When it was finally his turn, he stepped up to your station, and you launched into your practiced greeting, voice bright and automatic.

“Hi! I can take the next—”

“Hey,” he’d replied, gruff but polite, like he wasn’t used to being on this side of customer service interactions. “Uh. Yeah. Hi.”

You’d asked your usual questions: receipt inside, preferred paper, ribbon or bow, and he’d answered all of them calm and steady.

And that alone should’ve made him forgettable. You’d seen every level of attractive Gotham had to offer by this point in the season; faces blurred together after a while.

Still, there was something about him.

Tall, broad, carrying himself like he knew exactly where he stood in the world—except for the way his eyes flicked away every time you accidentally met them. Like he wasn’t sure whether holding eye contact would be rude… or dangerous.

By the time you reached for the second gift, your fingers paused.

“Oh,” you breathed, unable to stop the excitement that slipped out. “The limited edition book series?”

You looked up at him automatically, eyes bright, instinctively sharing the joy.

“That’s gonna be such a good gift. Someone’s gonna be super happy.”

For a second, he looked almost startled—like he hadn’t expected you to care. Then his mouth tipped into something shy, one hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck.

“Actually,” he said, clearing his throat, “it’s… uh. It’s for me.”

Your eyebrows lifted.

“I came shopping for my teammates,” he continued quickly, nodding toward the other wrapped box, “but when I saw the collection bundled like that, I figured…”

He shrugged, just a little. “Didn’t feel right leaving it behind.”

You laughed softly as you started wrapping the books, smoothing the paper with care. “Ah, classic Christmas shopping dilemma. That’s what happens when you have taste.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh. “Is it?”

“Absolutely,” you said without hesitation. “Everyone deserves a treat now and then, so I don’t see the harm in indulging now and then.”

He watched your hands for a moment before looking back up at you, something thoughtful settling into his expression.

“How do you know that applies to me?” he asked, eyebrow lifting—not defensive, just genuinely curious.

You didn’t miss a beat.

“People who question whether they deserve good things,” you said gently, meeting his eyes this time, “are exactly the ones who deserve extra goodness.”

His breath caught—just barely. Enough that you noticed.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The store noise faded into the background, the only sound the soft crinkle of paper as you finished the wrap.

You handed the gift back to him, perfectly neat, ribbon crisp.

He took it carefully, fingers brushing against yours, sending a spark up your arm.

“Thanks,” he said, quieter than before/

You smiled, already turning back to your station, thinking honestly that would be the last time you ever saw him.

You were wrong.

To your surprise, you see him again just a couple of days later.

This time, he isn’t alone.

A redheaded man walks beside him, loud in the way that draws attention without meaning to. He carries two brightly colored toy boxes, ones you recognize as being popular this holiday season, as you’ve wrapped up 30 of them so far. Jason’s hands are another carefully chosen item, an expensive one at that, this one unmistakably meant for a little girl.

Your stomach drops before you can stop it.

Oh. There’s a kid involved.

You force yourself to keep your hands steady as you wrap the gift in front of you, eyes flicking up only when you think you can get away with it. Jason looks the same—broad shoulders, dark jacket, guarded ease—but the sight of the toys hits you somewhere unexpectedly tender and sharp.

Partner, your brain supplies unhelpfully.

You immediately scold yourself. None of your business. You barely know him. Still, that warmth you’d been carrying since your last interaction dims just a little.

You overhear their conversation as they move through the line, their voices carrying easily.

“These are age-appropriate, right?” Jason asks, turning a box over in his hands.

“Relax,” the redhead says. “She’s gonna love anything that makes noise or lights up. Or both. Preferably both.”

You adjust the ribbon at your station, subtly shifting your pace with the line, hoping against reason that if timing works out, Jason will end up back at your counter.

It works, partly because luck is on your side.

Mostly because Jason keeps letting people go ahead of him, feigning casual interest in a display near the exit like it suddenly holds the secrets of the universe.

Roy clocks it immediately.

He raises an eyebrow, watching Jason pause again, scanning the gift wrap stations like he’s looking for something specific.

“You’ve been weirdly invested in the checkout area,” Roy says dryly.

