G’s page

“She’s with Oliver,” Polly said blowing a stream of smoke from her black cigarette.

“Jesus Christ,” Tommy muttered under his breath knowing exactly how much you disliked the guy. You had expressed to Tommy how rude you felt declining Oliver’s continuous invitations to go out with you. Apparently you had finally agreed to the man.

“Fuck this,” Tommy recollected himself and left the shop as quickly as he came in.

***

You felt terrible for what you were doing. Betraying Tommy and Oliver at the same time. You promised you’d go out with Oliver a while ago but kept canceling because of business that came up with Thomas. It wasn’t always business though. You’d ask Tommy to create some sort of extravagant scenario that would act as a proper excuse for you to not be able to go out with Oliver.

But as far as Tommy goes, you thought he’d understand, as he knew the numerous times you’ve asked him to be around you when there was a chance to run into Oliver. Tommy knew you preferred him over Oliver, right? That the reason you always wanted him to be around was because he was the one who made you feel safe and happy?

“So, Y/N, Tommy’s been really pushing it these days hasn’t he? Always working, day n night?” Oliver said as you walked together down an emptier street near the Garrison.

“Well... yea but business is business. It doesn’t sleep, can’t rest. It’s always daytime somewhere,” you explain getting irritated that he was directing an insult towards your boss.

“He shouldn’t be working you like that, Y/N. Does that man have no respect towards women?”

You stayed silent knowing very well Tommy treated you like a Queen and listened to every word you’ve ever uttered. Awake and when you were asleep.

“Honestly, why do you stay to work for him? That is no man who will help you in your future. He’s wasting your time Y/N,” Oliver clicked his tongue and looked down at his feet sinking through the dirty gravel on the street.

“Let’s have a drink,” you suggested looking up towards the pub. Your own safe place. Oliver nodded and you headed in as he held the door open to you. You didn’t like having the attention of other men around you, other than Tommy. God when would this be over. Hopefully after a drink and a smoke he’ll decide that this gathering was enough for the day. You weren't exactly engaging or laughing along with all of Oliver’s jokes anyway. At least that’s what you thought. People always told you you seem like an angel before figuring out your truth, years later when you finally let them in. Maybe you were being too nice to him and you didn’t even notice. Why didn’t you just say no the first time he asked you out?

You seated yourself at one of the wooden tables near the center of the pub, by the booths. Ordering a whiskey for himself and a gin for you, Oliver began conversing you once again.

“I always see you here,” he says trying to catch your eyes as you tried to look everywhere else but his own.

“Yea, I frequent the Garrison when I have time,” you agreed with a nod.

“But you never invite me.”

Well isn’t that enough for you to take a hint?

“The Shelby’s take me after work to cool off.” you say, which wasn't a lie. Every other day Arthur would drag you along with everyone else to his pub.

“Why can’t you come with me?”

“Well I’m here aren’t I?”

Just then Tommy’s familiar cologne wafted over the space as he pulled a chair from the neighboring table and roughly skid it towards your table. He sat himself forcefully between you and Oliver resting his one elbow on the table and his other hand on his knee.

“Don’t worry Mr. Shelby, I just wanted to take out Y/N this afternoon. I’ll bring her back to work,” Oliver faked his confidence in front of your boss.

Tommy cleared his throat, his eyebrows still raised from the moment he sat down.

“Yeh?” He cocked his head, then a moment later closed his eyes and pulled out a cigarette.

“I’m sure you would’ve brought her back to me knowing all the work I make her do,” he laughed at himself placing the cigarette between his lips and clicking his lighter alive. He hollowed out his cheeks as he sucked in his first drag and blew it out in Oliver’s face. You didn’t know what it was but something about the way Tommy was acting was incredibly attractive to you.

“You’re a bad man Mr. Shelby,” Oliver shook his head. “Let the lady enjoy her life aye? You can’t just string along every living woman with your bloody awful family. You're gonna strip her of her future, do you take pleasure in that? .. bastard...”

Hearing him speak was making your blood boil and you could feel your hands itching to tip the table over in Oliver’s direction.

Tommy leaned back in his chair and breathed out another whisp of smoke, waving it in the air nonchalantly.

“Go on, carry on like I’m not here,” he nodded towards you and Oliver. You clenched your jaw trying not to smile as you watched Tommy’s amused expression and glinting eyes trace over the other man. Oliver sighed and downed the rest of his glass.

“Why do you listen to him when you’re not at work Y/N?” Oliver asked you bringing you back to the conversation.

“Because I choose to,” you simply state and shrug.

“Yes but why?” Oliver pressed on, agitation growing on his voice.

You looked over at Tommy who was already looking at you and waiting for your response. His eyes seemed brighter all of a sudden and his lips never looked so inviting in front of the almost stranger sitting across from you. All you wanted was to climb over his lap and kiss him. Escape all questions and just kiss the devil who drove you home every night. The one who yelled and screamed when you weren’t around but sat and listened when you were. The one who couldn’t sleep at night but could when you were in his arms at night.

Tommy knew, he knew very well what you wanted. Just as he always did. He wanted you just the same. But he waited to see what you would do to answer Oliver’s question.

You shook your head and looked back at Oliver. “It’s just a matter of formality. He is my boss at the end of the day.” Tommy smirked as an array of very informal thoughts of you ran through his head.

