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Once a year, like clockwork, Seto Kaiba fell devastatingly ill. Not just a slight cold or a mild fever, but a full-blown, merciless illness that leveled him for days, leaving him feverish, exhausted, and too weak to get out of bed.
For most of the year, Seto remained as sharp and unshakable as ever, his immune system apparently impervious to the usual run of colds and seasonal flus. But every winter, just as the holiday lights began to twinkle around Domino City, Seto's annual bout with illness seemed to catch up with him all at once.
Joey Wheeler knew this pattern all too well. They’d been together long enough for him to recognize the signs before Seto even admitted he felt sick. And this year, it was bad—worse than Joey had ever seen before.
The past few days had offered all the warning signs Joey had come to recognize—Seto coughing lightly here and there, an occasional sneeze breaking his usual composure, and his complexion taking on a paler, almost translucent hue. It was like clockwork, and just like every year, Seto denied the obvious. He brushed off Joey’s concerns with clipped retorts and dismissive waves of his hand, insisting he was “perfectly fine.”
But Joey knew better. He always did.
This year, though, felt different. Seto seemed to be burning the candle at both ends more than usual—his workaholic tendencies dialed up to eleven, fueled by some unspoken determination to finish everything before the holidays. Joey had watched it all build up: the mounting stress, the late nights, the refusal to slow down even when his body clearly demanded it. And now, with Christmas only a few days away, Joey could see it coming like a slow-motion car crash.
Seto Kaiba was going to be sick. Not just any kind of sick—Kaiba sick. The kind of sick that would leave him bedridden, grouchy, and refusing every attempt Joey made to take care of him. Joey sighed, dragging a hand through his hair as he thought about how he was going to handle this.
Christmas had barely dawned when Joey had woken to find Seto shivering and sweating at the same time, his fever so high Joey could feel it radiating off him from a few inches away. He was ghostly pale, his eyes closed shut as he muttered incoherently in his sleep.
By now, the Kaiba mansion was unusually quiet for Christmas Eve. Normally, by now, Seto would be curled up on the couch with Joey—pretending to scoff at the cheesy Christmas movies Joey insisted on watching, though his soft smiles always gave him away. Mokuba, grown and living on his own, would drop by later, filling the house with his usual warmth and energy. But this year, the centerpiece of their little family was out of commission, too ill to even sit upright.
Joey Wheeler sat perched on the edge of the massive bed, his brow furrowed with worry as he pressed a damp cloth to Seto’s forehead.
“Damn it, rich prick,” Joey muttered under his breath, adjusting the blankets around Seto’s shivering frame. “You gotta stop doin’ this to yourself. You can’t just—what do ya call it? Accumulate illnesses like they’re duel cards or somethin’!”
Seto groaned faintly, his eyelids fluttering but not opening. His usually sharp blue eyes were glassy and unfocused when they did manage to peek through. He reached out blindly, his hand weakly gripping Joey’s wrist.
“Don’t… leave,” Seto croaked, his voice raspy and barely audible. “Please, Joey… don’t leave me alone.”
Joey’s chest tightened at the uncharacteristic vulnerability in Seto’s voice. In all the years they’d been together, Joey had seen glimpses of the man beneath the icy exterior, but nothing like this. Fever dreams or not, Seto Kaiba wasn’t the type to beg.
“I ain’t goin’ anywhere, Seto,” Joey said softly, leaning closer so the other man could hear him. “I’m right here, okay? You’re stuck with me, ya big idiot.”
The corner of Seto’s mouth twitched, like he was trying to smirk but didn’t have the energy. He mumbled something incoherent before his head lolled back against the pillow.
Joey sighed and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 11:43 PM. Almost Christmas. He should have been arguing with Mokuba about which Christmas movie to watch or teasing Seto about his inability to relax during the holidays. Instead, he was playing nursemaid to a six-foot-two workaholic who, for all his brilliance, didn’t know how to take care of himself.
Earlier that evening, Seto’s private doctor had paid a house call and delivered his verdict: overwork and stress had likely weakened Seto’s immune system, allowing the annual “Kaiba plague,” as Joey had privately dubbed it, to hit harder than ever. The doctor had administered medication and left instructions, promising to be on call if things got worse.
Joey wasn’t convinced.
