#nye fic

You’re in your typical go-to outfit. You’re pretty sure you’ve worn it the last two New Year’s Eves, but it’s good for dancing, looks nice, & can definitely be teasing if the mood is right. It’s a maxi dress with a blue & orange hexagon pattern, little cap sleeves, & a square neckline that makes the most of your cleavage. You’ve put on the Tiffany necklace Harry gave you for his Christmas party, your nails are painted silver & blue glitter, & you’ve straightened your hair, trying to do it like the stylist did. It’s not as good but it’s better than usual.

“Honey, help me with the cufflinks,” Harry says as he walks into the guest room, still your dressing room, the bed sheets not cleaned after the storm day.

You turn just as you finish your lipstick & stand up. He’s in a very smart suit, but his tie matches your dress, blue & orange. You notice the cufflinks are hexagons too.

“You trying to make sure we’re a matching couple?” you ask as you twist one cufflink into place, his spare hand stroking your upper arm. His fingertips are warm, slightly calloused from gym work, dragging lightly over your skin.

“I want everyone to know I’m yours & you’re mine,” he smoulders, as you move to the other cufflink.

“It’s your friend’s New Year’s party, Harry. Everyone will know I’m yours,” you giggle, your perfume drifting up between you both, vanilla & something citrusy.

“True. But I want to make sure of it.”

“You also want to make sure I’m comfortable there,” you tease.

“Yeah… I kinda do. Truth is…” He pauses with a sigh. “I’m not looking forward to the second, when we both have to go back to work.”

“Really?” You blink at him, surprised.

“Yeah. The idea of you being in your little office, being all cute, & me not being anywhere near you, doing all that finance & CEO shit… it breaks my heart a bit.”

This melts your heart. Harry spins you around & pulls you close, the fabric of his suit brushing your bare arms. “You know I could buy the place you work,” he murmurs, his hand gliding down your back. “Make you a senior partner, give you lots of perks, &…”

“…& then I’d be fucking the boss?” You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t think that would go down well.”

“I’m just saying… I could have you as a kept woman for life. But I know you’d get bored. You’re not the type to be a housewife.”

“Especially when you actually have staff to clean for us, Harry.” You joke & rub his face, the stubble on his beard prickling your palm in the best way.

You take a couple of selfies together & grab your snazzy jacket. Harry thinks it’s designer, but you dare not tell him it’s ten years old from River Island.

After you triple check that your straighteners are off & head for the kitchen to grab your bag, Harry’s on the phone. Pacing. His expression is a mix of shock & concentration. He mouths problem at you. The moment he hangs up, he drags a hand through his hair.

“Covid,” he says bluntly.

“Covid?” you echo.

“Giles & Sophie.” The couple hosting the party. “They used the same catering company all Christmas. Half the staff have Covid, including Giles & one of the kids. So it’s not happening.”

“Oh no.” You soften. “That’s horrible.”

“I know. Who catches Covid in 2025?”

“Clearly the Plumptons,” you laugh, & he does too. You both just stand there for a moment before you break the silence.

“So… where does that leave us?”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t think we have enough quality nibbles to host a last-minute party.”

“& we are the most awkward place for people to get home from.”

“No we’re not.”

“Guess you’ve never tried to get a New Year’s taxi home,” you say, raising a brow.

“…Drivers?” he suggests hopefully.

“Not everyone can summon a driver out of thin air, Harry. Plus, you gave Thomas the night off. So he can’t chase around everyone.”

“Good point.” He sighs. “We could go out for dinner?”

“We’d never get a booking this late. Especially somewhere nice. Even with your connections.”

“I’m guessing you’re used to normal, last-minute New Year’s plans.”

“Actually, no,” you stick your tongue out at him. “We messed up once, years ago. From then on, me & my friends became fully organised adults for New Year’s, sorting it well before Christmas.”

“We could go see what they’re doing?”

“You wanna go watch The Dreamboys?” you smirk. Harry cackles.

“God no,” he blushes. “Why watch that when you’ve got me?”

“You gonna do a little strip tease…” you twist toward him teasingly. “…not that there’s anything little about you, babes.”

He pulls you in & rubs your shoulder, his breath catching, before he sets his phone on the counter.

“Okay, looks like we’re gonna make this New Year’s Eve up as we go along,” he says.

You set your jacket down as he steps closer & strokes your arms. His thumb sweeps your skin slowly, familiar and grounding.

“If I’m honest, you’re the only person I need to bring the New Year in with, honey.” His eyes soften, warm, hungry, glowing under the kitchen lights.

“Back atcha, babes.” You rise onto your tiptoes & kiss him softly, inhaling his scent, it just smells like him, musky & seductive, as your hands glide over his suit.

Harry’s still holding you when he pulls back slightly, eyebrows lifting like he’s hoping inspiration will drop from the ceiling.

“So… dinner?” he says. “I genuinely don’t know what we could even make. We don’t get our food delivery til Friday, we have a freezer full of nibbles that don’t match, &…”

You blink. Then grin. & he can practically see the feral idea forming on your face.

“What?” he asks, narrowing his eyes playfully.

“We could make macaroni cheese,” you say, already walking toward the kitchen like a woman on a mission. “& then, hear me out, dip the leftover pigs in blankets into it. Maybe the leftover tortilla chips too.”

Harry freezes, mouth open, somewhere between horrified & deeply intrigued.

“That…” he says slowly, “sounds absolutely deranged.”

“Yup.”

“But also… the best thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life.”

You shrug, tossing your hair with mock innocence. The kitchen lights catch the glitter in your nails.

“Well, babe, desperate times. New year, new carbs.”

He laughs, one of those deep, unrestrained, belly laughs that fills the whole penthouse, & follows you into the kitchen, loosening his jacket like he’s preparing for battle.

“You know,” he says, pulling out the pasta like treasure, “this might actually be the most us thing ever. Fancy clothes, no party, & gourmet trash food. A mix of both worlds.”

“Tradition in the making,” you wink.

Soon the kitchen is warm & alive with you both busying about, the rain outside nothing but a soft patter against the huge windows. You fill the pan with pasta while Harry raids the fridge like a man on a quest.

“Okay,” he says, moving jars around with zero plan, “we have… cranberry sauce, one sad sprout, a block of cheddar the size of my head…” you laugh “…ooooh we also have this.”

He holds up a carton triumphantly. “SANGRIA.”

You blink. “Why do we have sangria?”

“Leftover from the girls’ night you hosted in November. I saw how out of hand it was getting, so I hid it.”

You put a hand on your hip. “Harry, it’s sangria, not a Malbec you’ve been saving for 20 years.”

He twists the lid. “Well, it is now our drink of choice for tonight.”

He grabs an orange, slicing it in neat, satisfying circles, the citrus scent bright in the warm kitchen air.

He pours you both a glass while you stir the melting cheese into the roux. His arm brushes yours. There’s something intimate about it, domestic, warm, the soft clink of glass, the quiet sizzle of the stove.

