#reader fic

He chuckles, like you’ve said something cute. “Still all business, huh?”

You don’t dignify that. You flip open the nearest lid, tissue rustling, the smell of cardboard and old pine sap puffing out. The ornaments glint up at you—some cheap, some delicate, some with your childhood handwriting baked into the glaze.

He joins you at the box, close enough that his knee brushes your thigh when he bends. You shift a fraction away.

“Same system?” he asks. “You do top, I do bottom? Or you want to trade this year?”

“Whatever’s fastest,” you say.

He watches your profile for a beat. “You always say that,” he murmurs. “Then spend forever.”

You grab the first thing your fingers land on—a faded paper star with crooked scissors marks—and straighten up. “Maybe don’t talk so much and it’ll go quicker.”

His smile hooks. “There she is,” he says again, softer this time. “I missed the attitude.”

You ignore that and move to the tree.

It’s muscle memory at first—the way your hands find branches spaced just right, the way you tuck the older, uglier ornaments deeper in, the ones from your grandmother front and center. Daniel works around you, looping lights with practiced ease, humming along tunelessly to the Christmas playlist he’s pulled up on his phone.

For a while, it’s almost bearable. You talk about nothing: how tall the tree is this year, which kid broke which ornament in what year, whether the stand is listing to one side. You keep your answers short, factual. His keep sliding sideways—small hooks, tossed lightly.

“Remember when your mom bought those awful blue lights and you cried?” he asks, untangling a stubborn knot.

“I was thirteen,” you say. “I hated change.”

“You still do,” he says. 

You tighten the wire of a tiny bell around a branch until it bites your fingers. “I adjusted, didn’t I?”

He glances over his shoulder at you. “Yeah,” he says. “Eventually.”

The music switches to something slow, some old crooner you can’t even name, all strings and nostalgia. You feel it like pressure, pushing around the edges of the room.

“Grandma looked good today,” he says after a while.

“Yeah.”

He smiles. “She lit up when she saw you.” A beat. “And when she saw me.”

Your jaw clenches. “She likes people who visit.”

He lets that sit for a second, then: “We used to be good at that. Visiting.”

You shove a glass bauble deeper into the tree than it needs to go. “You had your hands full,” you say flatly. “With your new family.”

There. You’ve said it out loud.

He doesn’t flinch the way you hoped he will. He just exhales through his nose, slow, like he’s been expecting the punch.

“You’re still mad about that,” he says. Not a question.

You laugh, sharp and humorless. “You cheated on me and got her pregnant. I’m not sure ‘mad’ covers it.”

He sets down the lights, leans his shoulder against the tree, branches brushing his arm. He looks at you properly now, all traces of easy grin smoothed into something softer, manufactured.

“I made a mistake,” he says quietly. “A stupid, drunk, one-night mistake that turned into… more.”

Your stomach churns. “You have a daughter,” you say. “And she’s three. That’s not a mistake. That’s a whole life you built after me.”

He spreads his hands, like he’s offering you something. “And I’m owning it,” he says. “I’m a dad. I show up. I pay. I’m there. You think that’s what I planned?”

“Yes,” you say. “I do.”

He chuckles once, disbelieving. “You think I didn’t want it to be you?”

Your fingers go numb around the porcelain angel you’re holding. “Don’t,” you say. “Do not say that to me in this house.”

He pushes off the tree, closing a little of the distance between you. “Why? Because it’s true?”

You turn away, shove the angel onto a branch harder than necessary. It wobbles; you catch it with shaking fingers.

“Because it’s irrelevant,” you manage. “We’re done. You made choices. I made choices. We live with them.”

His voice follows you around the tree. “You left,” he reminds you, like you need reminding. “You took that internship and ran. You didn’t even try.”

“You were already sleeping with her,” you bite out. “What exactly was I supposed to try for?”

He is quiet for a moment. The lights glow weakly between you, half the strands still unplugged.

“I was scared,” he says. “You were talking about grad school and moving to the city and all these big plans. I didn’t know where I fit. She…” He shrugs, a bitter twist to his mouth. “She was easy. Close. Made me feel needed.”

“And I didn’t,” you whisper.

He steps closer. “You made me feel like I had to be more,” he says. “It’s not the same thing.”

The words thread into all the old cracks in you, the ones you thought you’d plastered over. For a second, the room blurs at the edges.

You hate that he still knows where the weak spots are.

“Can we not do this?” you say, blinking hard. “It’s late. We’re here to hang tinsel and lie to children. That’s it.”

He searches your face, then nods slowly, like he’s granting you a favor.

“Okay,” he says. “Tree now. Emotional honesty later.”

“There is no later,” you mutter.

He doesn’t answer, but something in his eyes says we’ll see.

You move faster after that, mechanical. Hooks, branches, boxes. You keep a buffer of needles and plastic between you whenever you can, circling opposite sides like you’re orbiting something that might explode if you get too close.

He keeps trying anyway.

You give him nothing but the bare minimum—yes, no, fine, sure. Your voice comes out sharp enough that you hope the walls hear you.

When you’re done, you both end up standing shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the room, looking at your work. The tree glows, ornaments catching the light. It does look good. It always does.

For a moment, you let yourself just see that. The soft, warm, pretty thing you’ve made out of all this.

“Still the dream team,” Daniel says, low.

You take a step forward to grab the empty ornament box. He moves when you do, cutting across your path.

“Hang on,” he says. “One more thing.”

“I’m going to bed,” you say. “We’re done.”

He doesn’t move. You shift right to get around him; he mirrors you. It’s subtle, a lazy little block, but effective. You end up backing up a fraction instead.

“You mad I spoke up earlier?” he asks. “With your boyfriend?”

You bristle. “You mean when you told him to relax?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “He was being dramatic.”

“He was defending me.”

He huffs. “From what? Hanging ornaments with your ex? We’re not monsters.”

You try again to sidestep. Again, he steps with you, shepherding you gently but firmly into the space between the coffee table and the doorway arch.

“Move,” you say, a thin edge creeping into your voice.

“Hey.” He holds his hands up, palms out, but doesn’t actually step back. “I’m just talking.”

You’re about to tell him exactly where to shove his “just talking” when you feel the shift in the air above you—a faint tickle, like the ghost of leaves overhead.

You glance up.

Mistletoe. Hung in the archway, tied with the same red ribbon your mother has used every year since you were small.

Of course.

When you look back down, his smile has changed. Softer. Hungrier.

“It’s tradition,” he says quietly.

Your heart stutters, unpleasantly. Your spine goes rigid, every muscle suddenly unsure of what to do.

“No,” you say. It comes out small.

He steps in, closing the last sliver of space, one hand bracing lightly on the wall beside your head. Not touching you, not quite, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him like a threat.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “It’s just a kiss. It’s Christmas.”

Your brain does the stupid thing it’s been conditioned to do in this house: it freezes and starts flipping through old versions of yourself on autopilot.

You remember being nineteen and dizzy with him for the first time, kissing under this same stupid plastic plant while your cousins squealed. 

You remember, too, the last time you saw his name pop up on your phone beside a picture of a newborn that wasn’t yours.

Your nails bite into your palms. Your feet don’t move.

He watches your face, misreading the paralysis as something else. “You still feel it,” he says softly. “Don’t pretend you don’t. You can’t look at me like that and tell me it’s gone.”

“I’m not looking at you,” you manage.

He laughs under his breath. “You always were a terrible liar.”

He shifts closer, the hand on the wall sliding down, fingers hovering just above your hip now. Your back bumps the molding. There’s nowhere else to go without climbing furniture.

“Daniel,” you say, fighting for air. 

He tilts his head, eyes dropping to your mouth. “Say you don’t want me,” he says. “Say it like you mean it, and I’ll back off.”

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Because you do want something—an apology that feels real, a do-over, a universe where he wasn’t such a coward, a house where you didn’t feel like a girl pressed into an old script. Want and hurt and anger are a knot in your chest and your tongue can’t pick one thread to pull.

He sees the hesitation and smiles, soft and triumphant.

“That’s what I thought,” he whispers, starting to lean in.