He pulled out his phone and debated dialing the doctor again. Seto had been practically delirious for the last hour, and while the medicine seemed to bring his fever down slightly, Joey wasn’t sure it was enough. Still, the doc had said that a hospital wouldn’t do anything more than what they could manage here. He even hooked Seto up to one of those hospital IVs to make sure he stayed hydrated.
Seto stirred again, his hand tightening weakly around Joey’s wrist.
“Joey… promise,” Seto murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Promise you won’t… go.”
Joey leaned closer, his tone gentle but firm. “I already told ya, Seto. I ain’t leavin’ ya, not even for a second. I promise.”
Seto seemed to relax at that, though his breathing was still shallow, his cheeks flushed with fever. His heart aching at how frail the usually commanding man seemed.
“Guess this is what happens when ya try to play Superman all year, huh?” Joey said, trying to keep his tone light despite the lump in his throat. “You save all your sick days for one big blowout.”
Seto didn’t respond, but Joey thought he saw a flicker of something in those fever-clouded eyes. Then, Seto’s breathing quickened.
The world around him blurred, dissolving into the cold, oppressive halls of the Kaiba mansion, the sharp reprimands of Gozaburo echoing in his mind. He was small again, powerless, the weight of expectations pressing down on him like a suffocating shroud.
His chest rising and falling erratically as his fever spiked again. Joey immediately noticed the change, his hand instinctively reaching out to smooth the damp strands of chestnut hair away from Seto’s clammy forehead.
“Seto?” Joey whispered, leaning closer. “Hey, come on, you’re okay. It’s just the fever messin’ with ya.”
In his haze, Seto felt a flicker of warmth against his forehead. A touch? Something grounding. But his body was too hot, too restless, the phantom chains of his childhood too strong. He struggled against them, gasping as his head reeled.
Somewhere through the chaos, Joey’s voice pierced like a lifeline. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
Seto couldn’t focus, but his lips quivered. Mokuba. His little brother’s face came to him like a snapshot—a beacon in the darkness. The soft laugh, the way Mokuba’s hand used to clutch his when the nights were stormy and terrifying. The one thing that had made any of it bearable. He would have done anything—had done everything—to protect him.
Seto’s head tossed from side to side, and his face twisted into an expression Joey recognized all too well—fear. Real fear, raw and unguarded.
“No… Gozaburo, no—!” Seto gasped, his voice hoarse but sharp with panic. His hands gripped the blankets as though trying to anchor himself. “Please, stop… I’ll—I’ll do it. I’ll—just don’t hurt Mokuba!”
Seto’s fevered mind plunged him into a twisted reflection of his past, blending reality with fragments of memories he had long buried. The cold marble floors of Gozaburo’s mansion stretched endlessly beneath him, echoing with the sound of his younger self’s hesitant footsteps. The air was oppressive, thick with the weight of unattainable expectations and constant scrutiny.
“Seto,” Gozaburo’s voice thundered, larger and more menacing than life, reverberating through the fever dream like the toll of a funeral bell. “You will learn, or you will fail. And failure has no place here.”
Seto’s limbs felt leaden, his child-self’s hands trembling as he clutched a book far too heavy for him to lift properly. He turned his head sharply—there was Mokuba, small and wide-eyed, held back by faceless shadows. They loomed over the boy, dragging him away despite his desperate cries.
“Mokuba!” Seto’s fevered mind screamed, the words ripped from his soul as he scrambled forward, the marble floor shifting into an abyss beneath him. He reached out, but the distance only grew, an endless chasm of helplessness that mirrored his worst nightmares.
“I’ll do it! Just don’t hurt him!” he sobbed, his voice cracking in the dream and in reality. The sensation of his younger self’s panic bled into his current consciousness, raw and searing. He could feel Gozaburo’s disapproving gaze, a silent, suffocating judgment, and hear Mokuba’s fading cries as they tore him away.
Joey’s heart sank. He’d heard bits and pieces over the years about Seto’s horrific upbringing under Gozaburo Kaiba, but the man rarely opened up about it. Now, though, it was spilling out in fevered fragments, and Joey was powerless to stop it.
“Seto, it’s not real,” Joey said, his voice gentle but firm as he clasped Seto’s hand. “It’s just a bad dream. Gozaburo’s gone. You’re safe, okay? Mokuba’s safe.”
