Christmas Alone - Toboe x Reader [Wolf's Rain]

Christmas Eve means a lot of different things to a lot of different people. It’s a time for family, and love, and friendship. For excited children and well-prepared parents.

For some, though, like you, it’s a cursed time. A time for longing to leave work early, for missing your family who live too far away to see, for jealously flipping off your co-workers who gloat that their partners are waiting up for them after their shifts are done with food and festive films.

You sigh, staring blankly into the monitor of your desktop, trying to drown out the hum of happy co-workers as you tap at the keyboard at no more than a leisurely pace. You have no one to rush home to. There’s nothing waiting on the table for you, cooked and warm. You have your cheap, fake Christmas tree, decked in tinsel and rainbow coloured baubles, and star-shaped LED string-lights on the inside of your window. The only thing keeping your fingers typing is the bottle of unopened champagne in your fridge. You have no reason to celebrate, other than surviving your first year away from home, and it hardly feels like a celebration when you feel so lonely, knowing you’re going to miss your mother’s Christmas dinner. Still, champagne is champagne.

The evening drags on and the gentle hum of celebrating co-workers dies away. They leave one by one, finished for Christmas and eager to see their loved ones, or to meet their friends for a night out. It’s no surprise when your boss, his tie slacked and his shirt untucked, hands you the key to the office and tells you to lock up when you’re done. With a merry wave goodbye, he thanks you for all your hard work this year then goes, leaving you alone to finish up.

You intend to stay in the office most of the night, but wrap up and leave when you notice the cleaners hanging around, and feel guilty for not realising they have to stay until after you’re gone.

You walk home, cold but enjoying the sense of festiveness in the air. The streets are lined with colourful decorations, shop displays and the smell of mulled wine hits you as you pass through the restaurant district. Soon, the smell of wine and greasy, tasty food gets the better of you. Your stomach growls. You make a bee-line for the closest takeaway. It might not be a Christmas dinner, but you sure as hell know you’ll enjoy it.

You order yourself a burger, some fries and a small garlic bread. Bundling them into a plastic bag, the server wishes you a merry Christmas. He smiles, filled with holiday spirit and you have to smile back even though you feel a little Scrooge-like tonight. You thank him and venture back into the cold evening. The final stretch of your journey leads you through one of the city’s large parks, its pathways lit by streetlamps, with garlands of festive lights strung between them.

Feeling your stomach growling, you retrieve the burger from your bag and attempt to eat it, only you realise how messy and difficult that is. Wanting to eat before it goes cold, you settle down on a bench close to one of the lamps and tuck in. As you eat, enjoying the flavours that only come from eating something bad for you, you watch people passing through the park. There are couples, and friends, merry drunkards and even late night joggers. Watching one man run past, you look down at your burger, wondering how long you would need to run to work it off. Then you remember this is technically your Christmas meal, so you’ll damn well enjoy every bite. Now you regret not picking up a dessert.

Suddenly, you hear a rustling next to you on the bench. It’s the plastic bag with your food in. In alarm you flinch backwards, thinking a bird or a squirrel has gotten inside. Then, to your alarm, instead of a small critter, you see a large brown dog skidding away from the bag, startled by your reaction. With a whimper and a whine, it backs off across the path, disappearing behind a shadowed oak tree. After the shock has worn off you look around, searching for the dog’s owner. Only, there’s no one else in sight. Taking a bite of your burger, you squint and stare into the darkness at the tree. Then you spot the dog’s yellow eyes. It’s staring straight at you.  At first, the gaze unnerves you. You look away, bunching the bag into your lap, debating whether it’s best to leave. The fact that the dog is alone troubles you, though. There’s still no one around, and it’s a cold Christmas Eve.