He steps behind you, sliding his hands around your waist, chin on your shoulder. His warmth seeps through your dress.

“Smells so good,” he murmurs.

“The mac or me?” you tease.

“Both,” he replies instantly, voice low. “But only one of them is making my brain go fuzzy.”

You try to stay focused on the sauce, but he kisses the sensitive spot beneath your ear, which makes your whole body shiver.

“Harry,” you warn, laughing, “if you distract me, the cheese will split.”

“Then I’ll just have to behave.” He kisses your cheek. “God, I hate behaving. Especially when you’re delicious.”

“Go torture some pigs in blankets.”

He laughs but obeys, arranging them like he’s preparing canapés for royalty.

“This is so stupid,” he says, smiling at you, “but it’s perfect. No rules. No plan. Just us.”

You soften. “Honestly? I kind of love it.”

He lifts his glass. “To making our own New Year’s Eve.”

You clink. “To the chaos we choose.”

You dish everything up, mac & cheese bubbling, pigs in blankets perfectly crisp, & Harry flicks through playlists until something upbeat & old-school fills the room. A warm, bassy track, something with real groove.

“Dance with me,” he says, offering his hand.

“What, now?”

“While eating mac & cheese. In full formal wear. In our lounge. Celebrating life…” He bows dramatically. “I want this burned into my memory.”

You take his hand, laughing, & the two of you dance messy little circles around the coffee table, music thumping softly through the speakers. You take bites between spins, singing off-key, Harry stealing kisses whenever he can reach you. For a moment, no fancy parties, no expectations, it’s just you & him, dizzy & stupidly happy in a warm penthouse on the last night of the year.

You wonder what your past self from three years ago, crying after a breakup on New Year’s Day, would think of this life.

A while later, full bellies & flushed cheeks, you end up on the living room rug, sorting pieces of an ancient board game Harry dug out of a cupboard. Dust still floats in the air from when he blew it off.

“What even is this?” he asks, squinting at the box. “Looks like someone tried to invent Monopoly but gave up halfway. Did you bring this when you moved in?”

“It’s vintage,” you say proudly.

“It’s missing half the money & all the rules.”

“Exactly,” you grin.

You play anyway, bending nonexistent rules in your favour, stealing his pieces, accusing him of being corrupt when he does the same. He pretends to be outraged. You pretend to be innocent. Both of you are hopelessly competitive, slightly tipsy, & Harry keeps topping up the sangria with vodka & cranberry juice like a menace. The food still being picked at. You really couldn’t imagine being anywhere better than right here right now.

Somewhere between his terrible dice rolls & you inventing a “special tax for people called Harry,” you glance at the clock.

11:40 PM.

Your eyes widen.

“Harry… we’ve got twenty minutes!”

He gasps like you’ve delivered catastrophic news.

“Midnight? Already?!”

“You were too busy trying to bribe the banker.”

“There is no banker!” he protests. The both of you break into another round of laughter; your cheeks ache from how much you’ve been smiling tonight.

He stands, brushing crumbs from the tortillas off his suit trousers.

“Okay, glasses. Fizz. Let’s do this properly.”

He strides to the fridge with that big, confident, I own the room energy, even though there is only you to impress, he flings the door open, scans the shelves.

You sit up, waiting.

But then, he freezes. His eyes blinking like he can’t believe what he sees.

“Honey,” he says slowly, voice flat with dread, “where’s the champagne?”

You blink. “The what?”

“The champagne. The bottle we always keep in the fridge.” He turns toward you with the most betrayed expression a human has ever worn. “It’s gone.”

“Bollocks,” you mutter, jumping to your feet. “Very funny, Harry. We had a spare one in there Boxing Day morning.”

You reach the fridge to check for yourself. It is, in fact, not there.

“Well,” you say, pointing half-heartedly into the fridge, “we have sangria.” The words taste wrong even as you say them.

He presses a hand to his chest like you’ve stabbed him.

“Sangria? Sangria for midnight? That’s… barbaric.”

You stare at him, deadpan.

“Harry. It’s still booze.”

“Not tonight,” he insists, shaking his head dramatically. “I will be respectable for at least ten minutes of this year.”

Fondness flickers warm in your chest. You grab his coat off the sofa & shove it into his hands.

“If you want fizz, posh boy, you’re coming with me.”

“What?” He looks scandalised. You’re already wrapping a scarf around your neck, grabbing your own coat.

“You want to go out? Like outside outside?”

“It’s a corner shop, Harry, not Narnia. They will have some.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“You expect me, Harry Castillo, to buy champagne from a corner shop?”

“It’s better than sangria. Unless you’ve got another bright idea?”

He glances at the window. Rain splatters across the glass, wind rattling the panes. Then he grins, wild, ridiculous, absolutely himself.

“Well,” he says, slipping on his coat & raking his fingers through his curls like a man preparing for a red carpet, “what kind of gentleman would I be if I let my girl buy midnight prosecco alone?”

You take his hand, grab the keys, & the two of you step into the hallway, laughing like teenagers sneaking out after curfew.

“Come on,” you say, tugging him toward the lift. “We’ve got fifteen minutes to save New Year’s.”

“& look fabulous doing it,” he adds, kissing your cheek as the lift doors slide shut. You don’t take your eyes off him the whole ride down.

The lift opens after a few minutes on the ground floor & the cold hits instantly, sharp, wet, bracing. You squeal, clutching your jacket tighter. Harry mutters something about “weather unbecoming of a man in a suit,” but he pulls you into his side as you both hurry into the street.

Your usual corner shop glows warmly across the road, the red CLOSED sign flickering like it’s giving up the ghost. Your heart sinks.

Harry is already scanning the streets. Over the small canal footbridge, he spots a green light.

“There,” he says, voice low, excited. “Another shop. I bet that one has… actual options.”

“Harry,” you warn, “we do not have time for…”

But he’s jogging toward the bridge, grabbing your hand & dragging you with him.

“Come on, honey! We can make it! We can start the year right!”

You can’t help laughing as you run after him, heels tapping on the wet pavement, rain speckling his suit, both of you breathless & glowing under the orange streetlights.

The shop is tiny, bright, & completely empty except for a cashier half-watching a soap on his phone. Harry bursts in like a man storming a boardroom.

“Where’s your prosecco?” you ask, already knowing this won’t go how he wants.

The cashier points lazily at a sad little shelf.

There are… two miniature bottles.

Miniatures. Harry’s soul visibly leaves his body.

“Two hundred million in assets,” he mutters, grabbing them anyway, “& I’m buying airplane sized prosecco at 11:58 PM.”

“Shameful,” you agree, tapping your card. “Needs must.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Oh, like you wouldn’t believe.”

You burst back into the night together, the rain softer now, the city humming with anticipation. As you reach the bridge again, you hear the countdown echoing from balconies & windows all around you:

“Ten!”