“You should step back.”

The voice is flat and sharp and comes from behind him.        

Daniel’s shoulders tense. He half-turns, annoyance already creasing his brow.        

Seungmin stands in the archway from the hall, barefoot in sweats and an old t-shirt, hair rumpled from the pillow. His eyes are wide awake. And furious.        

Daniel snorts. “You again,” he says. “Relax, man. We were just—”        

“Spare me the sound of your voice,” Seungmin cuts in.        

The words are quiet, but they hit like a slap.        

A beat of silence stretches. The tree hums faintly with its own electricity. Your pulse roars in your ears.        

Daniel straightens, squaring his shoulders like he’s gearing up for a fight. “Look,” he starts, glancing between the two of you, “I get that this is… weird for you. First love, history, all that. But this is our thing. We always—”        

“Walk away,” Seungmin says.        

No inflection. No please. Just instruction.        

Daniel’s mouth twists. “You think you can just roll up here and—”        

“Man.” Seungmin finally moves, stepping forward into the arch so he’s half in the room, half in the hallway. He’s still not raising his voice, but something in it sharpens. “You’re not that interesting. Go to bed.”        

For a second, Daniel just stares at him, actually thrown.        

Then he huffs out a laugh, shakes his head like this is all beneath him. “You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” he mutters. He drops his hand from the wall, steps sideways out of the doorway, brushing past Seungmin with a little deliberate shoulder bump.        

Seungmin doesn’t react to it. Doesn’t even look at him.        

“You done?” he asks, eyes still on you.        

Daniel pauses in the hallway, like he might lob one last comment over his shoulder. Whatever he sees on Seungmin’s face makes him think better of it.        

“Night,” he tosses instead, voice light and empty. “Tree looks good.”        

His footsteps retreat down the hall. A door clicks shut.        

Silence slams down in his wake.

The silence after Daniel’s door clicks shut is loud enough to make your ears ring.

You’re still pinned to the doorway like part of the molding, lungs fluttering, fingers numb. The tree glows obliviously in the corner, throwing soft light over everything that just happened.

Seungmin doesn’t move at first.

He stands there in the archway, chest rising and falling a little too fast, hands clenched at his sides. His eyes are on the hallway, like he’s making sure there aren’t any reruns.

Then he looks at you.

“You okay?” he asks.

His voice is low, rough around the edges. The anger’s still there, but it’s pulled back a layer, concern bleeding through.

You try to nod. Your head feels separate from your body. “Yeah,” you say. Your voice comes out thin. “I’m fine, I just—”

“Are you still in love with him?”

The question hits so fast it cuts your sentence in half.

You blink. “What?”

“Don’t,” he snaps, and the word cracks like a whip. “Don’t act confused. Are you still in love with him?”

You just stare at him. You’ve seen him irritated, exasperated, quietly pissed on your behalf.

You have never seen him like this.

His jaw is tight, shoulders tense under the worn cotton of his t-shirt. There’s a sharpness to him you don’t recognize, all the softness burned off.

“That’s not a fair—” you start.

“It’s a yes-or-no question,” he says. “Which part is unfair?”

“Everything,” you hiss back, remembering to keep your voice low at the last second. “The timing, the place, the fact that we’re at my parents’ house at midnight—”

“So you can’t answer,” he says. “That’s an answer.”

Heat spikes up your neck. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to decide what my non-answers mean.”

He lets out a quiet, ugly laugh. “I just walked downstairs and saw your ex boxing you in under mistletoe while you stared at him like someone hit pause,” he says. “Sorry if I’m not feeling super charitable about nuance right now.”

Your hands ball into fists. “What did you want me to do? Start screaming? Wake up my grandma so she can watch me have a breakdown in front of the nativity set?”

“I wanted you to move,” he bites out. “Push him, duck under his arm, do something that wasn’t just letting him get closer and closer while you looked like you were about to pass out.”

“I froze,” you say, teeth clenched. “That’s what I do when I panic. Sorry I didn’t pick the reaction that would make you feel less insecure.”

His eyes flash. “This isn’t about my insecurity.”

“Really?” you whisper. “Because it kind of feels like it is.”

Something ugly flickers across his face. He takes a step into the room, closer to you, like he can’t decide if he wants to get in your face or get away and his body picked for him.

“I—” you start.

“You brought me here,” he says over you, voice still low but fierce enough to vibrate in your chest. “You asked me to be your boyfriend in front of these people. Do you understand what that means?”

“I didn’t ask,” you snap. “You offered.”

“Because I thought your ex was a footnote,” he shoots back. “Not the main fucking plot.”

You flinch.

He sees it. He doesn’t back off.

“I thought I was coming to run interference,” he goes on. “Smile when they’re rude, hold your hand when they’re shitty, make sure you don’t end up crying in a bathroom somewhere. I did not sign up to watch you almost kiss the guy who cheated on you while I stand in the doorway like an idiot.”

“It wasn’t almost—” you start, then stop, because you don’t actually know how close it was.

He pounces. “You can’t even finish that sentence.”

Your throat closes. “You’re twisting this.”

“I’m looking at it,” he says. “You’re the one twisting, trying to make it look like something it’s not.”

You press your back harder against the wall, like you can sink through it. “You don’t know what it’s like with him,” you say, barely above a whisper. “In this house. With everyone… expecting things. You’ve been here two days and you think you have it all figured out—”

“I know he cheated on you and knocked up someone else,” Seungmin says. “I know he let your mom rewrite the narrative so it somehow turned into your fault. I know he hasn’t apologized in a way that actually matters. And I know that the second he corners you, you go quiet.”

“That’s—”

“You could have said, ‘I don’t want you anymore,’” he says. “Five words. He literally asked you to. You opened your mouth and nothing came out.”

The worst part is that he’s not wrong.

“It’s not that simple,” you say, voice fraying. “You don’t just flip a switch and stop caring that someone blew up your life. I hate him, and I still—” You cut yourself off, biting down hard enough on your tongue that you taste metal.

His eyebrows rise slowly. “And you still what?”

You stare at him, furious at yourself, at him, at this whole house. “I still… feel things,” you grind out. “Residual whatever. You happy now?”

“No,” he says, and the way he says it makes your stomach drop. “I’m really fucking not.”

Your eyes sting. “I just—I’m trying, Min. I’m really trying not to explode this whole thing while my grandma is in the next room and my mom is one passive-aggressive comment away from a meltdown. I’m doing the best I can.”

“And your best is what?” he asks. “Letting them shove you back into the old script while I stand there and clap?”

“You’re the one who insisted on coming,” you say, anger finally matching his. “You made this big show about being there for me, and now you’re pissed at me for needing it.”

“I’m not pissed at you for needing me,” he says, and his voice cracks for the first time. “I’m pissed that you apparently still need him too and somehow I’m the one who looks crazy for being bothered by that.”

The word hangs between you like a slap.

You swallow hard. “I don’t—”

“Are you still in love with him,” he repeats, each word deliberate. “Yes or no.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. You feel nineteen again, under this same doorway, with your mom watching from the couch and everyone chanting kiss-kiss-kiss while your heart tried to beat its way out of your ribs.

“I don’t know,” you finally choke out. “Is that what you want to hear? I don’t fucking know. I hate him and I miss who I thought he was and I can’t untangle it in the middle of my parents’ living room with you glaring at me like—”

“Like what?” His eyes are bright, too bright. “Like I care? Like I’m not okay being your prop while you figure out if you still want the guy who treated you like a hobby?”

“That is not what I’m doing,” you hiss. “I agreed to let you come so I wouldn’t drown. Not so you could stand here and demand a clean emotional spreadsheet.”

He laughs, low and mean. “A clean—? You’re unbelievable.”

“Oh, I’m unbelievable?” you hiss. “You’re the one acting like you got tricked into this. Like I lured you here, tied a bow on you, and forgot to mention my trauma at the door.”

He steps right up to you then, close enough that the wall digs into your shoulder blades again. His voice stays low, but every word is a shard.