You wait a little while longer, checking for anyone who could claim it, or for the dog to run off, but it doesn’t. Before too long, the cold starts to bite at you. It’s late enough now that the park is near-abandoned. Everyone is either home with family or out partying. You stand up, regretting that you have to leave the dog alone. You assume it’s a stray and only looking for food. You toss the last of your burger to the edge of the path and wait. Slowly, the dog creeps from the shadows towards it. In the glow of the street lamps, you can see it’s only a young thing, shy and cautious. Your heart aches at the thought of someone abandoning their dog. It’s too cruel.

Before the dog manages to approach your abandoned meal, a large black bird squawks above you, startling the pup. The dog lunges back for the safety of the tree. You look up, unable to spot the bird in the air, until it swoops down suddenly, like the night descending on the earth, and pilfers the bit of burger.

“Hey!” You yell, flapping your arms to try to scare the bird off. “That’s not for you.”

Despite your best efforts, the bird makes off with the scraps. You tut and curse, glaring at it until it disappears back into the shroud of the night sky. You look for the dog, and spot it even further behind the tree than before. You tut again.

“You could have taken him on, you know? That bird was half your size.”

Resting your bag on the bench, you reach into it and pull out the box of fries. You open it, grab a handful, then crouch down and hold your hand out, ignoring the ever-growing tingle of frost in your limbs.

Your determination, some would call it stubbornness, to feed the dog outwaits the dog’s shyness. You stay crouched for a full few minutes, aware of the dog’s eyes on you from behind the tree. Eventually, it eases itself from the shadows and trots across the path. When it’s nearer to you, it becomes hesitant again. You can see it looking between you and the fries, as if wondering how it can eat them without actually getting near to you.

“I’m not putting it on the floor. You scuppered your chances with that one.” The dog flinches, its ears drooping low at the sound of your voice. Its eyes seem more alert, wondering if you’re about to speak again, and if that means good or bad things. Quieter, you urge, “Come on. I know you want it.”

You wiggle the fries a short distance from the dog’s nose. It watches you for a second, then with a quick snap of the jaw, it steals the fries as close to your fingertips as possible without biting you. You laugh, relieved it’s finally accepted your offering. You open your palm to it, holding out the remainder of the fries, and to your joy it eagerly leans in to your hand, tilting its head to pick up the food without biting you. Leaving it to chew, you turn back to the box of food, picking the whole thing up, then set it down on the ground between you and the dog.

“Here,” you say, making sure the lid cannot shut, “The birds won’t try to steal it. You might be a coward, but they don’t know that.”

The dog barely finishes what it’s eating before it lunges for the box, gorging itself on your mostly-cold fries. Content with your good deed for Christmas, you pull yourself up, watch the dog for a moment more, then turn and carry on to the final stretch of your journey home. As you walk, you begin to feel bad. There are so many strays around the neighbourhood. On nights like tonight, when even your fingers feel the bitter cold, you can’t help but pity them, and hope they find somewhere warm to sleep.

Arriving home, the first thing you do is kick off your work shoes, a painful pair of low, black heels, and turn the heating up. You look at your pitiful Christmas tree and laugh, mocking it. It’s a far cry from the extravagant towers around the city centre.

You wander into the kitchen and put your garlic bread in the microwave to reheat it. As it warms, you reach into a cupboard above your sink, retrieving a prosecco glass large enough to hold an entire bottle. Then you delve into the fridge for your champagne. A simple 700ml bottle is enough for anyone. You, however, knew how you would be spending Christmas Eve, and so bought yourself a pricey three-litre behemoth of a bottle.

“Merry Christmas,” you say, toasting the world dryly.

A couple of hours later, you’re dancing around your apartment to classic Christmas anthems in your summer pyjamas – a vest top and shorts – blissfully drunk enough not to care about your heating bill. You started slow, easing yourself into your drink with the addition of the garlic bread, but as the loneliness of Christmas Eve tried to take hold of you, your sips turned to guzzles and that led to your current predicament.

Singing loudly and out of tune, you prance around the apartment, bouncing on the sofa, the dining table, spinning on the carpet, sloshing the half-empty champagne bottle around as you clutch it to you with both hands like a dance partner, the glass abandoned some time ago on the kitchen counter.