Oliver finally turned his attention to Tommy who he was trying not to address directly since he came in.

“Do I need your permission to go out with your employees Mr. Shelby?” He hissed and grit his teeth.

Tommy looked ahead into the distance and nodded with a frown on his lips but his eyes were laughing.

“Yea, cause she’s not just a fucking employee,” he chuckled and got up from his chair and placed his cap on from his pocket.

“Cmon Love,” he reached out his hand in front of you. You took it exhaling at the familiar feeling of warmth from his skin. The moment you stood he snaked his arm around your waist and pulled you close to the side of his taller frame.

“We’ve got work to do,” he told Oliver as he leaned down and kissed your forehead.

“O fuckin hell,” Oliver called out cursing at Tommy.

“Fuck off,” Tommy snarled waving his arm at Oliver and pulling you away.

***

When you walked out of the Garrison you impatiently escaped from Tommy’s grasp. His eyes widened at the feeling of you getting away but you quickly turned back to him, pulling his face down with your small hands and crashed your eager lips on his. He smiled into your kiss before placing his hands over your cheeks devouring you into him.

Eventually, you pulled away to catch your breath but kept your eyes trained on his.

“You’re a bad man, Mr. Shelby,” you teased watching him lick his lips and roll his eyes.

“And I do bad things,”

You nodded pressing your thumb to his lip, enjoying the tight grip he held you with.

“Do bad things to me,” you whispered as he stared through the barrier of your eyes into your soul. The only thing keeping you from collapsing was his arms holding you up.

“Right? That’s what I’ve been saying. There’s a microwave in the back room, too, but she says it’s ‘better cold.’ I think that’s total, utter bogus, ‘cause ew.” Steve glances over his shoulder, then back at you as he leans forward on his elbows, settling on the counter. “Been telling her to stop — some kid came back in today and asked me why his ice cream tasted fishy.”

“You know I can hear you two, right?” Robin’s voice sounds from the back room, “Don’t hate on it ‘till you try it!" She slides the partition open ever-so-slightly, and, realizing what you’re about to ask, winks at you and shoots a brief thumbs up before returning to her tuna.

You shake your head, disregarding her comment. “Hey, Stevie. It’s the Fourth of July tomorrow,” you state plainly.

He shoots you a quizzical look. He obviously knows that tomorrow is the Fourth of July — the mayor wouldn’t let anyone forget about the special, never-done-before firework show and fair he was behind. “I know. What’s going on tomorrow? You up to anythin’ special?”

“No, nothing in particular.” You were nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

Steve, being one of your closest friends, noticed this the second you stepped into the ice cream parlor. The way your fingers twitched and the thin sheen of sweat that glistened on your chest and forehead was the telltale sign that you were wound up.

He tried to blame it on other circumstances. You could’ve had some coffee earlier and it was really hot outside even at night and the fluorescent lighting overhead wasn’t exactly flattering.

What were you so nervous about? More importantly, what were you hiding?

“Uh, something going on?” He chuckles lightly, masking the worry growing within him.

“I was just wondering,” you get out, casting your gaze downwards and wringing your hands together. “if you wanted to go to that thing. The one the mayor’s been blabbin’ about. The… fair. With me.”

“Yeah, sure. Could I ask, though, why’re you so worked up about it?” He prods, taking off his hat and tossing it aside. It was totally blowing his best feature (not that he had anyone to impress right now.)

“Huh? I’m not nervous, what do you mean?”

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

“C’mon. Are you asking me to go because you scored a date that you want to back out of but you don’t wanna break the poor guy’s heart so you’re going to play it off as a friend thing instead?”

“Stevie, what the hell are you even talking about? That was… oddly specific.”

"Okay, if it's not that, l take it you're asking me on a date?"

You freeze, your features contorting animatedly. You didn't expect him to be so straightforward with you.

He laughs good-naturedly, your comical expression a dead giveaway that he was right. “I'd love to go out with you, silly. What, you were afraid I'd say no? I wouldn’t ever pass up on the chance to spend time with my favorite girl. ”

To say you were ecstatic was an understatement. You almost jumped for joy right there, but instead resolved to checking your watch. “Okay, cool! I’ll see you… tomorrow. Uh, would you look at the time? I’d better go. It’s super late.” With that, you flee out of the store and into the empty mall, hot pink lights illuminating your retreating figure.

Steve’s voice dies in his throat. “It’s only 7-… never mind.” You’re already out of earshot.

Robin emerges from the back room as soon as your footsteps fade into the distance, a stick of unwrapped gum in her hands.

“Your favorite girl, hhhhuh?” Much to his dismay, she breathes her tuna breath directly into Steve’s face.

“Oh, gross, Robin!” He chokes, shoving her away and covering his nose with his hand. “What’d you do that for? Your breath smells like tuna!”

Robin shrugs, the two of them coming out from behind the counter to watch you escape into the parking lot. “Because you’re so obviously into her, dingus. Just make your move. It can’t go wrong.”

“I’m so not into her,” he responds with a huff. “She’s way out of my league. I think she has a thing for that Elijah guy that she works with.”

Robin only rolls her eyes and pops the stick of gum into her mouth.