“Nine!”

“Eight!”

Harry squeezes your hand, panicked.

“Honey, we’re gonna miss it… we’re not even home… this is…”

You stop walking. He nearly collides with you, rain catching in his curls, breath fogging in the cold.

“This,” you say softly, “is exactly where we’re meant to be.”

He swallows, chest rising as fireworks thump somewhere in the distance.

“Seven!”

“Six!”

“Five!”

The canal shimmers below you as you stand on the bridge & hold his hands, fireworks painting the sky green then pink that have gone early. Harry looks at you like you’re the whole damn universe. Eyes adoring.

“Four!”

“Three!”

He whispers, “God, I love you.”

“Two!”

“One!”

You grab him by that perfect blue & orange tie, the one he picked just to match you, & pull him into a kiss right there on the bridge as midnight explodes around you.

Fireworks bloom overhead, cheers echo down the streets, & the tiny prosecco bottles bump against his coat with every heartbeat.

His hands cradle your face. Your laugh melts into his mouth. Warm. Breathless. Exactly right. The perfect start to a new year.

When you finally come up for air, he rests his forehead against yours, breath warm in the cold night.

“To a new year of chaos,” he murmurs, “& the love of my life.” You stand there for a few seconds looking at the world around you welcoming in the new year. A new kind of calm & chaos glowing for you both. Your only there maybe 2 minutes, but nothing else matters

Harry pops open the mini bottles as you start walking back, the cork making a pathetic little phut instead of the satisfying bang he clearly wanted.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Very impressive, Mr. Moneybags.”

He gives you a wounded look.

“I’m doing my best with… borrowed Barbie sized beverages.”

You take a sip from yours anyway. It’s awful, like fizzy syrup, but you grin at him.

“Delicious. Takes me right back to my college days.” You almost choke on the sweetness, which sends him into a bright, delighted laugh.

Hand in hand, you stroll back through the empty streets. The air smells like firework smoke & wet pavement; the sky flickers the colours of the rainbow between the tall buildings. Every few steps Harry lifts your joined hands to kiss your knuckles, soft & giddy, like midnight cracked him open in the best way.

By the time you reach the penthouse door, both mini bottles are empty. Harry holds them up like trophies.

“Look at us. Absolute picture of class.”

You snort. “We’re feral.”

He kisses the top of your head.

“My favourite way to be with you.”

Inside, the place is dark except for the glow from the city spilling through the huge windows & the lights on the trees you left on when you dashed out. You slip out of your coat, toes aching in your shoes from how you failed to run, while Harry heads straight to the living room & hits the remote for the fire. Flames bloom instantly, warm, golden, soft.

You lower yourself onto the rug, hitching your dress up just enough to get comfortable. Harry wanders toward the sideboard, loosening his tie with a slow, lazy smile.

“Whisky?” he calls. “Tequila?”

“Only if you’re having one.”

You hear the creak of the cabinet door, the clink of glasses, a rummage for the bottle, but then:

“…Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

You turn your head. “What?”

Harry reappears in the doorway holding a full, unopened bottle of actual champagne. He looks at it like it personally ruined his life.

“It was right here. The whole time. In the drinks cabinet.”

You bite your lip to hold the laugh in. “How long has that been in there?”

“I…I don’t know. Months?” He drags a hand down his face. “Honey, I made us run through the rain… for miniatures.”

“It was worth it for the moment babes” You pat the rug beside you. “Come suffer with me & ruin your knees.”

He sets the champagne on top of the cabinet, pours two whiskies, & then drops onto the rug next to you with a dramatic groan, resting his head against your shoulder.

“You’re never letting me live this down.”

“Not even a little,” you say, leaning into him.

The fire crackles softly. Outside, distant cheers & late fireworks echo through the city. Harry’s hand drifts over your thigh, warm & unhurried, & he gives you that smouldering look, the one that says the night is far from over.

You curl closer, both of you soaking in the heat, the whisky, the wildness of the night.

His thumb strokes your skin, slow as honey.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek, voice dropping, “I think we should start the year exactly like this…”

Your breath catches around your next sip of whisky.

“I mean, it’s only been 20 minutes,” you say, pretending to be coy even though your whole body is already warming under his touch.

“That’s 20 minutes too long without your pleasure.”

He gently takes both glasses from your hands, sets them aside, then trails his fingers up your arm, he snows how to seduce, not that he needs to do it with you.

“Do you not know how perfect you are, honey?” he whispers before pressing a lingering kiss to your collarbone. Your body trembles instantly, heat blooming under your skin.

“I’m only as beautiful as the soul who looks at me,” you breathe, sliding his evening jacket off his shoulders.

“Then my soul must shine like gold & silver,” he murmurs back.

Harry’s lips brush just beneath your jaw, slow & deliberate, like he’s memorising you by touch alone. The fire crackles beside you, painting both of you in molten gold. His hands settle at your waist, warm palms through the fabric of your dress, & your breath hitches before you even realise you’re holding it.

You tilt his face up with your fingers, brushing your thumb across the curve of his cheekbone. His eyes flutter shut at the contact, a man with everything, undone by something as simple as your touch.

“Come here,” you whisper.

He does instantly, leaning into you like he’s been waiting all night for permission. Your lips meet again, softer this time, slow enough that you feel every inch of it. His hand slides up your back, his other cradling your cheek, holding you like you’re something precious, breakable, adored.

The world shrinks to the warmth of the room & the steady rhythm of your breaths.

You sink down onto the rug together, the plush fibres beneath you, the fire warming the air around you in a way that feels almost unreal. Harry hovers above you for a moment, forehead against yours, breath trembling with emotion.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs, voice so gentle it pulls at something deep inside you.

You cup his jaw, thumb stroking the faint stubble you love so much.

“It’s perfect.”

His smile is small, soft, & helpless. The kind that says he’s completely yours.

He lowers himself, bodies fitting together with a familiarity that still somehow feels brand new every time. The heat between you builds slowly, tenderly, the kind of warmth that comes from trust, from love, from knowing this man would cross an entire city in the rain just to make you laugh.

His hands explore you in quiet reverence, tracing the lines of your body like he’s studying a map he already knows by heart. You respond in kind, fingers in his hair, over his shoulders, pulling him closer, grounding him & drawing him in all at once. Every kiss deepens, every touch says I love you louder than words ever could.

The firelight flickers across his skin, across your joined silhouettes, turning every movement into something almost cinematic. You feel his breath against your neck, the soft exhale he makes when you whisper his name, the way his body melts into yours.

There’s nothing rushed, nothing frantic.

Just warmth.

Just connection.

Just two people choosing each other, fully, fiercely, tenderly, as the new year begins.

Wrapped together in the glow of the fire, you make love on the rug the same way you spent the whole night: laughing softly, touching gently, hearts completely open.

Time slips away unnoticed. There’s only the two of you, tangled in softness and breath and gold.