Jason shrugs, hands in his jacket pockets. “Marketing strategy, you know that’s how these stores work. Blame them for their effectiveness.”

Roy snorts. “Sure, man.”

Jason doesn’t explain why he was so eager to help pick out gifts for Lian. Doesn’t admit that he hasn’t stopped thinking about you since the day you’d looked at him like his choice mattered. That you’d said something about deserving good things and meant it.

Before he realizes it, they’re getting called up to your station.

You paste on a bright smile, professional and warm, and it’s enough to make Jason mirror it instantly.

Roy, on the other hand, does a full double-take. He looks at you, then at Jason, then back at you.

His face says oh. Ohhh.

“You find everything okay?” you ask, tone that deft blend of friendly and efficient reserved for holiday crowds. You reached for the first box, hands moving with the swift, practiced elegance of someone who’d spent several hours wrapping strangers’ love into perfect parcels.

“Oh yeah,” Roy says immediately, stepping in before Jason can get a word out. “We definitely did. Made out like bandits, actually.”

Jason shoots him a look. “Roy—”

“I needed help picking out the perfect Christmas gift for my little girl,” Roy continues smoothly, completely unfazed, “and figured her favorite—” He pauses deliberately, as if waiting to make sure you’re paying attention.

You glance up, curiosity piqued, just in time to catch the way Roy flicks his eyes between you and Jason with a knowing glint. You bite your lower lip, smiling despite yourself.

“— single uncle,” Roy finishes cheerfully.

Jason exhales hard, mortified.

“Oh,” you say, laughing softly as you start wrapping. “That’s sweet of you.”

Roy grins, satisfied. “Right? He’s great with kids. Responsible. Thoughtful. Surprisingly good taste in gifts, and according to my daughter, can make an incredible pb&j.”

Jason mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like I hate you.

“Don’t use Lian as an excuse. You literally asked me to make you one for the ride over here.”

A laugh bubbles out from you as the bantering continues back and forth. The conversation flows so naturally that it almost feels like you’ve all known each other longer than a few minutes.

Roy observes the two of you: how Jason’s shoulders relax, how his eyes never quite leave you, how you lean in just a little when he talks.

Yeah. That explains everything.

“Well,” Roy says eventually, clapping his hands together, “I’m gonna go check out. You two seem… covered.”

Jason glares. “You don’t have to—”

“Oh, I really do,” Roy says, already backing away. He gives you an exaggerated wink. “Nice meeting you.”

You laugh, waving him off, and when you turn back—

Jason’s already looking at you, something softer settling into his expression.

“Sorry about him,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

You smile. “Don’t be. He’s… enthusiastic.”

Jason huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s one word for it.”

As you hand him the finished gift, your fingers brush. Just barely.

And this time, neither of you pulls away right away.

A few days later, you see Jason again.

This time, he’s not alone, and the man with him is unmistakable.

Dark hair, easy confidence, an arm slung around Jason’s shoulders as it belongs there. He laughs at something Jason mutters, the sound bright and warm, completely at odds with Jason’s usual gruffness. The contrast alone is enough to make you look twice.

Oh.

That’s Dick Grayson.

You’ve seen his face often enough, on magazine covers, charity billboards, and Gotham social pages, to recognize him instantly. He carries himself like someone who knows he’s being looked at and doesn’t mind in the slightest.

Jason stiffens the moment Dick’s arm tightens, clearly realizing where they’re headed.

“Hey,” Jason says when they reach your station, voice doing that thing it always does—softening just for you.

“Hi,” you reply, smiling easily.

Dick’s eyes flick between the two of you, sharp and curious. He recognizes it immediately: the way Jason stands a little straighter, the way you tilt your head toward him, the unspoken familiarity that shouldn’t exist yet but somehow does.

“Oh,” Dick says, delighted. “You’re the one.”

Jason groans. “Don’t start.”

Dick ignores him completely.

Again, it follows the same pattern. Dick listens more than he talks at first, watching the banter unfold, fascinated by the fact that Jason Todd, Little Wing himself of all people, is smiling like this. Laughing and willingly engaging with someone, alive in a way Dick hasn’t seen in a while.

Roy’s words echo in his head.

He’s gone, man. Completely gone.