When Steve pulls up to your house the following evening, he makes his presence very well known by honking his horn until you finally appear at your doorstep. Your jacket is falling off of your shoulders and you’re not yet wearing your shoes when you finally slide into the passenger’s seat beside him.

“Took you long enough,” he remarks, bringing his wrist up to glance at the time. “Two whole minutes. I bet the award of slowest to get ready would go to you.”

You gasp, your hands coming to rest on your heart. “You’re so impatient. I wasn’t even that late.” You pull your socks all the way up your ankles, then, thanks to your seatbelt, tie your beat-up converse into awkward bows.

Thankfully, the drive from your house to the fairgrounds wasn’t long and everyone was already there, which only backed Steve’s claim that you took ages to get ready. He gave you an earful about being on time for the entire duration of the car ride.

“We’re not late, everyone else is just early,” you say matter-of-factly as you arrive, slamming the car door behind you. “I was two minutes behind. Two, Stevie. You can count that high on one hand.”

“Right. Suuure,” he says hotly, rounding the side of his BMW to where you stood near the trunk. “See this parking? See how far away we are? You’ll probably have to carry me back to the car later.”

“Stop it, you big baby.” You grab his arm, dragging him to where the neon lights lit up the night sky. “It’s, like, a 30 seconds walk.”

“36,” Steve corrects you when you pass the gates into the fair. “36 seconds. You were wrong.”

“Tomayto, tomahto. I’m gonna get tickets,” You say as you fish for your wallet in your pocket. “And stay here or you’ll get lost.”

As much as Steve teased you, he was genuinely happy to be there with you. You were so happy-go-lucky — that was what he loved about you most. But he loved everything else about you, too. He found it so endearing, the way you were able to strike up an easy-breezy conversation with the man selling tickets and cracked a joke or two just to make this random guy’s night a little bit better.

You return moments later, your pockets stuffed and overflowing with rows of orange tickets. Steve’s jaw drops at the sheer amount you have, quickly inquiring, “How much money did you just spend on tickets?”

“Don’t worry about it,” you return, intertwining your fingers (in a way that felt all-too-romantic) as you lead him deeper into the fairgrounds.

You weave your way through the endless stream of people, Steve’s fingers tightly clutching yours so as to not lose you in the neverending crowd. You stop abruptly in front of the game where you knock tin cans over with a ball, causing Steve to crash into your back.

“Stevie, do you think you could win this?” You ask, gesturing towards the workers manning the game.

“No, probably not,” he responds earnestly, “These games are rigged, babe. I’ve never seen someone win. Ever.” He seems unfazed by the nickname, but you almost melt into a puddle on the grass beneath you.

“Okay,” you breathe, barely audible over the crowd, “I want to try, though.”

Steve only shrugs, releasing his death grip on your hand. You hand 3 tickets over to the man standing in the booth in exchange for 4 baseballs. You try, to no avail, to knock the tin cans over — not because you didn’t throw hard enough, your aim was just terrible. Steve stood beside you the whole time, laughing at your weak attempts to beat a rigged game.

“Let me try,” he demands at last, “I’m sure I can beat it if it’s not, y’know. Unbeatable.”

“I bet you could.” You drop the ball into his outstretched palm. Then, hesitantly, you rest your hand on his bicep and give it a firm squeeze. “Yeah, you’re real strong. I have faith in you.”

Steve’s thankful for the darkness of the night concealing the pink blush that spreads up his neck and into his cheeks at your touch. Winding up, he throws the ball as hard as he can and, to his (and your) surprise, knocks the stack over.

“Wow,” he says. “I thought it was rigged.”

The man, who also looks shocked at his apparently impressive feat, asks in a chipper tone what prize he wants. Steve gestures towards the giant panda hanging from the roof of the stand and hands it over to you, brandishing it with a half-assed bow and saying, “For you, m’lady.”

“Oh, thank you, my darling,” you return, throwing your hand over your forehead. “What ever would I do without you?”

“Probably not win a panda.” He takes your free hand and drags you towards the other games, and, with newfound confidence, claims, “I’ve got a good feeling about all of these. I’ll win you all the prizes you want, you hear? Every single one.”

After a solid hour of Steve playing the games, he decides that the ones he didn’t win were rigged and that he’s unbeatable at the ones he did. So, with an armful of new stuffed animals, you allow him to guide you to the food stands for some classic fried snacks.

His eyes settle on a funnel cake stand and he instantly makes a beeline (with you in tow) towards the short line in front. With your funnel cakes safely secured, you suggest going to where a crowd began to gather to watch the fireworks.

You can practically see a lightbulb flick on above his head.

“What if I know a better spot to watch ‘em?” He asks slyly, taking your arm this time since your hands were full and leading you to where the ferris wheel towered over the fairgrounds. You’re promptly stopped by the operator, though, who claims that it’s “out of order.” But, you see Mrs. Wheeler’s updo peeking over the back of the seat from where you and Steve stand, and you’re struck with a genius plan.

“Steve,” you whisper. “I have a plan.”

Thankfully for the two of you, the man operating the ferris wheel wasn't very attentive to his ride and had his back turned as he smokes a cigarette. You make a run for it as the ferris wheel powers up and, with all the force you could muster, jump into one of the carriages as it moves on its path upwards.