When Harry finally holds you afterward, pulling you against his chest, his hand smoothing over your hair, he whispers into the quiet:

“This… this is the perfect start to my year.”

The fire is still crackling softly when the two of you finally settle, bodies tangled, breaths slowly syncing as the room cools around you. Harry’s chest rises under your cheek, his hand tracing lazy circles along your spine.

You exhale, content in a way that feels just right, just loved, just seen, just adored.

Then you laugh quietly against him.

“We didn’t even get naked.”

Harry shifts just enough to look at you, eyes warm, soft, and impossibly full.

“True,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb under your eye. “But I don’t need you nude to make love to my person.”

Your breath catches. Your throat tightens.

It hits you all at once, the sincerity, the way he says my person like it’s sacred.

You blink rapidly, trying not to cry. “Harry… you’re my person too.”

His expression crumples for a second, in that tender way he gets when he’s overwhelmed with love. He cups your face & kisses your forehead, your temple, your cheek, everywhere except your lips because he seems to be savouring each piece of you individually.

Then he presses a final kiss to your jaw, sighs, and mutters, “Right. That’s it. Before I start crying too.”

He reaches behind him, to grab the remote to flick off the fire, plunging the room into the soft glow of the city lights. Before you can move, he slips an arm under your knees, another behind your back, & lifts you in one smooth, warm, breath-stealing motion.

“Harry!” you squeak, but your arms loop around his neck automatically.

He carries you through the living room, down the hallway, as if you weigh nothing at all.

“I was a posh rich gentleman making love to you just now,” he says, voice low and wicked near your ear. “But the second we get into that bed…” His grip tightens just a little. “I’m going to take advantage of you.”

You gasp in mock scandal. “Posh rich boys don’t do that.”

He laughs, dark, delighted, sinful.

“Oh, honey,” he whispers as he nudges the bedroom door open with his heel, “oh yes we fucking do.”

The thing about New Year’s Eve is that it’s meant to be fun and, like many things that are meant to be fun, it often isn’t. After the year she’d had, Emma was more than ready to slam the door on it—preferably with a bottle of wine, her couch, and a queue of movies until sleep claimed her. No glitter, no countdown, no forced cheer. Just a touch of tipsiness and a lot of men running toward chaos.

Killian refused to let her do so in peace. Because, of course, he did. Her last few months—maybe her entire life—had been bleak, except for one bright spot. Or maybe, annoyance? Killian Jones, her entirely too attractive and very single neighbour.

Somehow, a mislaid package became recurring Friday dinners, then a few absolutely-not-dates but "shared-outings", and now most nights ended with trading stories over an ever-evolving menu of nightcaps. (Emma’s current favourite was a vanilla-spiced Amarula chai latte that was too delicious to be real. Killian was foolishly hailing the superiority of hot buttered rum.)

It was during one of these evenings, tipsy from her second mug of very heavily spiked chai, that Killian told her she had plans for the evening before the new year. He said it just like that—smooth, quiet, lowercase. It slipped by her defences.

His soft accent carried her through “her plans”—a play, a few drinks, and maybe fireworks. No alarm bells - a typical not-date night out for the two of them. His grin should have stirred something in her. Well, something other than that soft, bright warmth curling around her, lulling her into safety, drawing her focus away from the word fireworks.

Even as he said, “Next week, Wednesday?” her defences refused to defend. Likely because the time between Christmas Eve and the Monday She Returned to Work had blurred into one hazy stretch. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t until now—staring at the ticket he sent to her phone—that she realized the date: 31-Dec. That man had tricked her.

“Bloody New Year, bloody Eve,” Emma muttered angrily at the text. The phone offered no response, which did absolutely nothing to improve her mood. “Stupid blue-eyed Irishman.”

She glared at her closet and wondered—not for the first time—what did one wear on a not-date with a neighbour that one really wanted to date, maybe was already dating?, without making it overtly obvious that they were maybe more invested in the whatever-ship than said neighbour?

Emma stared at the red dress peeking from the back of her closet. Cut and fitted in all the right places, it would steal his gaze for the entire night. Her fingers brushed the fabric, and her pulse jumped. She pictured his eyes—blue and sharp—tracking the line of the dress, lingering. Heat curled low in her stomach, traitorous and insistent.

It was a cold night.

And such a bold statement didn’t feel right for them. Not yet anyway.

She let the dress slip back into shadow, exhaling.

Comfort, she told herself. Something safe. Something that wouldn’t betray how much she wanted him to look at her and see...nope. Not going there.

Sighing, she pulled jeans, worn-in like a favourite pair of leather gloves, over a pair of lined tights. She shrugged into a soft sweater, quickly executing a French tuck—for style, obviously—and completed the look with a pair of boots before covering the entire outfit with a wool coat, scarf, and cap.

Emma eyed the fridge, debating whether to eat before meeting Killian for the show. Five o’clock was early for dinner, but her grumbling stomach didn’t care. She stared at the leftovers, waiting to be tempted one way or the other, when her pocket vibrated:

Burgers and drinks at 17:30.

With that sorted, she grabbed her wallet and steeled herself for a fun New Year’s Eve out.

--- --- --- ---

As Emma stepped off the train, she realized Killian hadn’t included a location. When she saw him waiting at the station entrance, she understood he hadn’t needed to.

She was wrestling with the meaning of that—did it even have a meaning?—when his gaze found hers through the crowd, his lips pulling into a relieved smile. Her stomach flipped, and she hated how easy it was—how one look from him could undo the careful knots she’d tied around her feelings.

She crossed to him, and he pulled her into a hug, his coat brushing her cheek. She caught the familiar cedar-and-salt scent before he pulled away. His warmth lingered as her thoughts drifted. “You look fantastic, Swan,” he said easily, eyes flicking down to her jeans and boots before meeting hers again. “Casual suits you.” 

She rolled her eyes, but her stomach executed a complicated little flip. Luckily, Killian hadn't noticed. He was already talking, his voice soft and familiar, spilling stories from his day as they headed toward the burger joint he hadn’t needed to name. Her heels clicked in time with his steps, grounding her even as her mind tried to wander.

“And you? What’s new in your world?” Killian turned the full force of his attention to her. That was their pattern, and yet it always caught her off-guard. He would start pouring out stories the second they hugged, as if he stored these thoughts just for her, then he’d give the floor to her - eager for her stories. Her life felt too dull for that kind of focused listening

Half-panicked, she opted for a graceful little side-step, “I am feeling adventurous, burger of the day?”

Killian’s surprised laugh made her relax again, so she continued. “Sure, the Pesto-lence burger was not the best idea, but you have to admire the commitment to the bit.”

“Do you?”

“Every day that lovely, kind of awful, man wakes up, decides on a pun and creates a burger around it. You must have some admiration for the tenacity.”

“Must I?” Killian teased, “how do you know he comes up with the pun first?”

“Well, obviously.” Emma replied.