Dick decides to push. After all, he’s an older brother, and he knows his family all too well to know that Jason will sit on these feelings and pine away instead of taking action unless provoked. It’s how he used to get him to clean up after him back at the Manor when they were younger.

He turns back to you with a grin that could stop traffic. Then, just to be obnoxious, leans into your space slightly, tilting his head so his hair falls perfectly to one side, like he’s stepped out of a slow-motion commercial.

Jason’s eyes narrow instantly.

Dick winks at you and doesn’t miss the way Jason stiffens at the action. In fact, Dick leans into it.

“Well,” Dick continues, voice smooth as silk, eyes never leaving yours, “if I were a betting man—and I am—I’d say someone lucky is going to figure out pretty quickly how easy it is to fall for you.”

Jason opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again.

“Dick.”

Dick ignores him, resting one elbow casually on the counter, lowering his voice just enough to feel intentional. “You’ve got that kind of presence. The kind that makes a room feel warmer just by standing in it.”

Jason steps forward, finally, and unmistakably, placing himself between the two of you.

“Alright,” he says firmly. “That’s enough.”

Dick lifts his hands in surrender, but he’s grinning like he’s won something. “Relax. I was just appreciating art.”

Jason shoots him a look. “Go. Pick something out for Damian.”

Dick gasps theatrically. “Wow. Kicking me out in front of a beautiful stranger?”

Jason simply tsks, before nodding his head further towards the mall, a clear dismissal.

Dick laughs and backs away, still facing you. “It was so nice meeting you,” he says, sincere beneath the teasing. “If he doesn’t figure this out soon, feel free to upgrade.”

Jason groans. “Dick.”

As Dick turns, he leans in close to Jason, voice low enough that only the two of them can hear.

“Sorry, Little Wing, I’m just trying to help,” he murmurs. “You just have to actually do something.”

Then he’s gone, swallowed by the holiday crowd.

The space he leaves behind feels… different. Quieter. Heavier.

Jason clears his throat, clearly aware of how close he’s standing now. Your hand reaches out automatically for the next box, and when you lift it, your breath catches seeing an expensive display screen. This family doesn’t cheap out for the holidays, that’s for certain.

You wrap carefully, taking your time. The paper crinkles softly in the space between you, each fold deliberate, each second stretching.

When you finish, you hesitate. Normally, this is where the interaction ends. Polite goodbye, and he’s chalked away as another almost.

But this time, you don’t reach for the next customer. Instead, you look at him, your eyes determined.

“Jason,” you say gently.

He meets your gaze immediately, his attention on you to clearly show you how serious he’s taking this.

“You don’t have to keep finding reasons to come see me,” you add, voice warm, encouraging. “I already look forward to it.”

Something shifts in his expression; softens, sharpens, then settles. He studies you like he’s committing you to memory: the curve of your smile, the light in your eyes, the way you say his name like it belongs to you.

He nods once. Slow, but certain.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

And with that promise hanging between you, he takes the gift and steps away.

Cue to now, Jason is approaching you for the first time since your last conversation. As the Christmas season is dying down, you’ve been working more hours to make the best of it, also, in hopes of seeing Jason one last time before you move on to another job. And if he wasn’t willing to take the leap, well, you surely can.

Andy all but sprints to the back the moment they see him. Jason approaches your station, not with a box this time, but with a bouquet of flowers in his hands.

“I appreciate how highly you think of me,” you say, eyes widening, heart racing. “I’m good at my job, but I’m not that good. I have no clue how to wrap that.”

Jason lets out a small huff of laughter. “Not to wrap. I was hoping you’d take ‘em, and look at them while thinking of me. Hopefully, similar to the way I’m constantly thinking of you.”

He swallows, then continues, words tumbling faster now.

“I’m also probably pushing my luck, but I was hoping you’d be willing to go on a date with me.”

“Furthermore,” he adds quickly, wincing at his vocabulary, but determined to continue, “I know poinsettias are traditional Christmas flowers, but I wasn’t sure if you have pets, and they’re poisonous, and it felt messed up to give you something that could hurt your forever friends, so—”

You lean forward, cutting him off mid-ramble, close enough that his breath stutters.