You’re met with angry shouts from the operator, but you suspect he isn’t paid to care enough and you’re already too high up for him to really do anything about.

“That was a good plan,” compliments Steve as you’re whisked up above the treeline. “A superb plan, actually. Good thinking.”

You grin at him and drop your collection of stuffed animals to your feet, taking small bites of your funnel cake as you bask in the moment. You fall silent, wind rustling in the trees and messing up your hair. You pull your jacket tighter around yourself and scoot into Steve’s side, seeking the warmth he emits like he’s a human furnace.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Steve breaks the silence that’d settled between you when the seats stopped moving at the top, slinging his arm around your shoulders. “You’re quiet.”

You shift in your seat with your legs tucked under you, turning to face him. “No, nothing. I’m just happy. I like it here. With you.”

“I’m happy too,” he murmurs. “I’m really happy. I like being with you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And in that moment, he looks so beautiful with the lights below hitting his familiar face from all the perfect angles. He smiles at you and you can’t help but notice the faint laugh lines in his cheeks and the way his skin crinkles at the corner of his eyes and you know this is where you’re meant to be.

Then, finally, he leans in and captures your lips the sweet, gentle kiss you'd been dreaming of. Fireworks erupt in the background, mirroring the own that go off in your heart.

The taste of powdered sugar from his funnel cake lingers on your lips for the rest of the night.

“Target was having a sale on their Christmas stuff and I might have blacked out,” you explain, throwing open your trunk. “See?”

“Oh my god,” Rafe deadpans, taking in the amount of bags in your trunk. “Babe, did you buy the entire store?”

“I actually went light,” you shrug. “Because my mom set aside some of the old decorations they’re getting rid of for us to use, remember? And I tried to buy stuff that was kind of timeless so it would fit that whole vintage vibe.”

Rafe furrows his eyebrows, then turns to load up with bags nonetheless, leaving you only two of the lighter bags to carry yourself. “Sure, sounds good.”

“When do you have time to decorate?” you ask, unwinding your scarf and hanging it on the rack by the door. “I was thinking we could start tonight.”

“We?”

“Yeah, Rafe. We,” you continue, rifling through the bags to find the monogrammed stockings you bought. “Could put on a movie and—ooh, you should make those really good spiked coffees you always make. I bought peppermint extract for my baking but we can use that to make them Christmassy.”

“Okay—yeah, I just… so this is like a whole event, huh?”

His sketchy tone is what makes you finally turn around and face him in the living room. He’s got his hands tucked into his pockets, observing the decorations with caution. “I mean, it’s decorating for Christmas.”

“I just didn’t realize Christmas was such a big deal for you—did you buy new pillows? We have to change out our pillows?” he asks, finally searching through some of the bags on his own.

“Do you not like them?”

“No, it’s fine, sweetheart. Really,” Rafe assures. He tears a red pillow with white stitching reading ‘jingle all the way’ out of the bag, setting it on your couch and throwing the plain pillow that occupied the couch before it out of sight. “See, boom. Beautiful. It’s officially Christmas now.”

“Rafe,” you say. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he refutes. You drop the string of garland you were holding and cross your arms, giving him your most stubborn look until he sighs. “It’s just more than I’m used to. The decorations and everything—this is new for me.”

“Didn’t you do this with your family?”

You regret the question as soon as you ask it, but sometimes you just forget that things are different for Rafe. “Not really.”

You don’t press him any further, just coming to stand in front of him, the mistletoe you bought in the dollar section hidden behind your back until you’re right in front of him. “Well. Do you wanna help me this year?”

He looks up when he sees you holding something over him, rolling his eyes once he sees what it is. Rafe leans into kiss you, pulling back after a moment to answer.

“How could I say no to that?”

—

Rafe’s approach to the holidays was officially starting to bother you. When you asked him what his favorite Christmas movie was, he’d shrugged and said ‘Um, I dunno. Maybe that one with the ugly little clay people that they used to play on channel three when we were kids?’

He was extremely confused when you wanted to actually go cut down a real tree out in the mountains on a tree farm, wondering why you hadn’t just bought one at the store along with all of the other decorations. You’d explained that it has to be real because the house has to smell like Christmas, and he’d again shrugged. Before slightly cheering up at the fact that he got to saw down his own tree, carrying it proudly into the house when you got home. That had made you smile a little bit—you hoped he was starting to get into it.

But then he’d just turned bright red when you asked if he had any of his own Christmas decorations to put up, presenting a singular Frank Sinatra Christmas record and nothing else. And you didn’t dare mention it, but decorating the tree with all of the personalized ornaments your parents had kept for you over the years while Rafe had zero of his own had been completely awkward. He tried to shrug it off and help you move around the ornaments and tinsel you did have to cover the bare spots of the tree, but you still felt horrible over the entire thing.

“Rafe, they’re your sisters. You have to get them gifts,” you say in exasperation, rubbing your temples as the two of you went through your Christmas shopping list.

“Y/n/n, listen to me. They’re not gonna buy me gifts either, we’ve never done that,” he explains. “My parents take care of us, and that’s all we need.”

“Well, I already bought Sarah those Birkenstocks she’s been wanting and Wheezie’s eyeshadow palettes are in the mail. So.”