“Obviously.” Killian agreed as he guided her into the little hole in the wall they had come to frequent. Leroy greeted them in his usual manner, a small upturn in his frown and a grunt, “order when you’re ready and sit wherever you want.”

“It is the charming service that has us returning, again and again, Roy.”

Emma suppressed any reaction to that comment so Leroy would give her extra curly fries with her order as she chose their favourite booth. Because people who were neighbours and absolutely not dating had things like shared patterns, usuals, and favourites.

She pushed away the thought, I’m hungry and it’s making me sentimental about normal things, and ordered a Blue Year’s Eve burger and a milkshake.

“You don’t even like blue cheese,” Killian said after Leroy left with their orders.

“New Year, New Emma.”

“Hmm, what needs to be new about Swan?”

“I’m embracing risk. Or something to shake things up.”

“Risk?” Killian’s grin widened. “Ordering a questionable burger is your idea of living dangerously?”

“Baby steps,” she said, deadpan.

Leroy came out with their milkshakes and fries. He long stopped telling them they would spoil their burgers and just conformed to their insistence that fries and milkshakes were appetizers to be enjoyed prior to their burgers. The moment the baskets of fries hit the table, Killian plopped a generous handful of sweet potato fries in her basket as she added a small pile of curly fries to his. The exchange was automatic, and unequal.

Killian glanced at her plate, lips twitching. “That’s all I get?”

“Proportional generosity,” Emma replied, biting into her pile of sweet potato fries.

“Sounds like something you’d put in a contract.”

“Yeah? We need a contract. Blanket-sharing rules need to be signed and notarized.”

“It is MY blanket,” Killian defended passionately, humour dancing in his eyes.

“It lives with me, and possession is very influential in cases like this one.”

“No. I bought it and—”

“You cannot argue that your purchase of the blanket outweighs the connection we have formed.”

“What connection—it is a blanket.”

“Exactly! To you, it is just a blanket. Which is why the court is ruling in my favour should you refuse to reach an agreement with me and put it in the contract.”

“Impossible.” Killian muttered, reaching for a curly fry from her hoard of fries. She brushed his hand aside, absolutely not noticing the way warmth lingered where they touched.

“Oh my god,” Killian’s voice was so honestly stunned that Emma followed his gaze to the two plates Leroy was carrying to the table. One held a perfectly normal cheeseburger, but the other…

Killian’s brows shot up. “That’s… blue.”

Emma blinked. “The pun isn’t blue cheese, then?”

Leroy set the plates before them and left quietly. Like he hadn’t just dropped the most ridiculous plate in existence.

“Not even close,” Killian said, grinning as he leaned in for a better look. “That’s so much food colouring. And is that—” He flicked the tiny NYE party popper perched on top. “—a party favour? Oh, streamers too? Swan, your burger comes with decorations.”

Emma laughed, half in shock. “It’s a whole party. On a bun.”

“Leroy outdid himself,” Killian said solemnly. “I didn’t think he had it in him.”

“Neither did I,” Emma admitted, picking up the burger like it might explode. “If this kills me, tell people I died embracing risk.”

Killian smirked. “Baby steps, Swan. Baby steps.”

They ate, trading commentary on Leroy’s latest pun and the questionable wisdom of putting pesto on beef. Killian told a story about a disastrous New Year’s in Dublin—something about a broken guitar and a pub singalong gone wrong—and Emma found herself laughing so hard she nearly spilled her milkshake.

Killian reached across the table, steadying the glass with one hand. “Easy there. I wouldn’t want to miss out on dessert.”

Emma rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, eyes glinting, “you seem to rather enjoy suffering.”

She didn’t answer that—just stole one of his fries in retaliation. He let her, grinning like he’d planned it all along.

By the time they finished, night had fully cloaked the city. Killian checked his watch. “We should head out if we’re going to make curtain.”

Emma wiped her hands on a napkin, suddenly aware of the warmth in her cheeks. “Right.”

Killian stood, offering his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was warm, steady, and entirely too easy to hold onto.

“Come along gosling,” he said.

“Cygnet,” Emma corrected on reflex, but she was smiling as they stepped into the cold night together.

--- --- --- ---

The play ended in a flurry of applause, velvet curtains sweeping closed as the house lights rose. Emma stretched, rising out of her seat and feeling the pleasant ache of muscles moving after sitting too long. Killian leaned close, his breath warm against her ear.

“Not bad,” he murmured, voice low enough to make her pulse skip. “Though I still say Act Two could’ve used a sword fight.”

Emma snorted, tugging on her coat. “You think everything needs a sword fight.”

“Not everything,” he said, grin flashing as he held the door for her. “Just the boring bits.”

Outside, the city was alive—music spilling from pubs, laughter curling through the cold night air. Emma shoved her hands into her pockets, boots loud against the cobblestones as they fell into step. The river wasn’t far, but the crowd thickened as they neared it, a tide of sequins, beanies, and scarves moving toward the fireworks.

Killian’s shoulder brushed hers, casual, but it sent a spark racing down her spine. She told herself it was the chill. Definitely the chill.

“Do you know any traditions around midnight on New Year’s?” she asked, aiming for casual.

Killian tilted his head, “Fireworks and drinking until you black out?”

“Sure, that too.” She laughed, nerves fizzing under her skin. “But the thing you’re doing at midnight is meant to be what you want most for the upcoming year. So, some couples kiss at midnight; parents with young kids sleep…”

Killian’s brow furrowed, thoughtful. “No, don’t know that one.”

“Hmm,” Emma responded. They navigated the streets, thick with people. This city was home, so she forgot at times that it was also an international city. It was impossible to forget that tonight. People were crammed everywhere, laughing and drinking. The atmosphere was light, happy, and maybe it would be fertile ground for new beginnings.

Emma swallowed hard, “That was my indirect way of asking for a kiss,” her voice sounded too quiet and too loud at the same time. This time Killian did not respond.

He continued to lead her through the crowd, focused on finding the absolute best spot to see the fireworks. And still something big, and a little scary, kept building in her chest.

“Oh no! We didn’t bring the champagne! I could probably find a shop?” The thought was sudden but alleviated some of her nerves.

“I left some in your fridge yesterday, remember? We can have some when we get back home.” He was still focused on threading them through the crowds, so he missed the way her step faltered when he said home—like it was a place they shared. Her stomach felt a bit strange—the alcohol? Or the adrenaline from the missed step? It couldn’t be because she was about to do something impulsive…

He settled them in a spot where no trees blocked the view, no one too tall stood in front of her, and the breeze seemed to have slowed. “How’s this?”

“It works.” She was too focused on controlling her breathing and talking herself out of that little reckless thought to give him a better response.

“I know, I know. We should have gone to the other bank, you can see more clearly there. But they closed the bridges off and I don’t think we can make it off the trains in time.” Killian was rambling, his hand reaching behind his ear to scratch at whatever nerves he was battling.