“You’re thoughtful,” you say softly. “And sweet. And you’ve been making my shifts better all month.”

Then, with a grin: “And you finally did something.”

You kiss him over the counter.

Cheers erupt around you. Coworkers, shoppers, strangers who will absolutely be telling this story Christmas morning.

Jason laughs into the kiss, stunned and smiling, and for the first time all season—

There’s nothing left unsaid.

a/n: another part done! i actually have the last story written (i saw mommy kissing who?) and it will be posted on christmas eve.

his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, just slightly as he squints out at the metropolis skyline, the clouds covering, the sun shinning dimly. "well, it's just flurries." he says, his voice filled with certainty. "they'll pass." you hum softly, from the couch, curled into the corner with your boots kicked off.

your coat folded neatly over the armrest, because clark hovered until you did so properly. outside, the city glowed softly in silver, lights blurring into something almost romantic. inside, his apartment smelled like christmas wrapped in a bow, cinnamon, and clean laundry. with a hint of something warm, and simmering gently onto the stove.

clark checks his phone, clicking onto his weather app. he tries to refresh it. you watch him with utter fond amusement, the way his brow furrows. the way he's tilting his head like the app might confess something new, if he looks at it long enough. "clark." your voice just on the edge of teasing. "you're going to stress yourself out into a headache."

he glances back at you, his glasses on the edge of his nose, before he pushes them up. his expression caught, sheepishly. "i just like to be informed." you tilt your head, coming to a stance. "you refreshed it four times already." he looks at you, his eyes squinted."yes..." he says earnestly. "but it might've changed." you laughed, soft, airy, almost mystical.

his shoulders eased just a little, like that was the goal all along. to hear your magnetic laugh. he blushed, his ears tinged pink slightly. his gaze dropping to check his phone. ten minutes later, the flurries turned purposeful. the snow thickened, with wind picking up in speed, swallowing the headlights and street sound wholely.

metropolis began to disappear in real time, buildings dissolving into white, traffic lights glowing like distant stars. the street lights blearing into green streams, and white. clark straightens slowly, something settling in his chest as he watches. "uh... okay..." he admits, his voice low. "that's new." his brows furrowed as a gust slams into the window hard enough to rattle it.

you flinch at the harsh motion, clark doesn't. not because he's unbothered, but because he's already moving. checking his lock, and the deadbolts. adjusting his thermostat, and doing his usual quick sweep of his apartment. almost comically like the storm is something he can out-prepare. "it's supposed to taper off."

his voice low, in a mutter, more to himself now. "but, uh. i guess it looks like you're staying." you tilt your head. "you sure?" his head nods immediately, a bit too fast. "yeah. the roads won't be safe. it'd be irresponsible otherwise." concern, wraps its way neatly in practicality. it was one of clark kent's favourite disguise.

dinner certainly becomes an event. clark refused to order in on principle, something about delivery drivers and icy roads. he insisted on soup, as he's already started. he moves arounf his kitchen, with a quiet competence. his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hair a bit rumpled from running his hands through it. there's something deeply comforting about watching him here, in his element.

like this is who he is, when no one is watching. you're perched on his counter, your legs swinging quietly, softly. "you cook like you're feeding a family of six." you tease. "well..." he says seriously, his body moving strategically. "you never know who might need it." the answer settles warm and heavy in your chest.

his hands move to grab what he needs to make hot chocolate efrom scratch. he starts to sjave the chocolate carefully, warming the milk slowly so it doesnt curdle. adding a pinch of cinnamon, almost with a ceremonial reverence. "that packet's taste suspicious." he explains, pushing his glasses back up again. "they're hiding something."

you smiled, when he hands you a mug, your fingers brushing briefly. neother of you pulls away fast enough. clark's breath hitches, it's subtle but you catch onto it. he radio hummed quietly in the background, old and warm, filling the apartment with nostalgia. when baby it's cold outside, comes on you both look at each other with notice.

clark clears his throat, "golly, that feels... targeted." you murmur softly, "mhm, just a bit." he smiles anyway, it's open and unguarded. the kind of smile that just makes your stomach flip. dinner is slow, but easy. you sit close on the couch, your knees brushing, shoulders bumping when you both would laugh.