“All I want for Christmas,” you sing, only to cut yourself off at the last moment, mumbling, “is to not spend it by myself like a loser.”

You groan in frustration and take a two handed swig from the bottle. You want to go home, spend Christmas with your family, or friends, heck you’d even settle for inviting the postman over but he doesn’t work on Christmas.

After noticing your Christmas woes starting to creep in again, you decide it’s not a good time to run out of alcohol. Devising a plan, you dash into the kitchen to find a water bottle then fill it with champagne, sloshing and spilling plenty of it into the sink as you do. This would be much easier if the world could kindly stop spinning and throwing your aim off.

Your plan is a simple one, but should you be sober, you would realise it is a bad plan. With your disguised alcohol in hand, you grab a jacket from the coat rack, throw your apartment keys into its pocket, a handful of cash and your ID into the other, slip on a pair of dolly shoes and head out.

The streets are deserted. You live just out from the main part of the city, not exactly a suburb, but there are no bars or clubs. The only people in this area are enjoying Christmas Eve from the comfort of their homes. You do not mind the emptiness around you. You skip, swigging from the water bottle as you go, oblivious to the true bitterness of the night air nipping at your scantily clad legs. You take a shortcut through the park, once again marvelling at the Christmas lights, though they look more a blur to you now. Still, they’re a pretty blur.

Drinking close to two litres of champagne in a couple of hours is a terrible choice for anyone to make. Even you, and you don’t class yourself as a lightweight. But the bubbles and the slightly sweet taste that made it too easy to drink have played havoc with many of your senses, not least of all your sensibility. For some reason, the fact it’s Christmas Eve, meaning that all convenience stores and supermarkets have closed early today, does not dawn on you until you’re outside a small off-licence, staring into its darkened windows.

“Heeeeyyyyy,” you slur, banging on the shut-off automatic door. “Hello? Hello? I want to buy something. Let me in.”

No matter how much you shout, the shop is empty. After a while you give up and sigh, drinking from your bottle. You look around at the empty streets, hearing the faint sound of cars and the bustle of the city centre not too far away, carrying through the empty park. You have no intention of joining the rest of the world tonight in their celebrations, though you ponder for a moment how many bouncers might let you into a club for just a drink or two in what you’re wearing. Knowing your chances are slim, you abandon the empty shop front and head back into the park. You wander, staggering this way and that along the main path. However when you reach the crossroad that would take you home, you decide to miss your turning and carry on, heading for the centre of the park.

The park is by no means a small place. Sitting on fifty acres of land, it’s impossible to see one end from the other, and only the tallest of the skylines peak out on the horizon, ignoring of course the vast woodlands that obscure most of the view. You stagger on, humming Christmas tunes to yourself as your intoxication levels rise. It’s easy for you to forget where you are, wandering in the night, surrounded by strings of white Christmas lights and the soft glow of old fashioned street lamps. It does not feel like home, but it does not feel lonely, like being lost in a picturesque postcard or so many of the Christmas films you’ve seen. You almost want it to snow. Perhaps then, like in all good Christmas films, you will suddenly stumble upon someone you’re destined to meet, and enjoy a very merry Christmas. Your breath is a white cloud in front of your face, and you are too drunk to care that snow will not help you in any way right now. You want to believe it will. You do not want to be lonely.

You take another swig from your bottle as you walk past the park’s lake, starting to freeze as late night sets in. The cold has numbed your fingers, but you cannot tell below the blanket of intoxication.

Eventually you sit down on a bench, a further way around the lake. The night is so still, and the air crisp. You look up, shielding your eyes from the accompanying lamp’s glow, to see the sky alive with millions of stars, not a single cloud to hide them.

“Ho, ho, ho,” you mutter softly, wondering how many people around the world are looking up to look for Santa Claus right now. You take another swig of your drink, gulping it, then wipe the last of it away from your lips. As you flick your hand dry, you hear something behind you. Looking around, you do not spot it at first. Then, just in the distance, running through the grass, you spot a dog.