“Then why did you—baby.”

“Because, it’s Christmas. You buy things for the people you love,” you say. “Or you can make a gift if this is like, a consumerism thing.”

“Do we have to get them for our friends, too? Like, all of them?”

You don’t want to tell him that you’d taken care of all of your own friends already, their gifts bought weeks ago and sitting in your closet waiting to be wrapped. “Well, Secret Santa covers Topper. And Kelce and I do gifts every year, so…”

“Since when?” Rafe wonders, his face screwing up.

“Since forever. He bought me these slippers two years ago, look,” you say, propping your feet up on the coffee table.

He huffs. “Well I wouldn’t wanna put my name on a gift for your bestie—oh, fuck. Do we have to get John B a gift, too?”

“Well, dating Sarah for what, three years now? And we’re older than him and we have full-time jobs. And he’s gonna be there on Christmas, right? Yup.”

“Fuuuck,” he whines. “Why did I never realize how much work all of this is?”

“Because your step-mom has probably been taking care of all of this behind the scenes for your family for years. You can put your name on my Kelce gift, so that one’s done.”

“Oh, no, no, no. I wanna see the look on his fuckin’ face when I have a gift for him and he’s empty handed,” Rafe says, smirking and taking your laptop from you, going to search for his own gift.

“Wow, way to get into the holiday spirit. I love the spite.”

“I try.”

Your phone beeps and you start gathering your things, Rafe looking at you with a pout when he sees your jacket on. “Wait, where are you going? I thought we were Christmas shopping?”

“I am. Going to the mainland,” you say, collecting your purse. “Sarah said she’s on her way.”

“Wait, Sarah?”

“Yeah, she asked me to come.”

“Can you—did you guys invite Wheez? I don’t… I don’t want her to feel left out,” he worries.

“Rafe,” you tut, your hand coming to rest on the side of his face. “She was already going. They just asked me to come with them.”

“Really? I like that,” he decides, tugging you down by your scarf for a goodbye kiss.

“Me too.”

—

You treated Rafe’s sisters to a late lunch on the mainland after you’d all three shopped yourselves silly—well, Rafe treated all three of you, because when he asked why you were still gone he’d sent over enough money to cover the entire meal.

“So do you guys hate Christmas, too? Or is that just your scrooge of a brother?” you sighed, making the two girls across from you giggle.

“Rafe doesn’t hate Christmas,” Sarah says. “It’s just not a big deal in our family.”

“He told me that you guys don’t even decorate?”

“Rose does,” Wheezie supplies, pushing some food around on her plate. “But she’s pretty intense about it.”

“Yeah, we don’t get to help,” Sarah laughs. “Full interior decorator mode.”

“Ah,” you nod. Leaving it at that, at least until Wheezie excuses herself to the restroom and you realize Sarah hasn’t taken her eyes off of your face ever since you brought up the topic.

“What’s going on with him?”

“Nothing, Sarah. It’s just… I dunno. Rafe doesn’t seem into it at all,” you say, fiddling with the straw in your iced tea. “It’s like pulling teeth. He didn’t even know how the advent calendar worked—he opened day 22 yesterday because he was hungry.”

“I think for Rafe, it’s different?” she wonders softly. “Things are always different when it comes to him, just with my dad and work. The holidays are busy—all those parties and the networking, you know he hates that shit. So he just doesn’t have much interest in the fun stuff.”

You bite your lip as you nod, never having thought about it that way. “Thanks, Sarah.”

“Don’t tell him I told you that,” she warns. You cross your heart and she rolls her eyes, and you realized you’d really missed her when she was away at college for the fall term.

“You know I won’t. But thank you,” you repeat. “As a token of my gratitude, I feel inclined to tell you that Rafe got both of you gifts this year.”

Her eyes widen.

“What? Why? Since when does he do that?” You give her a deadpan look, pointing at yourself, and she groans in frustration. “Would you stop making my brother perfect? For like, five seconds?”

“What’s going on?” Wheezie says, sitting down at the table again.

“You guys have to buy Rafe a Christmas gift this year,” you tell her, waving at the waiter for the check.

“No,” Wheezie groans. “We have to circle back to the Patagonia store now, don’t we?”

—

Blythe came to spend the holidays in the Outer Banks with Topper this year, which was enough of a reason for your friend group to rent a cabin in the snow for the weekend before Christmas. Kelce bemoans his perpetual spot as the fifth wheel but comes anyway, saying he reserves the right to bring someone home from the one, singular bar in the mountain town, with no ribbing from any of you.

So you load up the car with enough alcohol for twice the amount of time you’ll be there and all of your cutest snow outfits, kicking Rafe out of the passenger seat when you pull up to Topper’s parents’ house for the caravan.

“What?”

“Blythe and I are driving together,” you remind him. “Go get in the car with the boys.”

“C’mon, what?” he whines. “They’re gonna make me sit in the backseat and you know my knees get sore.”

“Cameron,” Blythe says, ripping his door open. “Good to see you, merry Christmas. Get out of my seat.”

“Merry Christmas, Blythe,” he grumbles, offering her his seat when he finally gets out. He motions for you to roll down the window when he comes around to the driver’s side, leaning in for a kiss. “Drive careful, alright? I’ll put on your snow chains at the rest stop.”