outside, the storm committed fully, the world seemed narrow until it felt like nothing existed beyond clark's apartment. the lights flickered, with the warm glow of his warm lighting blinking. he froze, he quipped quickly. "they always do that, it's fine!" he tried to brush it off, lightly.

lights blinking again and then— darkness. the radio cuts mid-lyric. you inhaled sharply, "okay." clark says, his voice calm, steady. his voice grounded, "totally okay." he moved through the dark with certainty, striking a match and lighting the fireplace.

flames blossomed, golden and alive, shadows danced across the walls. the radio crackled back on in the distance, faint and humming through the backup power. "pre-pared madam?" clark says with a quiet pride. your smile beamed at him. you borrowed one his his sweaters without asking, well he offered it instantly.

you tugged it over your head with careful hands. it's oversized, and swallows you whole. the material is worn, and soft, the sleeves long enough to create a overhang on your hands. it smells like him, linen and warmth, something undeniably clark. he noticed the way you just sank into iy. "looks... good." he says, the apple of his cheeks blurred pink, like he's said too much already.

the power doesn't come back, once another harsh blow shook the window. time stretches, conversations fading into a deamable comfortable silence. thw sotrm howled outside like it intended to stay. eventually, clark hesitates in the hall. "so..." he begings, rubbing the back of his neck.

"there's uh... one bed." you raised a brow, "i can take the couch." he adds quickly, "it's very supportive." you take a moment to look at him, really look at him. "clark." you start, but his voice stops you. "i just don't want you to be uncomfortable." you soften, shaking your head as you murmur. "i won't be." he exhaled, tension bleeding out of him.

"oh, okay, but i'll build a pillow barrier." you chuckle, "for safety?" he shakes his head, his usual flush returned. "of course."

the bedroom is dim, lit by the glow of the fire place and pale glow of snow through the curtains. clark folds back the covers carefully, cozy and domestic, like the bed might judge him. at first, you both lie apart, backs nearly touching. just a mere inches of space between you deliberate.

clark's breathing is steady but restrained, hands folded over his chest like he doesn't trust them. the wind seeps in through the warmth, you shiver momentarily. goosebumps cover your arms, he feels it instantly. "you're cold." he murmurs. "oh, it's fine." your voice soft, tight almost. "it's not." he hesitates, then softer, "can i?"

you turn, your eyes meeting his eyes in the low light. without his glasses he looks younger somehow. more open. "yes, please." clark moves closer, slowly giving you time to change your mind. his arm comes around you, tentative at first, firmer when you lean into his chest. his warmth envelops you, it's solid, grounding, unmistakable.

"just for warmth." he whispers, his head resting on top of yours. "obviously." minutes pass, them more. the pillow barrier collapses somewhere near his knee, forgotten. his thumb traces abscent circles against your sleeve, slow and unconscious. your breathing syncs with his. the space between you two disappears without either of you noticing exactly when.

the sweater rides up slightly at your waist. clark's thumb brushes against your bare skin. you inhale sharply. clark's voice hurriedly replies, "i... sorry." your voice is above a murmur, "it's okay." you say softly, "you don't have to keep apologizing." he stills for a moment. "are you sure?" his voice quiter now. "yes." and the word settles heavy between you two.

his hand stays this time, warmer and with purpose. the radio hums faintly from the other room, as the power kicks back on. baby it's cold outside, threads through the silence like a private joke. the universe getting a kick out of it, and refusing to let go of. you shift, turning fully into him. your knees brushes his thigh, his breath catches audibly. "you're warm now." his smile soft, with a light murmur.