“Hey,” you yell. The dog stumbles over its front paws, alarmed by the sudden sound. It does not fall, but wobbles to correct itself, slowing to a trot before stopping to search for the source of the noise. It sniffs the air then spots you in an instant. Then, to your surprise, it trots towards you. You squint, trying to make it out properly in the dark, but when it comes into the glow of the streetlamp closest to you, you coo excitedly. “You!”

Your yell makes the dog flinch and it stops approaching. It’s the same dog from before, you’re sure of it. Unfazed by the thought of what plagues and illnesses a stray could be carrying if it bites you, you lean over the back of the bench, stretching your fisted hand out expectantly. The dog does not move.

“Come on,” you groan, wanting to say hello. When the dog remains still, you take another sip of your drink then leave it on the bench, flopping over the side, onto the path. The dog cocks its head, watching you. You crouch and shuffle your way behind the bench, onto the lawn where the dog is still waiting. “Did you enjoy your food before?”

You kneel down on all-fours, your bare shins flush to the frost-covered grass, then stretch one arm out, fisting your hand again, and wait. The dog’s tail swishes as its head tilts this way and that, watching, waiting for you to make a move. Then, slowly, it comes towards you.

“Good dog,” you mutter quietly, struggling to hold yourself up and still on limbs that want to collapse. It’s naïve of you to believe it’s only from your intoxication, but you cannot feel the reality of the chill under your alcohol blanket.

The dog stops in front of you. You can see the bright colour of its yellow eyes, as striking as the Christmas lights against the night, brighter than any star in the sky. You hold each other’s gaze for a moment, then, to your heart’s delight, it sniffs your hand then bumps its nose to your fist in greeting. Your joy is short lived, however, when after saying hello, it trots past you, over to the bench.

“Hey, dog,” you say, trying to keep its attention. It potters around to the side of the bench, then stretches itself up, leaning over the arm, sniffing at the seat. Then with a great leap, it launches itself fully onto the bench. “Hey!”

You see the dog peep its head over the wood-slatted back at you, then it disappears. You hear the crunch of its teeth on your alcohol filled water-bottle.

“No, no,” you yelp, quickly dragging yourself up from the floor. You stumble over the bench to see the dog biting the bottle, squeezing it between its tough jaws. “Don’t eat that. It’s not food.”

You shoo the dog away from the bottle, but instead of dropping it, it jumps from the bench, taking the bottle with it.

“I don’t have any more food. I’m sorry.”

The dog potters back onto the grass, keeping its head up with the bottle held like a trophy. You can’t very well let the dog take it. You don’t know what alcohol does to dogs, but you don’t want to find out. “Come on. Drop it.”

The dog looks at you, wafting its ears. Then it shakes its head vigorously, rattling the bottle side to side. You gasp, waiting for your champagne to spill through the puncture holes. “Let go!”

The dog flinches again, and in shock it lets go of the bottle. The bottle soars off, a short distance away through the dark. Well, at least it did the trick. As you watch the dog, who is pitifully searching for the new toy it just lost, you can’t help but feel upset.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice a little watery. The dog looks at you again, cocking its head. It wags it tail and you feel a well of guilt inside you. Wanting to make up for not being able to feed the dog, nor give it your water bottle to play with, you stumble across the grass to a young tree. Without a second thought, you snap one of the lower branches, stripping it of its smaller twigs, then cut through the air with it, testing its weight.

When you look at the dog again, you notice he’s come closer, eyes on the stick.

“Do you want to play?” you say with a smile. When the dog lights up with excitement, whimpering and wagging its tail so much its whole back end moves, you laugh and hurl the stick as far away from your missing water bottle as possible. The dog launches after it. You watch it go, disappearing into the night, only to come hurtling back towards you, stick in mouth a few moments later.

