Trevor's agency."
Her words cracked through me like ice. It was as though a full bucket of cold water had been dumped over me, each drop sinking straight through skin to bone. My stomach knotted. My throat went dry.
"No," I said, though it came out weak, more breath than voice. "There's no way."
The doorbell rang. Sharp. Clear. Too real.
I pushed myself up, my legs moving before I could think, carrying me through the hall. Every step was heavy with dread, my mind racing in a single loop: please, anyone else. Anyone but him.
The closer I got, the more my body resisted, as if something in me already knew the truth. My hand hovered at the handle for too long, breath caught, a prayer without words repeating in my head.
Finally, I pulled it open.
"Merry Christmas, Devon."
Treasure stood there, framed by the glow of the porch light, his voice steady, his face unreadable. Behind him, three of Bryce's guards waited, silent, their eyes trained anywhere but on us.
The world seemed to tilt then, the warmth of the day collapsing into something raw and unfinished. All I could hear was the sound of my pulse, loud as thunder in my ears.