“It’s fine, Killian. Really.” Emma smiled gently, amused. Time stretched, taut and thin.

Ten… nine… eight…

Their voices rose and joined the crowd in the countdown. She would just wait until next year.

…seven…six…five…

No. Emma’s pulse thudded louder than the crowd. She didn’t want to wait. Not another year. Not another second...well, maybe a few seconds longer.

…four…three...two…

Oh. Her breath caught. She was going to do this, wasn’t she?

…one…

All at once, the crowd yelled “Happy New Year,” fireworks burst overhead, and Emma turned to Killian.

Before her courage could falter, she leaned in pressing a kiss to his cheek, quick and soft. Warm skin against cold air. The faint rasp of stubble grazed her lips, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single point of contact. She pulled back, pulse hammering, proud and terrified all at once.

Emma turned toward the river as fireworks painted the sky in bursts of gold and crimson. She watched, trying to calm her racing heart. But the heat and pressure of the previous moment lingered on her lips. 

She planted her boots more firmly on the street and focused on the pops and bursts before her - very intentionally refusing to look at the man beside her. At least, not until her thudding heart was less visible in her chest.

But when, moments later, several of the largest fireworks she had ever seen burst overhead, she turned out of instinct to see if Killian was equally impressed.

His gaze wasn’t on the sky above them.

Killian was focused on her, his eyes bright and unguarded, something new simmering beneath the blue. He looked like a man spellbound, lost in a different world. Emma’s throat went dry at the sudden realization that he hadn’t moved since the world started welcoming the New Year. Since she’d kissed—and maybe broken—him.

She cocked her head, about to ask if he was malfunctioning.

That must have lifted the spell. In a quick movement, his hand slid to her waist, firm and certain. The world stilled. His eyes searched hers for a beat, then lowered, slow and deliberate.

The first brush of his lips was gentle, almost questioning. Then the kiss deepened—hungry, devastatingly tender—like he’d been holding it back for far too long. Fireworks roared and faded into smoke, but Emma barely noticed. Her senses drowned in cedar and salt, in the heat of his mouth, in the way his fingers tightened like he was afraid to let go.

When he finally broke away, his forehead rested against hers, breath mingling with hers in the cold night air. For a moment, time felt infinite.

“Happy New Year, Swan,” he murmured, voice low and certain.

Emma smiled, lips tingling, heart steady for the first time in months. “How about that champagne nightcap?”

New Year’s Eve parties are typically not your thing.

Loud music, bustling crowds, crowded rooms with crowded strangers — the whole debacle always sounded like a recipe for disaster.

Ieiri claimed that this gathering would be different. Small.

Albeit still a party by Gojo Satoru’s standards as his entire penthouse is littered with tacky balloons, confetti, and endless amounts of blinking year-end sunglasses, but tamer than anticipated.

It’s probably something to do with the fact that said gathering included his students from Jujutsu High.

The teenagers all crowd in the dead center of the living room excitedly playing Cards Against Humanity while Gojo's colleagues and friends mingle about the main floor.

(There’s just something about watching a cursed panda argue that his cards are accurate to the prompt as opposed to the obscene and filthy winners — ironically, a silent kid with cursed speech tattoos holds the jackpot of black cards.)

You were once destined to become a sorcerer yourself, but you’d hung it up for a simpler life. Not unlike your best friend, Shoko, but not as close to the Jujutsu world.

Then again, you never really get away from this life. Not really.

(Only thirty minutes left until the new year.)

“Did you need a refill?”

The gentle question comes out of nowhere to your side, breaking your concentration of the rowdy game.

When you turn your head, you’re immediately taken by a dark-haired man with a thin, black strip covering the bridge of his nose like a blush. He wears a maroon button-up, satin to the eye, and a dark suit jacket to compliment his pale complexion. His shoulder-length dark hair is in a half up-do, fixed hastily in a tiny bun at the crown of his head.

Your first thought? He’s beautiful.

Your second thought? You find yourself staring for too long, lips parted with an answer you’ve all but forgotten.

The man blinks back at you, shuffling in the uncertain silence. 

“I, uh — sorry, I probably should have said ‘hello’ like a normal person and —”

“Uh, sure, I could walk with you?” you blurt, hating yourself for the way his eyes round with his own bout of confusion. “For a refill. I’m getting kind of stiff sitting against this wall.”

He’s a stranger, even if it’s technically a friend’s party.

You’ve been taught from birth that you should take care of your own drinks — but that doesn’t mean you can’t accompany someone as alluring as him to go grab a new mixed drink.

God knows Gojo bought out the entire liquor store despite how seventy-five percent of the party can’t drink and, the irony, Gojo doesn’t drink.

(An overachiever even in the art of hosting, Shoko joked before she dipped for a smoke break.)

Right.

You're dissociating.

Back to the guy in front of you.

“And hi,” you add lamely after a beat.

The stranger fights a smile, choosing to rush a small huff of air.

“Hi. Name's Choso Kamo,” he awkwardly introduces. “And yeah, I wouldn’t mind the company.”

He fidgets with a button of his dress shirt, popping it absently.

“Feels a little crowded here.”

"A little," you agree, gesturing for him to show the way.

Shoulder to shoulder you both walk to the drink table, not saying a word.

You note how the stranger — this Choso — keeps his eyes on the table of kids as they heavily debate which answer should win: the cold, dead fingers card dropped by a triumphant Kugisaki, versus the Daniel Radcliff’s delicious asshole card slipped in by a stone-faced Megumi.

“Dying to join in on the game?” you joke, trying to break the slow-building tension.

“Hmm? Oh. God, no. I’m not getting involved in that war.” The man blinks to you, his expression softening for a moment. “My kid brother’s over there.”

“Which one is he?”

Choso smiles small, clearly proud to point him out.

He fills his cup with a moderate amount of rum and soda, mixing it with a wooden stirrer.

“The pink-haired one. Yuji.”

Yuji isn’t hard to spot, not by a long shot.

He’s giggling between Megumi and Kugisaki, joyously playing moderator to the budding fight for who has the best card this round.

When you turn back to Choso, you see his smile has widened.

“He’s got his work cut out for him if he’s the Card Szarr this round," you say.

Choso laughs breathily and takes a sip. “Yeah, his friends are a little brutal. Good kids, but… opinionated.”

(As proudly displayed by the way the finalists shout at one another. Yuji laughs hard, shaking his head — only to pull a major upset by choosing the panda’s card instead.)

“He’s the only reason I’m here,” Choso adds belatedly, seemingly wishing to keep the conversation going. “I’m not exactly friends with the guy who threw this thing.”

“Who, Gojo?” you ask. He nods. “Me neither. My best friend managed to drag me out of my cave. Not sure if you know her — Shoko Iieri?”

Choso shakes his head. 

“Can’t say I do. Then again, I could say that about everyone. I only really came so my brother and his friends had a chaperone home." He straightens once he's done filling his drink. "I take it you don’t normally do these things, either?”