But there was a flicker of something different, something warmer—a tether to the present. A hand, steady and firm, clasping his own. Joey’s voice wove through the chaos, grounding him. But the panic clawed at his chest. He could hear Gozaburo’s demands, feel the icy cold of that study where he was made to prove himself over and over. Win, or lose everything. Perform, or Mokuba suffers.
But Seto’s glazed eyes flicked open, staring past Joey as if he weren’t there. “No! Don’t—don’t send him away!” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “I need him! Please—don’t take him from me!”
Joey swallowed hard, his grip tightening around Seto’s trembling hand. “Seto, listen to me! Nobody’s takin’ Mokuba, ya hear me? He’s fine—he’s is all grownup, safe at home right now. You’re just dreamin’, babe. Snap out of it!”
Seto didn’t respond. His gaze remained distant, his fever-addled mind plunging deeper into the nightmare.
The snow falling that night all those years ago was so vivid in his fevered vision, glittering like shattered glass against the road. He could hear Mokuba crying in the backseat, but when he looked, the car was empty. There was no one to protect, no one left to hold on to.
Then came the voices—calm, distant lies spoken by social workers, telling him everything would be okay. That someone would take care of them. That he had to be brave. But bravery didn’t stop the coldness that followed, the feeling of being discarded like something broken. It was the same helplessness he felt now, lying in bed, caught between the burning fever and the fear clawing at him from his dreams.
“No… not again,” Seto whimpered, his voice breaking. “They said it was just a trip, just a normal trip—then the car—Mom, Dad, don’t go!” He choked on a sob, his usually stoic demeanor shattered by the weight of his past.
Seto’s fevered mind swirled with fragments of memory, each more vivid and painful than the last. The feel of his mother’s scarf brushing against his cheek as she hugged him goodbye. The scent of his father’s cologne lingering in the air. Through the haze, Seto could hear Joey’s voice, but it was muffled, like a sound underwater. His chest heaved with shallow breaths as panic clawed at him.
They’ll take Mokuba next, his mind whispered, cruel and unrelenting. Just like they took everything else.
Seto’s lips moved, forming words Joey couldn’t hear, a silent echo of his childhood self begging for something he didn’t know how to name. Joey felt a lump rise in his throat. He had known Seto carried the pain of losing his parents, but hearing the raw grief in his voice was almost too much to bear.
“Seto, I’m here,” Joey said, his own voice thick with emotion. “You’re not alone, okay? I got ya.” He reached out, cupping Seto’s face with one hand, hoping the touch might ground him.
Seto’s fevered mind barely registered the words. The heat of his own body seemed to blur the edges of reality, tangling the present with the ghosts of his past. In his disoriented state, every comforting note of Joey’s voice felt like it came from a distance, faint but insistent, as if pulling him through thick fog.
For a moment, Seto was lost again. He was a boy in the orphanage, clutching Mokuba’s tiny hand and staring at the adults who loomed over them, their voices cold and detached. He remembered the sting of their judgment, the harsh words they never bothered to shield from him: “It’s too much responsibility. A baby and his brother. Who would take them? The older boy has potential but…”
Joey hesitated for a split second before leaning in and carefully wrapping his arms around Seto’s trembling body. The touch was jarring at first, unfamiliar and overwhelming. Seto’s fever made every sensation feel heightened, every touch too sharp. His body stiffened instinctively, the defensive walls he’d built over decades rising automatically.
But then Joey tightened his hold, resting his chin on Seto’s damp hair. The warmth of his embrace wasn’t a threat—it was an anchor. Joey’s steady heartbeat against his chest began to cut through the chaos, a rhythm that matched the words he spoke softly, laced with worry and desperation.
“I’m here, Seto,” Joey murmured, his arms encircling Seto protectively. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, alright? Everything’s fine. You’re safe, and I gotcha.”
The words echoed through Seto’s mind, and something cracked. The steel barrier around his emotions crumbled under the weight of Joey’s presence, and a flood of raw, unfiltered pain poured out.
Tears burned hot trails down his cheeks, and he hated himself for it—for being weak, for needing this. But Joey didn’t let go. He held on tighter, and somehow that made it okay.