“You think I don’t know you’re traumatized?” he says. “I’ve watched you flinch at every text with his name in it for three years. I’ve held your hair while you threw up because phone calls with your mom make you sick. I’ve slept on the couch because you couldn’t be alone and wouldn’t admit you were scared.”

Your eyes blur. The lights smear.

“I know you,” he says. “That’s the whole fucking problem.”

Your breath shudders out. “Then why are you acting like this is news?”

“Because I thought… I don’t know what I thought.” He shakes his head, a bitter half-laugh catching in his throat. “That maybe if I came here and did this right and they saw how much better you were with someone who actually gives a shit, it would finally click for you. That you’d look at him and feel nothing.”

“That’s not how feelings work,” you whisper.

“I know that,” he says. “My feelings haven’t gone anywhere for a year and a half.”

The words slam into you.

You stare at him. His chest is rising and falling, eyes searching your face like he wants to yank the understanding into you.

“And now,” he says, softer but no less furious, “I’m standing here choking on it while you stand under mistletoe with him and tell me ‘it’s complicated.’”

Your voice breaks. “You didn’t tell me,” you say. “You never said—”

“Yeah,” he snaps. “Because I didn’t want to be another person who made you responsible for their shit. I didn’t want to be one more thing you had to manage. I was fine being… just your roommate. Your friend. Whatever.”

“You’re not ‘just,’” you say, stunned and hurting. “You know you’re not.”

“Do I?” he asks. “Because tonight it kind of felt like I’m the guy you drag home to piss off your ex and calm your mom, and he’s still the one you can’t say no to out loud.”

“That is so fucking unfair,” you whisper. “You walked in at the worst possible second and decided that’s the whole story.”

He scoffs. “Worst possible second? Or the most honest one?”

You push at his chest then, a little shove that doesn’t move him much, but he rocks back half an inch.

“Stop putting words in my mouth,” you say. “If you wanted to know how I feel, you could have asked before tonight. Before we were stuck here with my entire family sleeping upstairs.”

“I’m asking now,” he says. “And you’re telling me you don’t know.”

“Because I don’t,” you whisper. “I know I don’t want to be with him. I know I don’t trust him. I know the idea of actually getting back together makes me sick. But if you’re asking if some stupid part of me remembers what it felt like before he fucked everything up—yeah. It does. Brains are messy. I can’t shut it off just because you need me to pick a team right this second.”

His face twists, like that answer physically hurts.

“That’s what I needed,” he says. “Not because I want you to perform for me. Because I’m in love with you, and it feels fucking insane to stand here and wonder if the biggest thing in my life is just… background noise compared to your nostalgia.”

Your heart lurches.

You grab for his shirt without thinking, fingers curling in the fabric. “It’s not,” you say. “You’re not. You’re—”

You stall, because the word you’re about to say terrifies you almost as much as everything else.

His eyes flick to your mouth, then up again, jaw clenching.

“Say it,” he murmurs. “I’m what?”

You swallow. “Important,” you manage. “You’re… you’re everything, okay? You’re home. You’re the only reason I’m not losing my mind here.”

He laughs once, broken. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You make a helpless noise. “You’re twisting my words now.”

“Yeah?” he says. “Maybe I learned from the best.”

The words hang between you, meaner than he meant them, uglier than either of you deserve and you flinch.

He sees it. His face changes—just a flicker, guilt breaking through the anger—then shutters over again. He lets out a rough breath, steps back like he’s physically yanking himself out of the conversation.

“This is pointless,” he mutters. “I’m going upstairs.”

He turns, shoulders tight, already half in the shadows of the hallway.

Something in you panics.

“Wait,” you say, too fast, too small. Your hand shoots out on instinct, catching the hem of his t-shirt before he can get away.

The cotton bunches in your fist. He stops dead.

For a second, neither of you moves.

You can feel your own pulse beating in your fingers where they’re curled in his shirt. The house hums around you—heater, distant fridge, the faint buzz of the tree lights—everything too loud and too far away at once.

“Min,” you start, because you don’t know what else to say except his name.

He looks down at your hand on him, at your white-knuckled grip, then back up at you.

Whatever was holding him together snaps.

“Stop,” he says, but it comes out wrecked. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” you whisper.

“Grabbing me when you’re about to let go,” he spits, spinning back toward you in one sharp motion. “You can’t keep—”

He doesn’t finish.

One second he’s mid-sentence, eyes burning, chest heaving; the next he’s crowding you back into the doorway, his hands catching your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on.

His mouth hits yours.

There’s no hesitation, just the crash of a wave that’s been building for too long. You gasp against him, more from shock than anything, and he takes the opening, kissing you like he’s been starving and someone finally handed him air.

Your back smacks lightly against the trim. One of his thumbs digs into the hinge of your jaw; the other hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. He’s shaking, just a little. You feel it everywhere he’s touching you.

You should push him away.

You don’t.

Your hand that was still fisted in his shirt drags him closer instead, knuckles catching on his ribs as you haul yourself up into him. The other finds his shoulder, then the back of his neck, fingers digging in like you’re anchoring yourself to something solid for the first time all night.

He makes a low sound into your mouth—frustration, relief, something wild—and tilts his head, deepening the kiss. It’s messy, teeth clicking once, your noses bumping before you both adjust. His breath tastes like mint and leftover bitterness. Yours stutters against his, catching on all the words you didn’t say.

The anger is still there, threaded through every movement—too tight, too urgent—but there’s something else underneath it, older and softer and terrifyingly bare. Every time his mouth drags over yours it’s I’m mad at you and I’m mad at me and I love you, I love you, I love you, no matter how hard he tries not to.

You match him without meaning to. All the fear and shame and want you’ve been choking down rise up at once, pouring out of you in the way your fingers clutch at him, in the way your lips part, in the tiny, helpless sound that slips out when his teeth catch your lower lip.

He freezes at that, just for a heartbeat—like he heard it, really heard it—and then kisses you harder, like he’s answering something you didn’t know you asked.

Your knee bumps his thigh. His hand slides down from your neck to your waist, fingers spreading over your hip, pulling you closer into the line of him. The tree glows warm at the edge of your vision, ornaments blurring into streaks of red and gold.

Somewhere above you, a floorboard creaks. The house reminds you that it exists.

The sound cracks through the moment like cold air.

Seungmin jerks back.

It’s abrupt enough that your head knocks lightly against the wall. You suck in a breath like you’ve been underwater. He’s still close—too close—but his hands have dropped away, hanging uselessly in the small space between you.

His lips are red. His pupils are blown wide. He looks horrified.

“Shit,” he breathes. “I—”

You can’t say anything. Your mouth tingles. Your heart is trying to punch a hole through your ribs.

He drags both hands back through his hair, fingers lacing at the back of his neck like he’s trying to hold his head on.

“That shouldn’t have…” He trails off, jaw working. “Fuck.”

“Min,” you manage, voice wrecked.

He winces at the way it sounds. His eyes flick to your mouth, then wrench away, like looking hurts.

“This is exactly what I meant,” he says, more to himself than to you. “I can’t— I don’t know how to do this halfway.”

You swallow, throat raw. “Do what?”

“Any of it,” he says. “Be your fake boyfriend, your real… whatever. Watch you deal with him. Pretend I’m not—” He cuts himself off, biting down hard.

His hand twitches like he’s about to reach for you again.

You almost let him.

You almost grab him first.

Instead, you both stand there, breathing each other’s air, the aftershock of the kiss buzzing under your skin like static, the argument still sitting between you like a live wire.

The tree lights blink once, twice.

Somewhere in the house, a clock starts to chime the hour.

Seungmin is the first to move.

He steps back like he’s just realized how close he still is to you, like he’s been standing with his hand on a hot stove and finally felt it. His gaze skates over your face—mouth, eyes, the place on your neck where his fingers were a second ago—then jerks away.

“I can’t,” he says, under his breath. “I can’t do this right now.”

He turns on his heel, already heading for the hallway.

Panic spikes through you, sharp and stupid. You lurch forward, fingers catching at his wrist.

“Wait,” you say. It comes out cracked. “Don’t just—don’t go.”

He stops so abruptly you almost bump into his back.