“That’s nice of you,” you comment, filling the rest of your drink before clinking the glass to his. “And no, I kind of hate parties. Way more of a quiet environment sort of person.”

“You and me both,” he commiserates. “Believe it or not, this is my first New Year’s Eve out.”

“Really? Your first, ever?”

He nods. “It’s a little complicated. Jujutsu shit.”

The words make you accidentally bark out a laugh, startling Choso.

He warms to it, however, and laughs with you. 

“Jujutsu shit is very much something I can’t seem to get away from,” you explain.

“Guess I found the one person at this party that gets me,” Choso admits with a dissolving chuckle, the black strip on his nose sprinkled with a gentle pink blush at his confession. “Yuji was pretty insistent on making it a big deal, given it’s my first real holiday outing. We spent Christmas just with the two of us this year — sorry, am I talking too much?”

You sip your drink and shake your head. “I like listening.”

It’s the truth: this man is interesting.

Clearly he’s not completely of this realm, that much you’re quite certain of, but he’s truly trying to be human.

Choso fumbles, but he’s honest about his experience.

It’s a refreshing taking on a world you’ve become so cynical about.

“I usually don’t talk this much,” he admits; his second confession of the night. He sighs and shakes his head. “Anyway, yeah. Christmas was solo, but he wanted to do this big party with his friends. Begged me to come along. New Year’s is an interesting idea, but the traditions… I don’t know.”

He squints at nothing in particular as he thinks.

“There’s so much I want to try now that I’ve got this life.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I have the drinking part down,” he tells you, glancing down at his glass and outfit. “I dressed up, though given what everyone else wore—”

Sweaters. Jeans. Nothing fancy — not like him.

“—I think I screwed that part up.”

“I think you look amazing, for what it’s worth,” you blurt, and he catches your eye with an appreciative glow.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, suits always look good.”

Choso grins, albeit briefly, yet the growing confidence lingers.

“Party games, though I’m happier to watch than play right now. Then there’s that New Year’s kiss thing?”

Oh.

He turns to you for confirmation, but you damn well know your face is on fire from the implication.

“When the clock strikes midnight, you’re supposed to kiss someone," he explains like you're new to this, too. "Make a wish or promise or whatever so that the next year is going to be better.”

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He leans in a fraction further, dropping his voice to a murmur. “That's what I heard, anyway.”

You’re expecting him to have a but scoot into that sentence, but he pauses to search your face for the right or wrong answer.

“I’ve never had a New Year’s kiss,” you admit — it's now your turn to confess.

His brows furrow. “Really? Never?”

You shake your head. “Maybe that’s why my years have been so shitty lately.”

Choso nods with a grave understanding. “Could be.”

A few of the teenagers cheer, abandoning the game to turn on the main television.

The clock is only a few minutes until midnight.

Three, to be exact.

Suddenly the drink in your hand becomes your life line.

“I admit that I didn’t know if you needed a refill on your drink,” Choso pipes up, slow and careful. You turn your attention from the television broadcast to look at him. “I only came here to make sure Yuji had a good time with his friends, but then I saw you come in with that woman.”

Wait, he saw you come in?

When you say nothing, he sucks in a sharp inhale to explain himself. 

“I spent an hour working up the courage to come talk to you. I couldn’t think of anything to say. You’re so damn pretty, and you seemed fine hanging out by yourself or with her, and so I thought — I mean, I needed a refill and some liquid courage — so it — do you get what I’m saying?”

No, no you don’t and yes, yes you do.

“You’re very pretty yourself,” you tell him without thinking, causing his eyes to widen. Yours follow suit, rounding like saucers. “I mean — yeah, as soon as I noticed you, I thought you were attractive—”

“People go out for coffee, right?” he interrupts as if he’s been waiting all night to ask. “When they think someone is pretty, they… go out for coffee or dinner or walks.”

One minute remaining.

Choso pauses to stare into your eyes, earnest and true.

“I’d love to go out for some coffee, or whatever dinner you want, or even just a walk. Maybe. Some time. If you’re… free.”

A date.

Forty seconds until the new year, and you’ve already scored yourself a date.

“We could do one of those things,” you murmur. Choso’s face brightens. “Maybe all of them. And we could start it off with…”

Twenty seconds. 

“Making a wish?” the dark-haired man suggests when you trail off, rounding towards you so he’s closer.

For someone who says he has a lot to experience, you’re surprised that he seems to cage you in with experience. 

If it wasn’t for his eyes begging you to confirm that this is what you want, then you’d think maybe he was a liar.

“Yeah. For a great new year,” you explain, lifting your chin.

Ten seconds.

“For a great new year,” he exhales with a promise, leaning in.

His hand reaches to gently cup your face as though mesmerized by how soft your skin feels beneath his palm.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The clock strikes midnight, and a pair of plush, timid lips gingerly press to yours.

You meet with an eager kiss, and you swear you feel Choso’s mouth curve into a satisfied smile against yours.

When he repeated it, it sounded less of a request and more of a demand. As though the inconvenience of repeating himself should have been repaid with a ‘yes’ answer regardless of what the question was. Cocky bastard. Raven fought the automatic urge to open a portal to anywhere and shove him in it. Taking a deep breath, she calmed her pounding heart and stared at him, keeping her face expressionless. Just because she was adept at controlling her emotions, it didn’t mean she didn’t have any.  

“What the fuck for? You’re the son of Bruce Wayne. You wake up and trip over people trying to get dates with you. You have a wellspring of viable candidates to choose from for a New Year’s Eve party.” She fought to keep her panic under control, and continued to stare at him, hoping she looked calmer than she felt. “Please don't ask the girl who doesn't know the difference between an oyster fork and an olive fork.”

“Or a dessert fork.” He smirked as he reminded her of the celebratory dinner party the Mayor had in their honor last year, and the horror of some societal elites as Raven ate her salad with a dessert fork. The scandal.

Raven's face fell and she gave him a deadpan stare, but Damian was unaffected. Finally, he sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “The truth is that I need someone I trust to run interference.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and lifted an eyebrow, motioning for him to elaborate. 

“There are… girls. Women.” He shrugged. “Some men.”

“Yes. That's usually who make up populations of people. Your point?”

“I'm a rich, educated, eligible bachelor.” He groaned and stared up at the ceiling, as if he was ashamed to be direct. “Of marrying age.”

“You forgot good looking.”

Why in the fuck had she admitted that out loud? Raven bit the inside of her cheek to keep from looking embarrassed, but Damian stared at her, and she swore she saw his face flush at least a little. She shrugged, trying to be as objective as possible. “I'm not blind, Damian.” She managed to keep herself from blurting out the rest of that statement: you're drop dead gorgeous and totally stacked - of course people are going to try and at least bang you.

“So what… you want me to lurk in the shadows and scare off anyone you don't approve of? Is there someone specific you're trying to… date? Court?” She rubbed her thumb along her jaw, thinking. “What do rich people from the Hamptons call it? Woo?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned. “Is there a reason you're being so blithe about this?”