In Joey’s arms, the memories began to shift. The cold, impersonal voices of the orphanage faded, replaced by Joey’s steady reassurance. The harsh fluorescent lights of those institutional halls gave way to the soft glow of their bedroom. And Seto wasn’t that terrified, abandoned child anymore. He was here. He was safe.
“Joey…” His voice broke as he clung to the warmth, his fingers trembling as they gripped the fabric of Joey’s shirt like a lifeline.
“I’m here, babe,” Joey whispered.
The scent of Joey’s cologne grounded him further, a stark contrast to the antiseptic sterility of his memories. Slowly, Seto’s body began to relax, melting into Joey’s hold as his sobs quieted.
But the fear lingered. It always did. “Don’t… don’t leave,” Seto whispered, his voice frail as though even the thought of saying the words too loudly would shatter him. “Please, Joey… don’t leave me. I can’t—I can’t do this alone.”
Joey blinked rapidly, his own tears threatening to spill over as he pulled Seto even closer. He was practically lying on top of him now. Seto needed him, and Joey wasn’t about to let him go.
“Hey, hey,” Joey said softly, pressing his lips to Seto’s temple. “I already told ya, didn’t I? I ain’t leavin’. Not now, not ever. You’re stuck with me, ya big stubborn idiot.”
Seto didn’t answer, but his sobs quieted slightly, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he clung to Joey. The blonde tightened his hold, his fingers running soothingly through Seto’s sweat-dampened hair.
“You’re not alone anymore, Seto,” Joey whispered, his voice steady despite the ache in his chest. “I’m here, and I’m stayin’. You hear me? I promised you forever, and I meant it. Whatever you’re fightin’ in there, you don’t gotta do it alone. I’m right here.”
Seto’s grip on Joey’s shirt tightened, and a faint, almost imperceptible nod followed. Joey let out a shaky breath, relief and heartbreak mingling in equal measure as he continued to hold Seto close.
The minutes stretched into what felt like hours as Joey stayed by Seto’s side, whispering reassurances and gentle words into the fevered silence. Seto’s breathing gradually steadied, his body relaxing slightly in Joey’s arms. But even as the storm of fever dreams seemed to subside, Joey refused to loosen his grip.
He wasn’t taking any chances—not with Seto. Not tonight.
Seto’s fever stayed stubbornly high for two days, but by the third morning, the worst of the fever dreams seemed to have passed. He was still pale and drenched in sweat, his body weak and trembling, but his breathing had steadied, and his eyes, though glassy, were more responsive when they fluttered open.
Joey was perched at Seto’s bedside, one leg tucked under him and a tray balanced on his lap. The tray held a steaming bowl of broth, a glass of water, and a small plate of crackers. He glanced over when he noticed Seto stirring and offered a tentative smile.
“Hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” Joey said gently, setting the tray aside as he leaned in closer. “Welcome back to the land of the livin’. How ya feelin’?”
Seto groaned, his voice hoarse. “Awful,” he muttered, barely above a whisper. His throat felt raw, and his entire body ached like he’d been hit by a truck. He closed his eyes again, as though even staying awake was an exhausting effort.
“Yeah, you look awful, too,” Joey teased lightly, though his tone was warm. He reached out to brush a stray strand of hair from Seto’s face, his touch lingering for a moment before he pulled back. “But you’re lookin’ better than ya did a couple nights ago, so I’ll take it.”
Seto’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile. He shifted uncomfortably, wincing as the movement sent a dull throb through his joints. “Joey…” he started, his voice cracking with emotion.
Joey immediately leaned in, his expression softening. “Hey, don’t try talkin’ too much, alright? Save your strength. I got everything under control here.”
Seto closed his eyes again, clearly too drained to say much more. Joey let him rest for a moment before standing and placing the tray on a nearby table. He returned with a bowl of broth and a spoon, easing himself onto the edge of the bed.
“C’mon, Seto,” Joey coaxed, holding up a spoonful of the warm broth. “You gotta eat somethin’. Just a little bit, alright? It'll help.”
Seto opened his eyes, giving Joey a weary look. “Not hungry,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.
Joey frowned but didn’t let up. “I know you’re not, but ya gotta try, okay? Just a few bites. For me?”