For a heartbeat he doesn’t turn. You can feel the tension roped in his arm under your hand, the way his muscles have gone rock-solid. His head dips once, like he’s breathing through something.

Then he rips his wrist gently but firmly out of your grip and spins around.

His eyes are bright, mouth pulled tight. He looks furious. He looks wrecked.

“Do you have any idea how cruel you’re being?” he says, very quietly.

The word shocks you more than if he’d yelled.

“Cruel?” you repeat, stunned. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he says. “You might not mean to, but you are. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep grabbing me every time you feel yourself slipping and then freezing the second you have to actually look at what that means.”

Your throat burns. “I didn’t—”

“You kissed me back,” he says, over you. “In case you’re tempted to pretend that was all me. You grabbed me and you held on and you made that noise and—” He cuts himself off, jaw locking. “Do you think I don’t notice? Do you think that doesn’t… fucking wreck me?”

You swallow hard. “Min, I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s the worst part. You’re doing it without even looking at it.”

He takes a step closer, not quite touching you, but close enough that you can feel the heat rolling off him again.

“You know how I feel about you,” he says. Not a question.

You force yourself to meet his eyes. “You never said—”

“I just did,” he bites out. “Have been, all night, using every word except ‘I’m in love with you’ because apparently I have a self-preservation kink I didn’t know about.”

The words land like a kick to the chest. You grip the doorway behind you to stay upright.

He laughs once, broken. “There,” he says. “Is that clear enough? Does that finally make it into your calculations?”

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Your brain is a static hiss—him, the tree, Daniel’s door down the hall, your grandmother asleep two rooms away, all crashing into each other.

“Say something,” he says, and there’s a plea under the anger now. “Anything that isn’t ‘it’s complicated.’ Are you ready to deal with that? With me actually wanting you? Not as a bit. Not as a favor. For real.”

He waits. The house hums.

You try.

You really do.

You think about saying yes, about stepping off the cliff you’ve been standing on for months—years. You think about saying no, about shutting it down clean and watching something in him go out.

Your tongue won’t pick either.

“I…” you start, and your voice breaks on the first syllable. “I don’t know how to answer that right now.”

His face shuts down so fast it’s almost audible.

“Right,” he says. “There it is.”

“Min—”

He holds up a hand. “Don’t. Don’t apologize. Don’t explain. I get it. You’re not ready, you’re overwhelmed, everything’s messy.” He nods once. “Good news is, you don’t have to be ready tonight.”

He takes another step back, toward the hall this time. Away.

“I told you I’d play the part,” he says. “I will. I’ll be back in the morning. I’ll hold your hand and smile for the pictures and pretend I don’t want to put Daniel through a wall every time he opens his mouth.”

Your chest squeezes. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” he says. “Away. Anywhere that isn’t this house with him down that hall and you under this—” he jerks his chin up at the mistletoe, eyes flashing “—like some fucked-up set piece.”

“It’s the middle of the night,” you say, horrified. “You can’t just—”

“I’m a grown man,” he says. “I can get a cab. Sleep on a friend’s couch. Sit at a twenty-four-hour diner until my brain stops trying to crawl out of my skull. I’ll figure it out.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you whisper.

He looks at you for a long, long moment. Whatever softness is left in his face is held together by threads.

“I do,” he says. “Because I can’t stand in this living room one more second looking at you and wondering if I’m just the guy you grab when you’re drowning and let go of the second you’re back in shallow water.”

Your eyes sting. “That’s not what you are.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But until you’re ready to say what I am to you, I can’t keep guessing. It’s tearing me apart and I’m… I’m done pretending it’s not.”

You step forward, hand reaching out again on instinct. “Seungmin, please—”

He flinches away from your touch like it burns.

“Don’t,” he says, and now he sounds exhausted more than angry. “Don’t do that if you’re not going to follow through. Don’t hold onto me unless you’re actually going to hold onto me.”

The words cut clean.

Your hand drops.

His shoulders sag for half a second, like taking himself out of your reach physically hurts. Then he straightens, pulls in a breath, and pastes on something that almost looks like calm.

“I’ll text you when I’m on my way back,” he says. “You can tell your mom I went for a walk if anyone asks.”

“Min,” you say again, helpless.

He steps backward into the hall. Shadows swallow him up to the chest, leaving his face in the spill of tree light. It paints him in green and red and gold, like he’s already half a memory.

He hesitates one last time.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” he says.

Then he turns and walks away.

Seungmin is back before you open your eyes.

You know it in that weird half-waking way you know when someone enters your room in the dark. The draft under the door shifts. The floorboard by the dresser gives its familiar, traitorous creak. Zipper teeth whisper, then a soft thud of a bag.

You stay still.

The room smells like cold air and the outside, clinging to his hoodie. The mattress dips a little as he sits on the edge of the bed, just for a second. You feel the weight of him through the covers, through your own rigid attempt at playing dead.

You think he might say something. Your name. A curse. Anything.

He doesn’t.

The bed lifts as he stands. A drawer slides open. Fabric rustles—clean shirt, probably—and then the bathroom door clicks shut, light slicing under it.

You open your eyes to the dim winter morning of your childhood room and focus on the wrapped box at the back of the closet shelf.

Small. Neat. Green paper with gold stars. The gift you bought him: the limited edition vinyl you spent months tracking down and then meeting with a shady seller you met on the internet to retrieve. You don’t know much about these sorts of things but the way he spoke about it longingly made you determined to get it.

You stare at the box until your vision blurs.

Then you shut the closet and pretend it isn’t there.

Christmas Day wears your nerves down by degrees.

You and Seungmin move around each other like people in a crowded kitchen who don’t know each other well enough to bump hips. You trade space instead of warmth.

He carries things, helps your grandma to her chair, reads instructions on the toy packaging. You refill water glasses, pass napkins, slice bread. You say “thanks” and “here” and “careful, that pan is hot” and nothing that touches last night at all.

Everyone notices without knowing what they’re noticing.

Your mom’s eyes flick between the two of you more than usual. Your aunts trade looks, the kind that say Is something up? without words. Your dad squints like he’s trying to solve a crossword clue.

Daniel notices and knows exactly what he’s seeing.

He’s been smug all day—the relaxed, loose-shouldered kind of smug that comes from a win only he can see. When you catch his eye across the room, he smiles like you’re sharing a private joke.

You look away every time.

Seungmin seems to have ironed his expression into something mild and blank. He laughs when appropriate, answers questions about work, about the city. He’s perfectly polite. Perfectly decent. Perfectly distant.

He doesn’t look at you unless he has to.

You don’t give him the present. You carry it in your head all day, its outline as sharp as a stone in your shoe. Every time you think about sneaking it into his bag, leaving it on his side of the bed, pressing it into his hand with a muttered “this is stupid, just take it,” you hear his voice from last night:

Don’t hold onto me unless you’re actually going to hold onto me.

So you keep your hands to yourself.

By the time dinner rolls around, you’re running on caffeine and adrenaline and the tight, buzzing feeling of a fire alarm that never stops.

The table looks the same as it always has on Christmas: too much food, not enough space. Platters jammed in wherever there’s a gap, bowls nesting on top of other bowls, gravy boats perched like they’re waiting to leap.

You take your usual seat without thinking—third from the end, left side, good view of the tree. Seungmin ends up beside you because there’s nowhere else for him to go. Daniel drops into the chair across and one over, the same spot he’s occupied for years.

You fold your napkin into your lap and keep your eyes on your plate.

Conversation bubbles up around you—your aunt complaining about airport security, your dad asking your cousin about college, your mom narrating every dish like it’s a cooking show no one asked for. Cutlery scrapes. Glasses clink. Someone passes the rolls the wrong way and your grandmother scolds them with fond irritation.

Beside you, Seungmin is careful. That’s what it feels like, more than anything. Every move measured. He says “thank you” and “please” and “no, I’m good, this is plenty, thank you” with a politeness that climbs higher every time someone insists he take more turkey. He pours water for your grandma before she asks. He cuts his ham too small, like he needs something to do with his hands.

He doesn’t look left.

You don’t look right.