"i guess you fixed it." he smiles, eyes flicking to your lips. "guess so." the kiss starts soft, barely there. like he's testing the moment, his lips are warm. they're hesitant but reverent. when it deepens, your hands tangle into the tuffs of his curls. it's unhurried, exploratory, like clark's memorizing the feeling rather than chasing it.

his hands slide from oyur waist to your back, fingers splayed there. holding you closer like it was a natural instinct, the tempation finally won. you hands slide to his shoulder, and back to his neck, your fingers curling into his curls once more. clark sighs quietly into the kiss, a sound that settles deep in your chest.

when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. he breathes, "wow." you smile, "yeah... who woudl've guessed kent." he kisses you once more, slower this time, sweeter almost. your bodies fit together easily now, limbs tangled without a thought. his hand stays at your waist, his thumb tracing slow, deliberately steady lines that make your breath ease.

eventually sleep comes, it inviites you like a heavy, inevitable wave. just before you drift off, he pressed a final kiss to your temple. "you can stay." he murmurs, "even after the snow clears." you smile, already half asleep. "i wasn't planning on leaving.

morning comes gently, sunlight spills across the room. the rays, pale and quiet, snow blankets the city, muffling everything. you wake tangled together. clark's glasses abandoned on the nightstand, his arm still wrapped around you like it belongs there.

when he stirs, his eyes blinking awake, his blue eyes open, he smiles instantly. his body feels sleepy and unguarded. "guess we're snowed in." he murmurs. you smile back, "i guess so." the radio clicks on softly. baby it's cold outside.

clark laughs quietly, deep rumble as his forehead rests against yours. "you think the universe planned that?" you shrugged within his grasp. "i think it just knew you'd take care of me." he kisses your hair, gentle and sure. outside, the storm long gone and settled, passed and let go. inside, neither you or clark decided to spend the morning apart.

author's note cont: thank you so much for reading! 🤍

this fic was written to feel like a quiet rom-com winter movie. it's the kind that you don't want to end. lingering touches and a snow storm with forced proximity. clark doesn't fall fast but when he does, it's very intentional. if you felt the vibes with this one, then it did exactly what i hoped for. as always, thank you for being here and sharing this little corner of softness with me.

all my love, lae 🤍

The air inside the private rink was crisp, smelling faintly of ozone and Zamboni fumes. But tonight, it just made your stomach do a nervous flip.

Kimi Antonelli stood by the entrance, looking effortlessly stylish in a thick wool coat and a scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. He rubbed his gloved hands together, his breath puffing out in small white clouds. This was it. The first official date, and you were currently suffocating under the weight of a very stupid, very well-intentioned lie.

It hadn’t started maliciously. In fact, it started because you were desperate to be anyone other than who you were. To the rest of the world, you were an ice skating prodigy. You were currently the top qualifier for the upcoming Winter Olympics, carrying the weight of a nation’s gold-medal hopes on your back.

Then you met Kimi. He didn't know about the medals or the grueling schedule. To him, you were just a girl he met at a party who had a nice laugh and pretty eyes. You wanted to keep it that way. You wanted to know if he liked you, not the athlete on the Wheaties box. 

The "lie" had happened a week ago, during a casual text conversation. You were lying on your couch with an ice pack on your knee, exhausted after a six-hour training block, when his name popped up on your screen. You were talking about holiday plans.

Kimi: I drove past that outdoor rink downtown today. It looks really cool with all the trees lit up.

You: Yeah, it’s really pretty this time of year.

Kimi: Have you been? We should go.

You had hesitated, your thumbs hovering over the screen. The last thing you wanted to do was tell him that the rink was your office, your torture chamber, and your sanctuary all wrapped in one. You didn't want to explain that you couldn't go to a public rink because you’d be recognized, or that skating on chopped-up public ice was a recipe for a twisted ankle.

So, you tried your best to shoot it down fast.

You: Honestly? I haven't gone skating just for fun in years. I’m probably totally out of the loop.

It was technically true. You hadn't skated for fun since you were six.

But judging by your current circumstance, he probably had interpreted that text very differently. He probably read “I haven't done this in years” as “I don't know how to skate, and I'm nervous.” 

Kimi: That’s a crime. Everyone needs to skate at Christmas. Are you free on Friday?

Kimi: Don't worry about being rusty. I played a little hockey growing up. I’ll teach you.

You had stared at the phone, a laugh bubbling in your chest. Kimi Antonelli, offering to teach you, an ice princess, how to skate. It was the cutest, most ridiculous thing you’d ever heard. You didn't have the heart to correct him then because it felt rude to shut down his enthusiasm. You figured you’d tell him later.