“Good dog!” You exclaim giddily. Without prompting, the dog drops the stick at your feet then backs off, bouncing back and forth on its paws in anticipation. You pick the stick up and throw it harder.

Time wears on but you hardly notice it. The cold sets in but you hardly feel it. All you care for is the hazy sense of a never-wavering drunkenness and the companionship of your playful partner. No matter how little you feel the cold, though, it’s still there, lulling you gently, slowing you down. You throw the stick over and over, neither of you willing to give in, but its starts to become difficult to lift your arm, or move your legs. But you continue on. You don’t want to leave the dog by itself. You don’t want to think how long it’s been alone, whether abandoned or born into isolation. One Christmas by yourself is hard enough.

“Go on,” you call eagerly, watching the dog run off into the darkness for the umpteenth time. But, finally, the cold prickles you. It seems sudden, but has been biting at you for hours. You puff a cloud of frosty breath through your lips, rubbing your arms through your jacket, your drunken haze deepening for just a moment, heavy on your eyelids. You groan softly, trying to rub your hands together even when they feel alien to your body, like rubbing someone else’s fingers. Your legs feel heavy. Blocks of ice. You try to step forward, but suddenly notice you haven’t the energy. Instead, you kneel into the grass, sitting yourself down as your eyelids droop.

“Hey, pup,” you say softly, as if the dog is right beside you and not somewhere off in the distance, retrieving a stick. You say nothing more. The dog returns, as always, wagging its tail with its new favourite object in its mouth. It drops the stick at your feet and backs off, ready for you to throw it. The dog waits. It whimpers, edging forward so it can push the stick with its muzzle, drawing your attention to it, then backs off. It pushes the stick again, then whimpers louder and shuffles side to side, spinning, waiting expectantly. You no longer want to throw the stick. The prickle of ice in your body has made you tired, sapped of energy. The dog nudges the stick again, then looks up at you, its head near to the ground. You smile. It comes closer, nudging your foot. You lift your hand as high as you can, holding your palm open. The dog pushes its muzzle into your hand and you feel its warmth and the softness of its fur.

“Good dog,” you coo quietly, more aware of the chill now settled on your body from the heat of the dog’s head. “Aren’t you cold?”

It nudges your hand a few times more before bridging the gap between you, pushing its heavy, furry body into you, jutting its head into the gap between your neck and your shoulder. You raise your arms into its fur, cuddling it as your hands disappear within the mound of fluff.

“So soft...” you mumble, stroking your hands back and forth through its coat. The dog grumbles and whines against your face, twitching and wiggling its body as your movements start to slow. “Good dog.”

The dog stays huddles in to you, its warm body a blanket from the bitter Christmas chill. You can feel yourself giving in. Your legs are dead. Your body feels numb. Amongst layers of champagne, and the sweet, loyal feeling of friendship from a stray refusing to leave your side as the cold takes hold of you, you do not think to go home. It’s too dark. It’s too late. There’s no one waiting for you.

The dog begins to whimper, nipping lightly at the shoulder of your jacket as you slip into hypothermic slumber. When your hands fall from around its neck, it barks once, rubbing its fuzzy face against yours. In the last moments of consciousness, you smile, cuddling your cheek into its fur.

“Good dog…”

As you slip away, you hear a howl. It sounds so close to you, yet so very far away.

*

Miraculously, you wake. Even more miraculously, you wake in your bed, engulfed in the warmth of radiators turned on full. Blearily, you open your eyes, only to shut them when the mid-morning sun attacks you through the unclosed curtains. You hiss and curse, curling up into a ball with your head tucked below the covers to avoid the light, your head pounding. Only, once you’ve curled in on yourself, and even through the blurry haze of a hangover, you notice a pressure on your side. You crack an eye open, looking down below the blankets.