Daniel looks everywhere.

He’s relaxed, one arm slung over the back of his chair, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms in that practiced casual way he has. He laughs at your uncle’s story, compliments your mom’s potatoes, makes a fuss over your grandmother’s cranberry sauce.

He catches your eye once, mid-laugh, and gives you a little half-smile like you’re in on something together.

You stare at the mash on your plate until the smile slides off your peripheral vision.

You get through the first round of food without saying a word.

You nod when you have to. You smile when someone looks directly at you. You chew. You swallow.

It’s almost survivable.

Then Daniel tips his chair back a fraction, lazily stabs at his potatoes, and says, “So, Seungmin.”

Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth.

Beside you, you feel rather than see Seungmin straighten a millimeter. “Yeah?”

Daniel’s grin is gentle, interested. It’s the one he uses on strangers he’s about to sell something to.

“Where’d you go last night?” he asks. “You disappeared.”

The word lands with a little clink, like dropped cutlery.

Your mom’s head snaps up. “What?”

Seungmin’s jaw flickers. He sets his fork down carefully, like he’s defusing a bomb.

“I went for a walk,” he says. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“At midnight?” your aunt echoes, brows shooting up. “In this weather?”

Your dad frowns. “Did you at least take the car? Roads are a mess at that hour.”

“No, I just—” Seungmin starts.

“Front door woke me up,” Daniel cuts in pleasantly. “Sounded more like leaving than a little walk around the block.”

There’s a soft hum around the table. A shifting. People settling in.

Your mother’s mouth pinches. “You went out in the middle of the night and didn’t tell anyone?” she says. “What if something had happened? Your poor grandmother would’ve thought we were being robbed.”

Grandma waves a dismissive hand, but she’s drowned out.

“It’s not safe,” your dad adds. “You don’t know this area. There are deer, black ice—”

“It’s fine,” Seungmin says, voice still low, still calm. “Nothing happened.”

“But it could have,” your mom presses. “Honestly, if you were upset about the tree thing, you could have just said so. Sulking off into the night is a bit much, don’t you think?”

Across from you, Daniel hides a smile in his glass.

One of your aunts clucks her tongue. “Kids these days,” she says. “No coping skills.”

“He’s not a kid,” another aunt says. “He’s—how old are you again?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Old enough to know better.”

Your uncle chuckles. “City boys,” he says. “Drama, drama.”

“He wasn’t being dramatic,” your grandmother mutters, but again, she’s swallowed by the tide.

Seungmin sits very still. His shoulders are set, his hands folded on either side of his plate now. He looks like he’s back in the interrogation room from last night—only this time, you’re not holding his hand under the table.

You feel your pulse start to pound in your ears. Heat crawls up your chest, into your throat, hot enough it makes your eyes sting.

Daniel takes a slow sip of water, watching it all unfold like a show he’s already seen the ending to.

“I just asked where he went,” he says lightly, when your mom gives him an approving look. “It’s weird to sneak out like that when you’re a guest, isn’t it? Especially when your girlfriend is still up. All alone.”

Your mom’s gaze snaps to you. “You were awake?” she says. “And he left?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

“She was finishing the tree,” Daniel goes on, easy, relentless. “I told him he was overreacting. Guess he needed some alone time to cool off.” He smiles, all concern. “No hard feelings, right, man?”

Seungmin’s fingers flex once, knuckles whitening. His eyes stay on his plate.

“Right,” he says.

The word is flat enough that anyone paying attention would hear it for what it is.

No one is.

Your aunt leans forward. “Sweetheart, did you know he went?” she asks you, scandalized on your behalf. “If my husband walked out like that on Christmas Eve, I’d have his head.”

“She probably didn’t want to make a fuss,” another says. “She hates conflict, remember?”

“Well, she certainly knows how to pick complicated ones,” your mother sighs. “You really know how to pick them, don’t you?”

Something in your chest tears.

Your hand tightens around your fork until the metal bites your fingers.

Daniel is still watching you. Waiting. Enjoying.

“Maybe he just doesn’t like being reminded he’s the rebound,” he says mildly.

You stop hearing individual words.

You hear tone—teasing, judgmental, indulgent. You hear your name, couched in “we’re only worried” and “we just want what’s best” and “you always were so intense about these things.” You hear Seungmin’s name in your mother’s mouth and the way it bends around Daniel’s history like gravity.

You hear your own heartbeat, loud and furious in your ears.

Beside you, Seungmin inhales like he’s about to say something.

You beat him to it.

BANG.

Your fork slams into the table.

The tines bounce once, ringing against porcelain. Gravy splashes the edge of your napkin. Every head at the table jerks toward you.

You’re already sitting up straight, shoulders squared, hands flat on the table to keep them from shaking.

“Thats enough,” you say.

Your voice isn’t loud, but it hits the table like a dropped stone.

Everything stops.

Your aunt’s mouth freezes mid-word. Your dad’s fork hangs in the air. A kid halfway to shoving a pea up his nose pauses, finger suspended.

Next to you, Seungmin goes very still.

You look straight at Daniel.

“Do not call him a rebound again,” you say. “Ever.”

He blinks, actually thrown. “I was joking—”

“No, you weren’t.” You turn your head, sweeping the table. “None of you are joking. You’re all sitting here picking him apart because it’s easier than admitting you’re being cruel.”

“Sweetheart—” your mom begins, scandalized.

“Mom, stop.” Your hands curl against the table edge to keep from shaking. “You’ve gotten everything you wanted this trip. I came home. I smiled. I ignored half the digs you threw at my life choices. You made me decorate the tree with the guy who cheated on me and knocked someone else up, and I let it go.” You huff out a disbelieving laugh. “But you don’t get to sit here and drag Seungmin for leaving the room before he said something he’d regret.”

“It’s not dragging,” your aunt says tightly. “We were just saying—”

“You were all ganging up on him,” you cut in. “He left for a few hours because he was overwhelmed. That’s it. He didn’t throw anything, didn’t scream, didn’t pick a fight. He took a walk. He removed himself from a situation that was hurting him. That’s textbook healthy.” 

Your dad sets his fork down. “Watch your tone,” he says.

“No,” you say, and your voice is steadier now. “Actually, I’m done watching my tone while everyone else gets to say whatever they want.”

Your mom’s eyes flash. “We are only worried about you,” she says. “You always choose the difficult path. We tried to give you a chance to remember what you had with Daniel—”

You laugh. It comes out sharp and incredulous. “By rigging the names?”

The color drains a little from her face. “Excuse me?”

“The bowl,” you say. “You think I didn’t see you tuck slips back in when you pulled the ‘wrong’ ones? You chose me and Daniel. You decided for us. Because God forbid you let me have one Christmas without your fantasy reunion.”

A ripple goes around the table. Your dad frowns. “Is that true?”

She stiffens. “I was trying to recreate a tradition,” she says. “You always decorated together. You were happy then—”

“I was nineteen and too stupid to notice half the ways he made me feel small,” you say. “And you liked him because he smiled pretty and agreed with you about everything. He cheated on me, Mom. He has a child with someone else. And somehow you spent more time asking what I did wrong than you ever spent being angry at him.”

Daniel’s jaw tightens. “Okay, that’s not fair—”

“You know what’s not fair?” You swing your gaze back to him. “Cornering me under mistletoe last night after all of that and acting like my inability to spit out a perfectly scripted speech for closure is a sign I still want you.”

“You didn’t say you didn’t,” he says quietly, watching you too closely.

Your chest squeezes. “I shouldn’t have had to,” you say. “You lost that right the second you lied to me and then let my family build a shrine to you in this house.”

You suck in a breath, feel it scrape. “So for the record—since everyone here seems so invested in my romantic status—let me be really, painfully clear.”

You look at your mother first.

“I am never getting back together with Daniel,” you say. “Not in a year, not in ten, not in some made-up Hallmark future you’ve written in your head. That door is closed. Dead-bolted. Bricked over.”

You turn to Daniel.

“You are not the one that got away,” you say. “You’re a pathetic loser who can’t handle not being worshiped.”

His face goes flat, color climbing into his cheeks.

