Writing & Crying

She's leaning against the fridge in her loose off-shoulder top and festive patterned leggings, staring straight through whatever nonsense you threw on this morning to what's underneath. Her tongue slides through her teeth to one side of a sly grin. Those green eyes are ravenous—and not for pizza.

Within seconds you are in the kitchen, pressed against the counter with your thumbs in her waistband and her arms draped around your neck. She presses soft kisses along your jawline, up your temple, and nips at your ear.

Yes. This is exactly what you've been looking forward to. You've been starved of a lengthy moment alone together between your homebody roommate and her retired parents that live with her.

An elaborate romantic evening was planned for the occasion: putting the final touches on the tree, enjoying a few of the finest frozen pizzas with her favorite bottle of wine, and marathoning a slew of classic holiday movies. Or, more likely, a quarter of the first film until you are bored and jump each other's bones instead.

The record player transitions to a jazzy rendition of Please Come Home For Christmas as she leans in. Her breath is hot and enticing, sweet from the peppermint mochas she picked up on the way here. You hum into her lips when they press to yours. Bold and eager, then slow and deliberate when you both realize you can drag this out all night.

Your hips press into hers, hands sliding up her warm body and trembling slightly when you remember your plans for the evening. There's a trick up your sleeve for this year's ornament exchange. You had this one custom made—a hidden compartment to hold another gift with a big price tag and even bigger question.

Your heart flutters. Whether it's from nerves or the hands snaking up your shirt, it's hard to tell. Grand gestures will have to wait their turn, because you are far too busy being consumed by the gravity pulling you further and further into Shadowheart. You're a simple rock, thrilled to be in her orbit for a chance to be called the moon.

"Suppose if we have dessert first," she mumbles against your lips, "we can treat ourselves to second and third dinner too."

You groan in response, resting your cheek on her one bare shoulder as she peppers your neck with hungry bites and teasing kisses. Whatever she suggests, you're certain it's a fabulous idea. She snaps open the top button on your jeans. A truly inspired idea. She pulls the zipper, your breath hitches, and—

"I told you we should have flown out of Baldur's Gate instead! The whole of Reithwin shuts down for even a dusting."

Your tangled limbs fly apart, faces still flushed as the front door flies open. A snow-crusted Gale is hauling in suitcases behind Mystra who is furiously typing away on her phone.

"Love, it's far more than a dusting out there." He huffs and puffs, luggage haphazardly tossed on the rug.

You catch his gaze and both stare blankly for a moment. Mystra continues to prattle on about a refund from Uber and this is why you should never pre-tip. Why do they even offer that, anyway? You maintain eye contact with your roommate and make a show of slowly re-zipping your jeans. To his credit, he at least has the courtesy of looking apologetic.

"I am so, so sorry friend. It's quite the blizzard out there. All flights are cancelled until tomorrow afternoon."

Mystra shoves her phone in his face. "And look, only three cancelled flights in Baldur's Gate airport. Five flying to Waterdeep tonight. Reithwin is cheaper but you get what you pay for!"

Gale sighs and removes his coat. He endures the stream of I told you so's with an indifference that indicates it has been ongoing since they left the airport.

"So, what? You're staying the night?" You try to keep your voice neutral as possible but a tinge of alarm slips through. You're not sure you care if he notices.

"Yes, yes, but! We will stay entirely out of your hair, I promise. Quiet as church mice in my room, you won't hear a peep—"

"Quarantined all night in your bedroom?" Mystra scoffs. "I don't think so." She tosses her purse onto the console table and sinks into the loveseat, feet up, boots dripping slush down the leather ottoman.

Shadowheart tilts her head quietly to the ceiling and crosses her eyes. Your heart aches. You can eventually cope with your night being ruined, but not hers. She was just as excited as you were, texting all manner of junk food and movie marathon ideas and oh my god did you know they made SIX Home Alone films?!

The record player taunts you. I really can't stay. Baby it's cold outside. I gotta go away. Baby it's cold outside.