“We’ll probably get there first, I’ll wait for you,” you promise. He narrows his eyes.

“Uh, we’re definitely gonna get there faster.”

You peek around Rafe to look at where Topper and Kelce are bickering over how to fit the last sled into the trunk. “Rafe, I know you’re not challenging me to a race in the snow.”

“No,” Rafe warns. “Drive careful, I mean it.”

“Alright, dad,” you tease, making Blythe groan next to you.

“Ew, you too,” she says. “Rafe, go away.”

“See you up there,” he nods, kissing your cheek one more time before heading off to his friends. You laugh as you watch him snatch the sled out of both of their hands where they’re fighting over it, fitting it in seamlessly.

You don’t wait for them to figure out seating arrangements, opting to get an early start on the drive so you and Blythe can stop at Starbucks for Christmas drinks and maybe still have time to pull over and take cute pictures when you first hit the snow.

“How’ve you liked Christmas in the Outer Banks so far?” you ask once the two of you have left the main strip of town. Blythe huffs a sigh and you throw her a glance.

“Good, it’s good. I missed Top—missed all of you. His family is just so intense,” she complains. “And it’s fun, but it’s a lot.”

“See, I have the opposite problem. I think I’m the Topper,” you say. “Rafe doesn’t wanna do anything.”

Blythe laughs. “Would you like to trade? We’ve watched Elf at least three times and I’ve been here for less than a week. And I think his mom wants us to go caroling.”

“That’s not fair,” you whine. “Why don’t I have a simp boyfriend?”

She laughs again, louder this time. “You’re joking right? ‘Make sure you drive careful, sweetheart.’ ‘Oh, don’t bother your pretty little hands putting on your own snow chains, sweetheart.’ ‘Let me ride in the car with you because I can’t stand two hours spent apart from you, sweetheart.’”

“Alright, enough,” you mumble, your cheeks burning as you pay attention to the drive. “I see your point. I just wish he was having fun, it’s our first Christmas living together and he just doesn’t seem into it at all.”

“Have you tried talking to him about it?”

“Why would I do that?”

—

Loose lips get you in the end. After a day of Rafe walking off to find better service for a phone call when everyone is building a snowman, missing out on making mulled wine with you and Kelce because he was watching the game in the living room, you finally snap when he doesn’t put on the matching ugly sweater you bought him.

“Rafe. Why?”

“What?”

“Where’s your sweater?” you ask, tugging on the plain black shirt he’s wearing.

“Oh. Um,” he mumbles, adjusting his grip on his beer, his thumb nail peeling off the label. “It was itchy. And I don’t like that the bells make noise whenever I move.”

You certainly didn’t skip out on the mulled wine, pushing him back into the bedroom the two of you had claimed and ignoring any jabs from your friends. “Okay, I’m not doing this anymore. What is going on with you?”

“What do you mean? Nothing’s going on,” he says, but his eyes give him away.

“Am I bothering you with all of this?” you ask, motioning to his discarded sweater on the bed. “You look miserable.”

Rafe groans, dropping his face into his hands where he sits at the end of the bed. “I’m sorry.”

That tugs on your heart strings and you feel bad you were getting a little testy, sitting beside him and putting your hand on his back. “About what, baby?”

“I just don’t know how to do any of this stuff. I don’t know the songs or the movies, I don’t have any of the fun traditions that you guys and all of your families do. Christmas for me always just meant stress and more work and never knowing what gift to get my dad that he’d actually like and—”

“Breathe, babe,” you implore.

“Yeah, trying,” he nods, catching his breath. “It’s just—this sounds so stupid, but. It’s hard for me this time of year. I dunno.”

“Rafe,” you say sadly, leaning your head on his shoulder once he’s settle down a little. “I didn’t know.”

He sits there silently for a second, just letting you lean into him. “Hm, figured Sarah would’ve told you.”

You look back up at him and he eyes you warily, and you sigh in defeat—of course Sarah told him. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to figure out if it something I was doing wrong.”

“S’okay,” he shrugs, pressing a kiss to your head. “It’s not you. I love watching you have fun with all of this. I just don’t… I don’t think I can see the excitement the way everyone else can. Just brings up bad memories.”

You make a displeased noise. “But Rafe—”

“It’s almost over, alright?” he rushes, standing up to leave the room. “And then I’ll be back to normal, I promise.”

You try to give Rafe space that night because you can tell he’s upset with himself and the way he’s handling things, opting to get caught up in the card games by the fire and Blythe’s special eggnog. He’s putting on a brave face in front of all of your friends, tucking himself behind you and hiding from conversations at any opportunity, but you can see right through the cerulean stare. You feel the urgency in his needy touch—how he just needs to be close to you but can’t or won’t explain why.

The other three don’t push it, but you’re grateful when they seem to all get the hint they should step away for a second, leaving the two of you alone with one last knowing stare sent from Kelce. The fire is crackling in front of the two of you where you’re curled up in his lap, soft Christmas classics playing from the TV while laughter spills in from the kitchen occupied by your friends.

“Do you wanna know one of my favorite Christmas memories?”

“Hm?” he asks, looking startled by your voice. “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

“My parents’ Christmas Eve party, when we were, god—eighteen, nineteen? It was the first one after we went away for college,” you start, waiting for him to catch up. He nods like he knows what you’re talking about.