“Don’t speak to him like that at my table,” your mom snaps.

“You’ve let him speak about me like I’m a problem he almost solved for years,” you say. “Consider us even.”

Your pulse is pounding so hard it makes your fingers tingle. You press your palms down harder into the tablecloth, feel the pattern under your skin.

“And second,” you say, your throat tightening around the words and forcing you to slow down, “Seungmin is not a rebound. He’s not a prop. He’s not some convenient boy I dragged home to make a point.”

You feel him react beside you before you see it—his knee jumps, the slightest shift of air as his head turns toward you. You keep your eyes forward.

“He is the one who sat with me at three a.m. while I sobbed over the way this house makes me feel,” you go on. “He’s the one who walked me to campus in the snow because my anxiety was eating me alive. He’s the one who held my hand in the car yesterday so I wouldn’t claw my skin off before we pulled into this driveway.”

Your eyes sting. You blink hard.

“He is the one Grandma trusted with me after five minutes,” you finish. “Because she’s right. I’m a storm. And he’s the tree.”

A couple of your cousins look confused. Your grandmother makes a tiny, satisfied noise.

Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your teeth.

“I love him,” you say.

No one moves.

You hear it echo in the silence—small, terrified, true. It lands on the table between the gravy boat and the cranberry sauce like something alive.

Your mom stares at you like you’ve slapped her. Your dad’s mouth is a hard line. Your aunts look between you and Seungmin as if expecting someone to deny it.

Beside you, Seungmin goes red from his collarbones to the tips of his ears.

It’s instant, like someone flipped a switch. His head ducks on reflex, hair falling into his eyes. His hand clenches once on his thigh, then releases. When he looks over at you, it’s quick, wide-eyed, like he’s not sure he’s allowed.

You meet his gaze. You don’t look away.

Everyone sees that.

You inhale, shaky, and push your chair back. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to you talk about him like he’s some unstable stranger ruining your Christmas because he dared to reach his limit,” you say. “He doesn’t owe you that. I don’t owe you that.”

Your chair scrapes against the floor. The sound is loud and ugly and perfect.

“We’re leaving,” you say.

Your mom’s hand slams down on the table. “You are not walking out in the middle of Christmas dinner,” she says. “Don’t you dare make a scene.”

“This is the first time in my life I’ve ever made a scene,” you say. “Maybe that’s part of the problem.”

There’s a beat where no one moves.

Then you turn to Seungmin and hold out your hand.

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask a single question. He just laces his fingers through yours and stands up with you, chair pushed back neatly with his leg.

He looks at your family then, shoulders squared, jaw still tight but eyes steady.

“Thank you for having me,” he says, and his voice is so polite it almost sounds like a weapon. “Dinner was great. And I’m really grateful you let me spend time with your grandmother.”

Grandma beams at him. “You’re welcome any time,” she says. 

Your mom looks like she might actually combust.

“After everything we’ve done for you—” she starts.

“Mom,” you say. “Stop. Please.”

You don’t trust yourself not to cry if she says one more thing.

“Sweetheart, don’t be rash,” your dad says. “You’re overreacting—”

Daniel leans back in his chair, arms folding like he’s settling in to watch you crash. “It’s fine,” he drawls. “Let her go. We all know she’ll come back when she realizes city boy isn’t going to put up with her drama forever.”

The words are barely out of his mouth when Seungmin looks at him.

The shift is small but seismic. He goes from politely neutral to something colder, cleaner.

“Daniel,” he says, tone still maddeningly calm, “Kindly, shut the fuck up.”

The silence that follows is so complete you can hear the kids stop chewing.

Your aunt drops her fork. Someone chokes on a sip of wine. Your mother sputters your first and middle name like she can somehow contain the swear by addressing you.

You don’t flinch.

A slow, stunned grin spreads across your grandmother’s face.

Daniel stares, actually blindsided for once. Color creeps up his neck. “You can’t talk to me like that—”

“I just did,” Seungmin says. “You’ve had plenty to say about me for two days. That’s my contribution.”

He turns back to you then, like he’s just finished answering a dull question at work.

“Ready?” he asks.

Your throat is too tight to speak, so you nod.

You lean over to kiss your grandmother’s cheek. Her fingers catch your wrist for a second, squeeze.

“About time,” she murmurs in your ear.

You swallow around the burn in your chest. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” you whisper back.

Then you straighten, still holding Seungmin’s hand, and look at the rest of the table.

“Merry Christmas,” you say. Your voice shakes, but you don’t take it back. “Really. I hope it’s everything you wanted.”

You don’t wait for an answer and you don’t look back. You don’t need to—you can feel the table behind you like a pressure between your shoulder blades, all those eyes on your spine, your mother’s anger, your father’s disappointment, Daniel’s bruised ego burning a hole in the wallpaper.

Seungmin’s hand stays locked with yours all the way up the stairs.

Neither of you speaks.

In your room, you let go of him only because you have to. The door clicks shut behind you, muffling the house to a dull, distant hum. Your heart is still beating too hard, too fast. Your fingers tingle.

Seungmin drags a hand through his hair and exhales, like he’s been holding his breath since the dining room.

“About what you said—” he starts.

“No.”

One word, sharper than you mean it to be.

He goes quiet, eyes flicking to your face.

You swallow. “Not yet,” you say, softer. “Please. Just… can we pack first?”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. For a second, it looks like he might push anyway, like the last twenty-four hours are right there behind his teeth.

Then he nods once.

“Okay,” he says.

That’s it.

You move.

You grab whatever is yours in arm’s reach—chargers, the book on the nightstand, the pajama shirt you shoved under the pillow this morning. You fold badly, shove worse. He doesn’t comment. He doesn’t let you carry anything heavier than a hoodie.

When you reach for your duffel, his hand gets there first.

“I got it,” he says.

You open your mouth.

He just lifts an eyebrow.

You close it.

He shoulders his own bag, then yours, then grabs the tote before you can touch it. By the time you fumble your coat on, he’s already holding your scarf out to you.

“Here,” he murmurs.

You slide into it without thinking. His fingers brush the back of your neck as he settles it, quick and impersonal and familiar enough to make your throat burn.

You don’t talk on the way down the stairs.

No one is in the hallway. You can hear the murmur of voices from the dining room—your mother’s sharper now, your dad’s low, your name tossed around like a problem set they’re working through together. Your grandmother’s cough. A child asking what “fuck” means.

You keep walking.

The air outside hits you like a slap. It’s full dark now, the kind of cold that bites the inside of your nose. Fairy lights blink from the gutters, oblivious. The plastic reindeer on the lawn lists slightly, one leg sunk deeper into the snow.

Seungmin goes straight to the car, breath puffing white. He unlocks it, loads his bag into the trunk, then yours, then tucks the tote in last.

You stand there on the driveway, arms wrapped around yourself, fingers dug into the meat of your elbows.

He reaches up, grabs the trunk lid, and swings it down. It thunks shut with a solid finality that makes your heart jolt.

Before he can turn fully away, you move.

You step in and shove at his chest. It’s not hard—just enough to make him stumble back half a step until his shoulders bump the car. One of his hands flies out to catch the edge of the trunk, more on reflex than because he needs the support.

“Whoa,” he says, startled. “What are you—”

“Don’t,” you blurt. Your fingers curl into the front of his sweater, bunching the knit under your fist. “Just—don’t say anything yet, okay? Please.”

He blinks down at you.

You’re close enough to feel his breath ghost over your forehead, to see the rapid flutter of his pulse in his throat. His hands hover like he doesn’t know where to put them—back to his sides, on your hips, nowhere at all.

“Let me talk first,” you rush on, staring hard at his chest because you absolutely cannot handle his eyes right now. The wool under your grip is warm from his skin. “Before the adrenaline wears off and I freak out and pretend I didn’t just explode my entire life in there.”

He swallows. You feel the movement under your knuckles.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Look at—”

You tighten your fist deeper into his sweater, knuckles brushing his sternum, head ducking further like you can burrow into the stitches.