It’s hard for you to decide whether you’re still dreaming or not. You’re fairly certain you’re awake – no hangover could be this bad – but there’s a dog’s leg stretched out over your hip, and now you’ve noticed it, you can feel soft fur against your back anywhere your skimpy pyjama top leaves bare. You uncurl yourself and gingerly touch the furry leg. You hear a soft whine, then suddenly the leg twitches and moves, kicking you in the back as something wriggles in the bed. You yelp, and roll over, glaring. Then you see the owner of the leg.

“Dog!” you exclaim, sitting up when your furry companion does. You laugh, reaching forwards to stroke the dog’s head. “I’m sorry. Did I kidnap you last night?”

After all your worry about leaving the dog behind in the park, you must have brought it home with you. “Well,” you say, grinning. “Merry Christmas.”

The dog leans in to your hand, its tail wagging below the bed covers, then leans in to your face. You close your eyes, waiting for the terrible breath that comes with being licked by a dog, only instead of a wet, grainy tongue, you feel the soft touch of lips against your cheek. Your eyelids shoot open to see a boy with auburn hair pulling back from you. You’re too shocked to speak.

“Merry Christmas to you too!” He exclaims, grinning. You can’t find your voice. He watches you, cocking his head to the side.  “Are you okay?”

“S-S-S-S-S—Sure?” you ask, closing and opening your eyes in long blinks, waiting to see a dog in front of you, and not a boy in a red flannel shirt and cargo pants. “What just--?”

  “I’m sorry I stayed over,” he admits, placing his hand on top of yours on the bed. “I couldn’t leave you. You passed out while we were playing fetch. You got me really worried.”

“W-what?”

He squeezes your hand. “I had fun though. No one ever plays with me. And you fed me too! You’re a kind person, I was really, really worried you’d die.”

He reaches forwards, taking you in a warm hug. At first, you’re too shaken to react. There’s a guy in your bed, where there was a dog, acting like your concerned mother. The only logical explanation is that you’re dreaming. And you’re ready to believe that, too, until you notice something. His hug. You’ve felt it before, along with his scent and the warmth of his body.

“You really…” you trail off, unable to accept your conclusion. Instead of speaking, you wrap your arms around him, burying your face into the side of the neck. He does the same to you, holding you closer. Hardly able to believe it, you’re filled with a sudden happiness. “It is you.”

You pull away, only he holds the hug a moment more, groaning that you’ve let go.

“But you’re a dog,” you say in disbelief. He laughs, scratching the back of his head as if he doesn’t want to ruin the moment.

“Actually, I’m a wolf. But no one’s called me anything in ages. So you can call me dog if you want.”

Dog. Wolf. Animal. Human. Your head is having trouble processing it all. The only thing you’re willing to accept is the creature in the bed is the same thing you’d played with, stroked and fed in the park.

“What happened last night?” You ask, genuinely confused. Though alcohol played a big part of your Christmas Eve, you rarely lose your memories. Yet, you cannot remember anything after playing fetch with dog-wolf.

“I don’t know,” he says, looking uncomfortable, “One minute we were playing fetch, and the next thing, you’ve passed out.”

“Okay, sure,” you agree, “But then what? You said you couldn’t leave me there. How did we end up here?”

He begins to look even more uncomfortable. You can tell he wants to keep something to himself.

“Well,” he starts. He explains that before he saw you in the park yesterday evening, the first time, no one had given him a second glance in such a long time. And he was too frightened to fight the birds for scraps. You were the first person to show him kindness. Hearing this, you both feel proud of yourself, and angry towards others. Apparently he’s been living in the park for weeks now, and you were the first person to pay him any attention.

He catches himself, trying to push the next sentence through his unwilling lips.

“After you fed me I… I…- Ifollowedyouhome.”

You blink, trying to untangle the words spilling from his mouth, though he does not give you time to respond, clenching his eyes tight to avoid your reaction.

“I wanted to scratch on the door. I wanted to come in. You looked really lonely, like me, but I was scared.”

Your stomach drops.

“You didn’t look through the window, did you?”