Seto sighed softly, the sound carrying more resignation than frustration. He parted his lips just enough for Joey to carefully feed him a spoonful. The broth went down slowly, and Seto winced as though even swallowing took effort. Joey didn’t rush him, offering each spoonful with gentle encouragement.
“There ya go,” Joey said with a small smile. “That’s the spirit. See? You’re already doin’ better.”
Seto didn’t respond, but he finished most of the bowl before sinking back against the pillows, utterly spent. Joey set the bowl aside and gently adjusted the blankets around him.
“Thanks,” Seto whispered, his voice almost inaudible.
“For what?” Joey asked, settling back in the chair he’d dragged next to the bed.
“For… staying,” Seto said, his words halting as if they took too much effort to string together. “For… everything.”
Joey reached out, taking Seto’s hand in his own. “Of course I stayed. You’re my husband, Seto. Where else would I be? I told ya—I’m not goin’ anywhere.” Seto didn’t respond, but his grip on Joey’s hand tightened slightly. The faint pressure spoke volumes, a silent affirmation that Joey cherished.
It reminded him of the earlier phone call with Mokuba, whose concern had been impossible to miss. Joey had handled it with the same steady resolve he now showed Seto.
“Listen, Mokuba,” Joey had said, keeping his voice firm but kind. “You know how good you are at catchin’ whatever Seto has. Last thing I need is both of ya laid up in bed with this thing. Stay home, spend Christmas with your girl, and I’ll call ya the second Seto’s halfway stable. He’d want you takin’ care of yourself, alright?”
Mokuba had reluctantly agreed, though Joey could hear the worry in his voice. Joey promised to keep him updated and reassured him that Seto was in good hands.
Now, as Joey sat by Seto’s bedside, he glanced at the clock. December 27th. Christmas had come and gone in a blur, but Joey had no intention of mentioning that to Seto. There was no point in stressing him out when he was barely awake and aware of the passing days.
For now, Joey’s focus was on keeping him comfortable and steady. He leaned back in his chair, still holding Seto’s hand, and reached for the remote on the nightstand.
“Wanna watch somethin’? Maybe one of those boring documentaries you like?” Joey teased lightly, hoping to distract him from the weight of his fatigue.
Seto’s lips quirked faintly again, his voice barely above a whisper. “As long as it’s not one of your dumb action movies.”
Joey laughed softly, the sound filling the quiet room. “Deal. No explosions tonight.”
By the next morning, Seto’s fever had finally started to break. He was still weak and pale, his voice hoarse when he spoke, but he was noticeably more alert. Joey couldn’t hide his relief, though he kept hovering like an overprotective mother hen, fluffing pillows, checking Seto’s temperature, and making sure he drank plenty of electrolyte-rich water. Over the past few days, the doctor had stopped by once or twice to check on Seto, reassuring Joey each time that he was steadily on the road to recovery.
Seto stirred, his eyes fluttering open to find Joey sitting by his bedside, flipping through a dog-eared paperback. The sight of Joey there, so close, filled Seto with a complicated mix of emotions—gratitude, guilt, and a twinge of shame.
“Joey…” Seto’s voice came out a croak, barely audible.
Joey was immediately at his side and leaning in. “Hey, there you are! How ya feelin’? You look way better than you did a couple days ago.”
“Better,” Seto admitted, his voice still hoarse but steadier than before. He hesitated, his gaze flickering toward the window. The snow outside had settled into a peaceful white blanket, and Seto frowned faintly. “What day is it?”
Joey tilted his head. “Uh, it’s the 28th. Why? What’s up?”
Seto’s frown deepened, his voice tinged with guilt as he muttered, “I ruined Christmas, didn’t I?” He turned his head away slightly, unable to meet Joey’s gaze. “I’m sorry, Joey. This is my fault. I should’ve listened to you.“
Joey’s expression softened, but he rolled his eyes with exaggerated exasperation. “Oh, for cryin’ out loud, Kaiba, don’t start with that crap,” he said, setting the book down on the bedside table. He crossed his arms and gave Seto a pointed look. “You didn’t ruin nothin’. I was more worried about you dyin’ than missin’ one stupid Christmas. You think I care about some tree and a bunch of decorations more than I care about you?”