“No,” you say, voice shaking but firm. “If I look at you, I’m going to lose my nerve. So just… stay there. Don’t move. Don’t be nice. Don’t make a joke. Just let me say this, and then you can decide if you still want to get in the car with me.”

Your breath fogs between you in quick, uneven bursts. The yard is silent, the house looming behind you like a stage you’ve just walked off.

Seungmin exhales slowly, like he’s physically pushing words back down.

“Okay,” he says at last, and his voice is rough but steady. “Go ahead.”

Your fingers are still knotted in his sweater. You stare at the stitches like you can line your thoughts up between them.

“For the record,” you start, and your voice comes out thin and breathless, “I didn’t plan any of that. The speech. The… ‘I love him’ thing. It just—came out.”

You feel him go a little stiffer against the car.

“I figured,” he says quietly.

“I’m not saying that so you think it doesn’t count,” you rush. “I’m saying it because it wasn’t some performance for them. It wasn’t—” You swallow. “It wasn’t about them at all.”

Your throat burns. You press your forehead against the center of his chest, hiding in the rough knit, fingers fisting tighter.

“Last night,” you say, words muffled, “you asked me if I was still in love with him, and I said I didn’t know. And that was… not quite right.”

He doesn’t move. His breath is slow and shallow under your cheek.

“I don’t know how to flip a switch on hurt,” you say. “I still feel sick when I think about what he did. I still remember what it felt like to be happy here with him, and that makes me want to throw up, because I hate that those memories exist in my head at the same time. And when he cornered me, my brain just went—static. It always has in this house.”

You suck in a shaky breath. Cold air burns your lungs.

“But I do know some things,” you go on, softer. “I know I don’t want him. I know I don’t want to get back together with him now, or ever. I know that even before he cheated, I was already shrinking to fit what everyone wanted, and I’m done doing that.”

Your hand shakes in his sweater.

“And I know that when you walked in last night and saw what you saw, it looked really bad,” you whisper. “I hate that. I hate that I hurt you. I’m so, so sorry, Seungmin. You didn’t deserve to be standing in that doorway wondering if you’re just… filler until I decide if I want to be stupid enough to try again with him. That’s not what this is.”

His fingers twitch at his sides. You feel the almost-touch like a phantom.

“It felt like that,” he says, low.

“I know.” The words scrape. “I know it did. And I made it worse. I froze. I gave the worst possible answer and then expected you to magically understand everything I was too scared to say out loud.” You let out a humorless breath. “I keep doing that with you. Hoping you’ll just… read my mind so I don’t have to risk saying the thing that might break everything.”

You press your forehead harder into his chest, like you can shove the fear straight through him and out the other side.

“I brought you here because you’re the safest person I know,” you say. “I didn’t think about what it would feel like from your side. How it would look to stand in a house full of people who still worship my ex while I tell you ‘it’s complicated’ and make you wait in the hallway with your feelings in your hands.”

The image makes your stomach twist.

“I’m not confused about you,” you say, voice barely above a breath now. “Whatever residual garbage is left over from him, whatever my brain is still untangling—that’s just… noise. You’re the part that makes sense.” You swallow. “You’re the future part. You’re the one I want in the car with me, and on my couch, and at three a.m. when I’m spiraling, and… at stupid family dinners where I finally grow a spine.”

His chest rises under your cheek, slow and deep.

You tighten your grip on his sweater until your knuckles ache.

“I love you,” you say again, smaller now, just for him. “Not because you came here and played the part. Because you’ve been here the whole time. I should have said it before last night. I should have said it before we ever knocked on that stupid door.”

You feel his fingers finally land—one hand settling, carefully, at your hip, the other bracing light against the small of your back like he’s not sure how much he’s allowed.

“Look at me,” he says quietly.

You shake your head against his chest. “You promised you’d let me finish.”

“That sounded pretty finished,” he murmurs. “And I’m not going to decide anything while you’re talking to my sweater.”

A wet, shaky laugh jerks out of you. “I’m serious,” you say. “If you decide you’re done after this weekend, I won’t blame you. You tried. You warned me. I just… needed you to know that if you walk away, it’s not because I don’t want you. It’s because I didn’t figure this out fast enough and that’s on me, not you.”

His hand at your hip tightens.

“God,” he mutters. “You really think that little of me?”

Your head snaps up before you can stop it.

He’s closer than you thought—obviously, because you shoved him here—but seeing his face this near, this night-lit and raw, makes your breath catch. His eyes are dark and blown-wide, lashes spiked slightly from the cold. His mouth is set in that flat, stubborn line you know means he’s two seconds from saying something he thinks you won’t like.

“Don’t tell me what I’d decide,” he says, steady. “You’re not the only one who gets to choose here.”

You open your mouth, flustered. “I wasn’t—I just—”

“I hated last night,” he says, clean and unvarnished. “I hate that I saw you stuck and couldn’t tell if you were frozen or… tempted. I hate that you had to deal with that at all. I hate that every person at that table thinks they know what’s best for you and somehow I still let them make me feel like the crazy one for having a problem with it.”

His thumb is moving without him realizing it, a small, tight stroke against your hip.

“But I don’t love you because it’s easy,” he says. “And I’m not in this because your family will throw me a parade. I’m in this because I’ve spent a year and a half watching you try to hold yourself together with duct tape and bad jokes, and every time you let me help, it feels like the only part of my day that makes sense.”

Your eyes sting again. “Seungmin…”

“You froze,” he says. “Okay. You panic. You go quiet. None of that makes what he did less shitty, and none of it makes me less pissed about how it looked. But you walking out of that house for me? Telling them you love me in front of… all of that?” He huffs, disbelief and something like awe tangled together. “That doesn’t look like someone keeping me around as a prop.”

You make a helpless noise in the back of your throat.

“I’m still mad,” he warns, because he’s him.

“I know,” you say. “You’re allowed to be.”

“I’m going to bring it up in, like, three separate arguments six months from now,” he adds.

You let out a watery laugh. “That’s fair.”

“But I’m not done,” he finishes quietly. “Not with you. Not because of this.”

The relief hits so hard your knees wobble. Your hand in his sweater loosens, then fists again, because you’re not risking letting go just yet.

“I’ll do better,” you say quickly. “Next time—”

“There’s not going to be a next time with him,” Seungmin cuts in. “That’s kind of the point.”

You breathe out a shaky smile. “Yeah,” you say. “There really isn’t.”

He studies you for a beat, the sharpness in his face softening at the edges. You can see him replaying the dining room, the way you said his name, the way you stood up. The way you walked out with your hand in his.

“Say it again,” he says, almost under his breath.

Your chest flutters. “Say what again?”

His mouth tips, not quite a smile. “You know.”

You swallow. “I love you,” you say, a little stronger this time. “Kim Seungmin, I am stupidly, completely in love with you, and I’m sorry it took me this long to stop being a coward about it.”

His throat works. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “That one.”

Your heartbeat is in your mouth now. You’re suddenly very aware of the fact that you still have him pinned to his car, fingers curled in his sweater like a lifeline.

“Okay,” you whisper. “That was the speech. You can… say whatever you want now. Or leave. Or laugh in my face. Or—”

“God, shut up,” he says, and then he’s leaning down.

He doesn’t give you a chance to overthink it.

“God, shut up,” he says, and then his mouth is on yours.

It’s not cautious, not testing the way you half-expected. It’s like the thread that’s been pulled taut between you for a year and a half finally snaps and all that tension has to go somewhere.

His first kiss lands hard enough that you stumble back a bit. His hand on your hip tightens, dragging you that last inch closer so there’s no space left to negotiate. His other hand slides up your spine and into your hair, fingers threading at the back of your head like he’s terrified you’ll move away.

You don’t.

You tilt up into him, fingers fisting higher in his sweater, and the sound he makes—low, rough, like he’s been holding it in for months—goes straight down your spine.

The cold disappears fast. All you can feel is his mouth moving against yours, a little desperate, a little clumsy with how hard he’s trying not to be. He kisses you like he’s been dying to and finally, finally got permission.