“I did,” he smiles, “you were dancing and drinking,”

“And singing?”

“And singing,” he agrees with a grin. You hang your head in shame. “I was going to howl with you, and I really wanted to, but then you’d know I was there.”

You hold your hand up as a sign for him to drop the subject, feeling mortified. He reverts back to his tale.

“I saw you drinking, and drinking, and drinking,” you flinch, disliking this outsider’s view of your sad, lonely Christmas Eve, “then when you went out, I followed you. I was worried. You were stumbling and wobbling, and you barely had anything on. Even I felt a little cool and I have a thick coat.”

Despite his human appearance, you can remember his soft, warm fur and the way you snuggled into it last night. Then you rethink your actions, fully aware of his human self in front of you, and blush terribly. If you had known he was not 100% animal, you never would have cuddled, stroked, and buried your body in the mounds of his fluff. You hold your cheeks, overheating with embarrassment.

He continues,

“I lost you when we got in the park. I tried to keep my distance so you wouldn’t see me. I thought for certain you’d go home so I waited near the entrance by your house. But you didn’t come.” He looks panicked, recounting his memories. “I ran all over the park trying to find you. You were so drunk, I thought you’d fallen in the lake.”

“Wait,” you butt in, sounding suspicious, “Did you take my drink off me on purpose?”

You try to look him in the eye but he refuses to meet your gaze.

“I didn’t think alcohol would help.”

You have to giggle at his thoughtfulness. He continues to look guilty until you reach forward, stroking his hair. It feels weird, doing it to a human, but he smiles and leans in to your touch. He enjoys it so much that when you pull your hand away he follows it until he’s at risk of toppling over.

“Anyway,” he says, up-righting himself, “when you passed out, I carried you home. I got the key out of your jacket pocket.” He points to your jacket, folded neatly on the chair in the corner of your room. “You were so cold. I was worried you wouldn’t wake up, so I put the heaters on full and got in bed with you to warm you up. I guess,” He says, scratching his head sheepishly, “I got too comfy. I fell asleep. I’m sorry.”

After rescuing you from hypothermia, he’s apologising for falling asleep. You look dumbfoundedly at him,

“You know what?” You say, forcing a laugh, “I think I can forgive you.”

He breathes a small sigh of relief then grins, baring his human teeth to you. You smile back, refreshed by his earnest attitude. If anything, you try to think of a way to repay him.

“Would you…” you ask, hesitant at first, “would you maybe like to have Christmas dinner with me?”

His eyes light up with excitement. “Can I sit at the table?”

You laugh loudly, in surprise. “Of course you can. But wait, as a wolf or a human?”

“A human,” he grins. “I like talking to you. And it feels different when I touch you as a person.”

Your heart skips a beat. Your cheeks stain pink.

“Better, or…?” you mumble, only he catches the colour of your face and panics. Without warning, he wraps his arms around you, holding you as tightly as he dares.

“You’re flushed,” he whimpers, “Maybe you’re not warmed up properly yet. Come on,” you vaguely try to protest when he drags you back under the covers of your bed, clamping his arms around you once you’re below them. Only, he sees your face, now a brilliant shade of red, and apologises for playing fetch long enough to make you ill, then pulls you so close to him that your foreheads bump.

“Sleep,” he says, his very un-dog-like breath fanning over your face, “You need to rest.” Then, after a second, sounding hopeful he adds, “But could we still eat Christmas dinner together later?”

You smile, touched by his genuine, caring heart. Closing your eyes, you kiss his cheek. When you open them, you notice the pink tinge to his face.

“Of course we can.”

He smiles his pure, toothy grin again, which you can’t help but return, then the pair of you close your eyes and fall asleep, warm in each other’s arms.

You don’t believe in Christmas miracles, but if a dog-wolf-human wants to spend time with you, look after you, and rescue you from your loneliness for feeding him a portion of fries, you’re sure as hell going to leave a plate of cookies and a full bottle of sherry out for Santa next year.