“Oh, yeah,” Rafe says, then his eyes widen. “Oh, yeah. Oh my god, was that the one where we hotboxed your pool house, because we didn’t know we had to start sitting at the adults’ table that year?”

You giggle at the memory, thinking about the boys, you, Gretchen, and Margot sitting in a square at the end of the adult’s table, all trying not to give yourselves away. You sat there in silence until Margot missed her mouth and spilled practically an entire flute of champagne down the front of her dress, making Kelce laugh which caused a ripple effect until you were all teary-eyed messes.

And you would’ve been horrified by the disappointed look on your father’s face at the head of the table if Rafe hadn’t accidentally bumped his knee into yours from where he sat beside you, body shaking as he tried to contain his laughter. He’d brushed a hand over your knee and leaned down to whisper a sorry into your ear, and if you couldn’t use the excuse of being under an influence, you know your starry-eyed look as you told him ‘no problem, RC’ would’ve been a dead giveaway of your feelings. “That’s the one.”

“God, I still can’t believe we got away with that.”

“We did not. My dad definitely knew,” you tell him.

Rafe groans, but he’s smiling now, even where he’s hiding his face in your shoulder. “I cannot believe he lets me date you sometimes. Seriously.”

“But, see? Christmas can be fun sometimes, even if it’s just getting stoned at ill-advised times and causing a ruckus at the Y/l/n family Christmas Eve extravaganza.”

“Mm,” Rafe hums wistfully. “My dad and Rose went away on business on the 25th that year. I think Sarah went to John B’s—Wheez and I picked up a ton of Chinese food after we burned the turkey.”

You deflate against him. “Rafe.”

“No, don’t. This isn’t a ‘feel sorry for me’ moment—it was actually kinda nice, if I remember. We stayed in our pajamas and watched those clay people movies all day,” he says. “I dunno. Maybe Christmas isn’t horrible all the time.”

It was a start.

—

Through the years your friends have all calmed down and grown up, but that doesn’t stop any of you from getting a little rowdy at your parents’ Christmas party this year. Margot comes and Gretchen finally made it home too, so you blame the repeat cocktails on the nostalgia and everyone being back together.

And things are different now because when someone brings out the mistletoe you gladly stand up on your toes and plant one on Rafe in front of all of your friends, whereas when the same scenario happened when you were seventeen you’d been a deer in headlights, squealing in surprise when Margot sprung into action, pushing Rafe out of the way so she she could kiss you instead—a true friend, she is. Everyone laughed it off but they still tease you about it to this day.

Today, you’re still lip-locked with Rafe, ignoring the hoots and whistles from your friends, until Kelce is breaking you up and squeezing in for a cheek kiss from either of you and effectively ending the display. “Alright, mom and dad. We get it, you figured out your feelings. But it’s been a year of this shit and my eyes can’t take it anymore. Separate.”

“Seriously,” Gretchen agrees. “It was almost more fun when you didn’t know.”

“No it wasn’t,” Margot and Topper chorus.

Gretchen rolls her eyes and tugs you away with a looped arm, marching you both back toward the more dignified area of the party. “C’mon, I wanna go flirt with that bartender your mom hired.”

“Ooh, wait, really?!” you ask. “I love that for you.”

“And you need air,” she laughs, eyes scanning your flushed expression. “I swear, next time I come home you’re gonna be pregnant, Y/n/n.”

“Mmm, no. We don’t wanna have kids until we move back from California,” you say, immediately clapping a hand over your mouth as you realize what you just said. “Oh, fuck. Gretch—”

“Until you… what?”

“We haven’t told anyone, okay? So, shh,” you beg. “We just started talking about it. My parents don’t even know.”

Her eyebrows remain at their spot practically shot into her hairline. “You know I hate to ask. But do his?”

“No, nobody does,” you whisper. “So tight lid, alright?”

“Oh my god, wait. That’s so exciting,” she says, her lip pouting in adoration. “You’ll be so much closer to me. God, he’s so whipped—”

“Okay,” you interrupt, hands on her shoulders. “Let’s go find Cute Bartender and see if we can get him to shut you up, alright?”

“Maybe he’ll be my Rafe.”

Cute Bartender was decidedly no Rafe, at least in your eyes, but he was falling for every one of Gretchen’s usual tricks. You sipped your champagne flute in amusement as you watched her at work from a little ways down. She’d just moved onto asking him how exactly a Sex on a Beach got its name when a presence sidles up next to you, a black suit jacket brushing your bare shoulder.

“You’re way too pretty to be sitting here all by yourself.”

A comment like that would normally knock you off-kilter these days, ready to be shrugged off or politely declined depending on the situation. But coupled with your boyfriend’s very familiar voice, it has you turning to look at him in amusement.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I’m surprised your boyfriend isn’t around,” Rafe says, making a show of surveying your parents’ entire house. “I mean if I were him, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.”

“Don’t have one,” you decide, stifling a giggle when something a little offended flashes in his eyes. Rafe shakes his head, sipping a little more of his drink before re-committing to the bit.

“No? Well that works out for me then, doesn’t it?”

“Depends.”