When you part your lips on a shaky inhale, he doesn’t hesitate. He deepens it immediately, tilting his head, catching your bottom lip between his, sucking just enough that you gasp against him. His thumb presses at your waist, anchoring you; his fingers tighten in your hair.

You break away for half a second—just enough to breathe—and he follows, chasing your mouth like he can’t bear the distance.

“Seungmin,” you whisper, but it comes out wrecked, more plea than warning.

“Yeah?” he mutters against your lips, like that’s an answer, and kisses you again.

It’s messier now, all teeth and breath and relief. His nose bumps yours; you laugh into his mouth, and he swallows the sound like he wants to keep it.

“Say it again,” he breathes, not really pulling back, words brushing your lips.

You manage to get enough distance to look up at him—barely. His pupils are blown, cheeks flushed high with cold and something hotter.

“I love you,” you whisper.

He groans, actual, honest-to-god groans. His hand drops from your hair to your jaw, thumb stroking along your cheek as he kisses you like repeat, repeat, repeat. Each time you try to catch air, he’s there again, softer, then deeper, like he literally cannot help himself.

Your fingers slide from his sweater to the back of his neck, pulling him down. He goes willingly, pressing you up more firmly against him.

“Been trying not to do this for months,” he mutters between kisses, lips dragging along your jaw, back to the corner of your mouth. “So if you wanted me to stop—too late.”

You laugh, breathless, and hook your fingers into the collar of his shirt, tugging. “Not complaining,” you manage. “Just… air. Occasionally.”

He pulls back an inch, panting, forehead dropping to yours. His breath fogs between you, mingling with yours.

“Right,” he says, voice wrecked. “Air.”

He doesn’t move.

You tip your head just enough to brush your mouth against his again, a quick, soft kiss that turns into three, four, because apparently he really can’t stop. Every time he pulls away, his lips find some new bit of you—your top lip, the edge of your smile, that spot just beside your mouth that makes your stomach flip.

“Okay,” he says finally, like he’s negotiating with himself. “We… should go. Before your dad comes out here with a snow shovel.”

“Probably,” you murmur, kissing him once more anyway.

He laughs, a short, disbelieving burst against your lips, and gives in for one last, lingering kiss that feels like a promise and a problem all at once.

When he pulls back this time, it’s slow, like it physically pains him. His hand slides from your jaw to your shoulder, squeezing once.

“Get in the car,” he says gently. “Before I start something we really can’t finish in your parents’ driveway.”

You snort, half-hysterical. “Bold of you to assume I’d stop you.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he mutters, eyes flicking to the lit windows. “I’m hanging on by a thread here.”

You peel yourself off the car with effort, fingers reluctantly letting go of his sweater. The air hits you properly again, sharp and cold, rushing into all the places he just warmed up.

You slide into the passenger seat. The upholstery smells faintly like him and stale coffee and the little pine-scented air freshener your mom passive-aggressively stuck on the vent before you left the city.

He gets in on his side, slamming his door against the cold. For a second you both just sit there, hands in your laps, breaths visible in the dim.

Then he leans over and buckles your seatbelt for you.

“Really?” you say, voice small and fond all at once.

“Motor skills drop after that many kisses,” he says. “I don’t trust you not to concuss yourself on the dashboard.”

“You kissed me.”

“Yeah,” he says. “And I’d like to keep doing it, so—seatbelt.”

You roll your eyes, but his hands are steady, fingers brushing your collarbone once as he clicks it into place. Your chest tightens stupidly.

He sits back, starts the engine. The heater coughs to life, whirring hard, blowing cold air that will eventually be warm if you give it time.

You clear your throat. “So… what now?”

He keeps his eyes on the windshield. A long breath fogs out of him. “Now,” he says slowly, “I drive us back to the city. You put on the least cursed Christmas playlist you can find. We both crash for sixteen hours. Tomorrow we order obscene amounts of food and pretend the only family we have is your grandmother.”

A tiny smile pulls at your mouth. “That’s a plan.”

“And,” he adds, fingers flexing on the wheel, “somewhere in there we have a conversation that doesn’t involve your ex, your mom, or the threat of snow shovels.”

You nod, staring at your hands. “Okay.”

He glances over then, like he’s checking your face for cracks. “Unless you were looking for something more… official.”

The word makes your stomach swoop.

You twist in your seat to face him properly. “I mean, kind of?” you say. “I did sort of tell my entire extended family I love you and then drag you out of their house, so it’d be a little embarrassing if you were like, ‘thanks for the field trip, roommate.’”

His mouth twitches. “You were never just my roommate.”

“Still,” you say. “I’d like to know what we are when we get back home. So I don’t… wake up tomorrow and convince myself I hallucinated all of this.”

He watches you for a long beat, engine idling, the dashboard throwing soft light over his face.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s be really, painfully clear for once.”

Your heart stutters.

“You’re my girlfriend,” he says simply. “I’m your boyfriend, if you’ll have me. No fake clauses, no ‘just for the weekend.’ I am fully, stupidly in love with you and have been for an embarrassingly long time. If you try to downgrade me back to ‘roommate’ I will sue.”

You huff out a shocked laugh. “On what grounds?”

“Emotional damages,” he says. “Plus hazard pay for the last forty-eight hours.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting a wobbly smile. “You’re really sure,” you say, half awe, half warning.

“You called me your tree in front of your entire family,” he points out. “I’m pretty locked in, hurricane.”

The word catches you off guard. “What?”

His eyes soften. “Your grandma was right,” he says. “You’re a storm. Loud and messy and too much for people who’d rather keep everything neat.” His hand leaves the wheel for a second, fingers brushing the back of your wrist. “I like storms.”

Heat prickles behind your eyes. “Sounds like a lot of work.”

He shrugs, hand finding yours properly now, tangling your fingers together over the console. “I’m stubborn,” he says. “I can handle some wind.”

You look down at your joined hands. His knuckles are pink from the cold; one of your fingers still has a faint smear of cranberry sauce near the nail. 

“Okay,” you whisper. “Then you’re my boyfriend. For real. No refunds.”

He exhales, something in his shoulders finally dropping. “Good,” he says. “Because if you’d tried to demote me after that driveway performance, I’d have just kept kissing you until you changed your mind.”

You snort. “Bold strategy.”

“Effective, though,” he says, smirking a little now. “Data suggests it works.”

You squeeze his hand. “You’re insufferable.”

“You love me,” he reminds you.

You meet his eyes, steady. “Yeah,” you say. “I really do.”

He looks away first this time, ears going pink again as he shifts the car into reverse. “Buckle up,” he mutters. “We’re getting the hell out of Maple Lane.”

“You already buckled me,” you say.

“Right,” he says. “See? Boyfriend of the year.”

You laugh, the sound lighter than anything that’s come out of you in days.

As he backs out of the driveway, you glance up at the house one last time—the porch lights, the sagging reindeer, the glow of the dining room window. A shadow crosses past the curtain. For once, you don’t flinch.

You turn back to the car, to the boy at the wheel, to his hand warm in yours.

“Hey, Min?” you say, as the house shrinks in the mirrors.

“Yeah?”

You lean over the console and press a quick, sure kiss to his cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

He blows out a soft, incredulous breath, the corners of his mouth tipping up.

“Merry Christmas, hurricane,” he says.

The road opens up ahead, dark and clear. You lace your fingers tighter through his and let him drive you home.

“I thought—” his words broke, then tumbled over each other. “I thought you would not return. That you would leave me. And I—” He pulled back just enough for you to see his eyes, glassy with both alcohol and something heavier. “I cannot abide that.”

You searched his face, surprised at the rawness there. “Hannibal, you’re drunk.”

A broken chuckle left him, soft and bitter. “Yes. Terribly human of me, isn’t it?” His hand cupped your jaw, trembling more than you’d ever seen. “But you must understand, space from you is unbearable. You are my tether. Without you, I unspool.”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath warm and sweet with alcohol. “Forgive my foolishness. Do not—do not vanish from me again. My heart is not immune, no matter how I pretend.”

The sight was jarring. This man, usually a fortress of refinement, now laid bare in messy affection. His arms wrapped around you again, desperate, as if afraid you’d slip away.