“You just asked me to be your pretend girlfriend so that you can avoid talking to people who might want to date you.” She shoved at her hair and crossed her arms over her chest, needing to do something with her hands. “That’s a setup for a bad romance movie.”

He sighed again, obviously frustrated that Raven wasn’t taking his request seriously. Raven couldn’t take his request seriously. The minute she stopped trying to treat his request like a joke, her heart would break into a hundred pieces. She had been harboring feelings for Damian for years, practically since they had been pulled onto the Titans team together. She could keep her feelings under control as long as she kept a heavy barrier of friendship and distance between them. 

But knowingly putting herself into a situation where she had to be a girlfriend - even a pretend one - would force all of those feelings front and center. It would leave an opening for her to confess those feelings, and she would admit to him (and probably all of his family too) that she loved him. If Raven was being honest with herself, she didn’t want to be hurt when Damian ultimately rejected her confession.

She could see the whole scene play out over and over in her mind, and the risk felt far too great. 

“You’re the only one I want to be my date for the party.”

Raven felt like the floor underneath her had just disappeared. Her heart fell into her stomach before leaping back into her chest to pound frantically against her ribs. Damian’s face was unreadable, and he stared at her, his eyes searching her face for something he could read. 

Raven panicked again, trying to find something she could say that would keep her in control. “Is it because you trust me to not fall in love with you?” Because too late, she added within her own thoughts. 

“Because you’re my friend and I trust you. Full stop.” 

The excitement of his words mingled with the pain of the word friend, leaving Raven to feel both elated and disappointed at the same time. But, that was what she wanted, wasn’t it? She would rather be safe behind her barrier of friendship, then put herself at risk of a broken heart. But still… if he only considered her a friend, then there was nothing she needed to worry about. She could do this for him, as a friend.  

Rubbing her forehead, she turned and stepped back from him, knowing that her next words were going to be her downfall. 

The air was crisp, tinged with the unmistakable scent of burnt out sparklers as the clock ticked ever-closer to midnight. The city of Edinburgh had outdone itself for Hogmanay. Thousands of revellers filled the streets, their laughter and cheers blending with the distant strains of music echoing from Princes Street Gardens. Above them, the imposing outline of Edinburgh Castle stood proud, bathed in a soft golden glow. 

Marcus Pike adjusted the scarf around his neck, a nervous habit as much as a shield against the biting cold. You stood beside him, soaking in all the excitement from the other people around you who’d climbed to the top of Salisbury Crags to get a better view of the fireworks, your breath misting in the air as you gazed across the city. 

“I always forget how beautiful it is up here,” you said, looking up at him. He didn’t respond immediately, but his eyes lingered on your profile, illuminated by the glow of torchlight around you from people who had been much more prepared than you two- you’d decided to climb up here impulsively an hour before the bells, encouraged by Marcus on a whim after you’d shared stories about watching the fireworks from there as a child. 

Your cheeks were flushed, whether from the climb in the cold or the whisky you’d shared earlier as you rushed up the hill, he wasn’t sure. 

Marcus managed a small smile, but any words he was about to say caught in his throat at the sight of you. Instead of speaking, he took a moment to let his gaze wander across the scene: the city sprawled below, its lights twinkling like scattered stars. The distant hum of celebration rose to meet the rocky outcrop of the hill. It was breathtaking, yes, but none of it compared to the way you looked right now- he was certain the moment would lose all of its magic if you weren’t in it. 

“Yeah,” he finally said, his voice low and soft, “It’s beautiful.” 

Below, the crowd began to cheer as the countdown to the New Year began, their voices rising in unison, the crowd around you joining in as the sound reached the top of the hill. 

Ten. Nine. Eight.

Slightly out of sync in the most endearing way. You laughed at the sound; a carefree laugh, full of unbridled joy. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. You joined in with the count, glancing up at Marcus, the flickering torchlight bathing your face in a gold glow, your eyes reflecting the distant shimmer of the city lights. 

Seven. Six. Five. 

Marcus reached out silently and took your gloved hand in his; any sound would be lost in the swell of the crowd’s excitement. You looked back at him, brows lifting in question. 

Four. Three. 

His free hand cupped your cheek and you leaned in instinctively, breath catching as his thumb brushed against your skin. 

Two. 

Your eyes darted between his, taken aback by the adoration in his gaze. He closed the gap between you, trying to steady himself against the nervous flutter in his chest. You smiled, your breath hitching as you closed the gap. He was so close you could feel his breath, the warmth chasing away the cold against your cheek. 

One. 

Your lips met his as the fireworks burst in to life above you. The sky exploded in a riot of gold, red and green, the light cascading the hilltop in a bright wash of colour, illuminating the crowd that had gathered there. They faded in to the background as you leaned in to the kiss. All that mattered was the warmth of Marcus’ mouth on yours, soft and searching. 

His hand on your cheek steadied you, the scratchiness of his glove a sharp contrast to the tenderness of his touch. The other slid to your waist, tentative at first, then firm as you leaned against him. You could taste the lingering traces of whisky on his lips, the peat and honey mingling with the faint hint of peppermint from the gum he’d obviously been chewing moments before. 

Marcus exhaled against your mouth, although you couldn’t hear it over the sound erupting around you, it felt like a reverent sigh, like he couldn’t quite believe he was kissing you. You felt the tension in his arms ease, the weight of long-standing hesitant longing dissolving in to the kiss. He wasn’t rushing- he kissed you like he had all the time in the world, like the moment could stretch forever if you let it. 

Your hands found their way to the lapels of his coat, clutching the fabric to anchor yourself. When you shifted slightly, deepening the kiss, you felt the faint hitch in his breath. A soft, unspoken plea for more. 

The fireworks above grew louder as the display reached its crescendo, their booming echoes providing the bass drum to the tenor beat of your heart thrumming in your ears. 

When you finally pulled apart, it was only because you needed air. Your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the cold, both of you unsteady on your feet. Marcus’ eyes fluttered open, his dark brown eyes meeting yours as he pulled away to look at you properly. 

His gaze was soft, like you were the only other person in the world, the bustling crowd and fireworks forgotten. The torchlight around you flickered across his face, casting shadows over his strong jaw and highlighting the faint pink that dusted his cheeks. His lips were parted, flushed from the kiss. He looked at you like you were something precious, something fragile and irreplaceable, and for a moment, it felt as though the entire city had fallen silent, just for you two.

“Happy New Year!” You exclaimed, joy bubbling over as you kissed his cheek, looking up at him with a smile that was so wide your cheeks were starting to hurt. 

Marcus laughed, his hand still resting against your cheek. He showered your face with kisses until you squealed for him to stop, laughing as out-of-time choruses of Auld Lang Syne began around you. 

“Happy New Year,” he yelled over the singing, pulling you close.