Seto’s lips parted as if to protest, but Joey didn’t give him a chance.
“Look, yeah, I would’ve liked to celebrate Christmas like usual. Who wouldn’t?” Joey continued, his voice softening as he leaned closer to Seto. “But it’s just a day, Seto. We can still celebrate whenever you’re feelin’ better. I can replace a tree, Christmas lights and a nice dinner anytime. You know what I can’t replace, though? You. And don’t think I don’t know you worked yourself into this. You’re always pushin’ too hard, always thinkin’ you gotta do everything yourself. You’ve been pullin’ this ‘once-a-year-collapse’ stunt for as long as we’ve been together, but this time? This time scared the hell outta me.”
Seto looked away again, his face tinged with shame. He felt the weight of Joey’s words pressing down on him, and it stung—because he knew Joey was right. He had pushed himself too hard, ignored his body’s warnings, and now Joey had paid the price for his stubbornness.
“I’m sorry,” Seto said quietly, his voice laced with guilt. “You didn’t deserve this. It’s not fair to you.”
Joey sighed, his stern expression softening as he reached out to cup Seto’s face. “You think I’m worried about what’s ‘fair’?” he asked, gently stroking over Seto’s cheeks. “I’m worried about you, hotshot. You scared me. I ain’t gonna sit here and pretend I wasn’t freakin’ out. But don’t you dare think for a second that I’d rather spend Christmas anywhere else. You’re my family, Seto. You always come first, got it?”
Seto’s throat tightened, his heart aching at the sheer sincerity in Joey’s voice. He felt a pang of guilt for causing Joey so much worry, but he also felt… loved. Deeply, unconditionally loved. It was overwhelming, and for a man as proud and guarded as Seto Kaiba, it was almost too much to process.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” Seto murmured, his voice barely audible.
Joey gave him a lopsided grin, his thumb brushing lightly over Seto’s cheekbones. “Well, I’ll give ya a hint: it ain’t your sunny personality,” he teased, his tone light and affectionate. “But I love ya anyway, ya big idiot. Now stop beatin’ yourself up and focus on gettin’ better, alright? We can argue about who ruined what after you’re back on your feet.”
Seto’s lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile, though his pride and lingering shame kept him from fully meeting Joey’s gaze. “I’ll try,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with a mixture of gratitude and reluctance.
Joey leaned forward, pressing a quick kiss to Seto’s forehead. “That’s all I’m askin’ for,” he said softly. “And once you’re up to it, we’ll figure out how to celebrate. Christmas, New Year’s, whatever. It don’t matter to me, as long as we’re together.”
Seto closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the warmth of Joey’s touch and the steady reassurance of his presence.
When Seto opened them again, his blue gaze meeting Joey’s warm, amber one. For a moment, the words hovered on the edge of his lips, his mind fighting against the vulnerability they carried. But Joey had always been patient with him, always given him space to be himself—even when himself was stubborn, difficult, and impossibly guarded.
“I love you,” Seto said at last, the words quiet but steady, carrying the weight of all the moments he couldn’t bring himself to say them before.
Joey’s grin widened, his thumb stilling its gentle movement against Seto’s cheek as his eyes softened. For a second, he said nothing, just taking in the rare and earnest expression on Seto’s face.
Then, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, Joey leaned in and whispered, “Merry Christmas, ya sap.”
Seto blinked, caught off guard by the response, and let out a breath of disbelief that was halfway to being a laugh. “Idiot,” he muttered, though there was no bite in his voice, only the faint trace of amusement that Joey always seemed to coax out of him.
Joey chuckled, planting a firm kiss on Seto’s lips before pulling back, his grin still firmly in place. “Yeah, yeah. But I’m your idiot, and don’t you forget it. ”
Seto shook his head lightly, but the corners of his mouth lifted into a small, genuine smile—the kind that only Joey could ever seem to draw out. The guilt that had been gnawing at him began to ease. Joey didn’t care about a ruined holiday or missed traditions. All that mattered was this—them.
As Joey tucked the blanket more securely around him and started rambling about what they should cook for a “Christmas do-over,” Seto let himself relax. The warmth of Joey’s voice, the sparkle in his eyes, and the unwavering love in his smile—it was more than enough to turn a ruined Christmas into something perfect.