You’re out of practice in your flirt game but you can tell it doesn’t matter. Rafe’s a little tipsy and he’s absolutely hanging off of your every word. “Have we met before? I feel like I recognize you.”

“Hm,” you wonder, eyes roaming over Rafe in his black tuxedo like you’re trying to place where you know him from, when you’re really just checking him out for the tenth time that night. “Maybe. I grew up around here.”

“Me too,” Rafe says. “Shocked we never ran into each other.”

“A shame, really,” you say, testing the waters as you move closer to him. Rafe twitches where he leans against the bar when a festively painted fingernail traces the buttons on his crisp white shirt. “What should we do about that?”

“I’d like to take you home,” Rafe blurts, blinking dumbly. “And maybe you can just stay forever because you actually live there too because I’ve been in love with you for, like, half of my life.”

You throw your head back and laugh, slapping him on his chest. But he just grabs your hand and keeps you tucked close to him, gleeful smile matching your own. “Baby, you were doing so good for a second.”

“You know I can’t help it when I’m this drunk, Y/n/n,” he groans, still smiling when you wrap your arms around his waist under his suit jacket. “Fuck, I forgot how good of a flirt you are. You never pull the moves on me anymore.”

“Maybe you’re just immune to my charms by now.”

“Not possible,” he says. His eyes are glassy and he’s been smiling all night, and you know he’s finally starting to come around on Christmas just from the way he’s looking at you.

“Rafe? And Y/n, is that you?”

Your arms unwind from Rafe and fall to your side on instinct, faced with your AP Calculus teacher for the first time in years. “Mr. Torres?”

“I thought that was you two, wow,” the older man says. “How are you both?”

You take turns catching him up on all of your life updates over the years, stumbling over your words a little from the alcohol and from the fact that your old math teacher caught you both seconds away from making out in the middle of this party. You knew better than to be getting handsy when half of Figure 8 was in attendance tonight, and you guess this was your punishment. Mr. Torres orders another round of drinks for the three of you and covers the tip for all of it, turning to say one last thing before being on his way again. “You know, I always thought there was something there between you two.”

“I’m—I’m sorry?” Rafe says, clearing his throat.

“Yes, that year I had you both in my class.”

“Oh, we weren’t dating then, Mr. Torres,” you clarify. “This is uh, a little more recent.”

“No? Could’ve fooled me back in the day,” he says, smiling at you both. “Well, happy holidays.”

Mr. Torres walks off and you both stand there in a stunned silence until you groan, making Rafe laugh against you. “That was humiliating.”

“God. Who knew our math teacher was such a romantic?”

—

John B drops the two of you at home on his way back to The Cut that night, volunteered as a designated driver for the night by his girlfriend. Rafe lets you take the front seat but that doesn’t stop him from tipsily complaining about the lack of safety features in the back of the beat-up van.

“Is this thing even street legal?”

“I try not to think about that,” John B admits, pulling up to your street. “Monsieur and madame, your destination.”

“Thanks, kid,” Rafe says, helping you out of the front seat. “Merry Christmas. See you tomorrow.”

The two of you still-slightly-drunkenly shuffle around the house in a practiced routine for coming home after nights out, but you’re having a harder time with your heels this particular night. By the time you finally get them off and leave them by the front door, you expect Rafe to be in the bathroom getting ready for bed. Instead you find him with his bow tie undone around his neck, scarf and jacket still on, standing in front of the tree holding a small, neatly-wrapped box in his hands. “Hey, c’mere for a sec?”

“What’s this?”

“Well… Christmas is all about traditions with the people you love, right? And I thought it’d be cool if we started one,” he says shyly. “I mean, I plan to spend at least a few more with you, if that’s alright.”

“I was thinking quite a few,” you correct, feeling yourself smile as you slowly walk into the living room.

“Quite a few,” he agrees. “And one I always wanted to do when we were kids was open the first present on Christmas Eve, so I was thinking—I have one for you, sweetheart.”

“You do?” you say, pushing past him to kneel on the floor, digging around for a perfect present for him to open tonight. You hadn’t really planned for this but Rafe was trying, and he looked so sweet standing by your tree holding that box in his hands. “I can find one for you, too.”

“No, no, it’s okay. It’s kinda for both of us, anyway” he says softly, leading the two of you to sit on the couch together.

He places it in your lap and you slip a finger under the paper immediately, admiring his adequate wrapping job as you tear it open to reveal a white box. “And it’s definitely not, like, a huge deal, or anything—”

But you can’t hear him anymore as you find the wooden ornament inside the box, slowly pulling it out. It’s a picture frame, with a photo of you sitting in Rafe’s lap in Massachusetts from just a few weeks ago. At the bottom of the frame is an inscription that says ‘rafe & y/n. first christmas.’

“And listen,” he rushes to continue. “I know it isn’t technically our first, ‘cause we’ve been dating for over a year. But I dunno, it’s our first tree together in our first home and everything, and I just thought, you put all of those ornaments up on the tree this year, and this is the first time I’ve enjoyed Christmas in a really, really long time, and—”

“You know,” you squeak out, feeling those annoying tears start to brim your eyes. “For someone who doesn’t like Christmas very much, you give really great gifts.”

“You like it?” he asks in earnest, his hand falling to your knee. You look up, feeling the first tears overflow.