But "later" never happened. And now, standing at the edge of the rink he had rented out specifically so you wouldn't be embarrassed by your “lack of skill”, you realized it didn't feel harmless anymore…in fact, it felt like a ticking time bomb.

"So," Kimi said, a boyish grin spreading across his face as he gestured to the expanse of white. "Surprise."

You blinked, looking around. The rink was silent—no screaming kids, no hockey practice, no other couples. It was just the two of you.

"Where is everyone?" you asked, clutching your tote bag tighter.

"I rented it out," Kimi said, looking proud of himself. "Two hours. Just us."

Your heart sank. It was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for you, and it was also a tactical disaster.

"I figured we could use the space," he continued, leaning in conspiratorially. "Plus, I didn't want you to feel self-conscious if you fell. And... well, honestly, I know how the press gets. I didn't want you waking up to news articles micro-analyzing everything just because you were seen with me. I wanted to save you the burden."

He paused, the realization of his own words hitting him. He grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Wow. Okay. I realize I sound like a total ego-maniac right now. 'Oh no, the world is obsessed with me.' Please pretend I didn't say that. I just... I want this to be perfect."

A knot of guilt tightened in your stomach. He wasn't doing this to show off; he was genuinely trying to protect you. If you dropped the bomb now, you wouldn’t just be clearing up a misunderstanding. You’d be taking this incredibly thoughtful, romantic gesture and turning it into a punchline at his expense. You couldn't humiliate him like that, not when he looked so earnest.

"That's... that's amazing, Kimi," you managed, forcing a smile.

"Do you need rentals?" he asked, pointing to the counter.

You hesitated. Your custom Edea boots with the gold-plated blades were actually in the trunk of your car, hidden under a blanket. But walking in with professional gear would be an immediate confession. You had to commit.

"Yeah," you lied, forcing a cheerful smile. "I definitely don't own any."

You were officially a liar.

—————————————

Ten minutes later, you were sitting on the bench, watching Kimi lace up his rental skates. He moved with the easy physical confidence of a Formula 1 driver.

He stood up, wobbling only slightly on the hard rubber mats before stepping onto the ice. He wasn't a figure skater, but he had that natural athlete's center of gravity. He skated backward a few feet, rough and scratching the ice, then held his hands out to you.

"Come on," he beckoned, his eyes warm. "Grab my hands. The ice is slippery, but don't worry. I've got you."

You stepped onto the ice. Your body instantly tried to engage—knees bent, weight over the ball of your foot, shoulders aligned. You had to fight your muscle memory actively, stiffening your legs and letting your ankles wobble artificially.

You grabbed his forearms, clinging to him like a lifeline. "Okay," you squeaked. "Okay, I'm up."

Kimi beamed, taking his role as protector very seriously. He began to pull you forward slowly. "See? Not so bad. Just keep your knees bent more. You're too stiff."

"Like this?" You bent your knees, and you didn't want to ruin his moment.

"Yeah, exactly. And look where you want to go, not at your feet," he coached. His voice was soft, a stark contrast to your coach, who usually barked this specific instruction across a freezing arena at 6:00 AM. "If you look down, you fall."

"That makes sense," you murmured.

You stopped worrying about the lie for a moment and just looked at him. He was just... caring. For the first time in years, you weren't the expert everyone was critiquing. You were just a girl holding a boy's hand, and he was genuinely worried about you skinning your knees. It was surprisingly nice to let someone else take care of you.

As his confidence grew, he loosened up. He dropped your hand for a second, picking up speed. He did a quick lap around you, the wind ruffling his hair, before executing a loud, spraying hockey stop right in front of you.

He looked up, breathless and grinning, waiting for your reaction. He looked so proud of himself that your heart actually squeezed in your chest. He put his hand back with yours.

"See?" he beamed, eyes crinkling at the corners. "It's all about the edges."

—————————————

Kimi was skating backward, his eyes locked on yours, his smile confident and distracted. He never saw the deep, jagged rut left by a previous skater’s toe-pick.

His left blade hit the gouge and locked instantly. His legs flew out from under him, sending Kimi crashing down, his heavy wool coat hitting the ice with a dull, sickening thud.

But because he was holding your hands, he didn't just fall but also took you with him.

He jerked you forward with violent force. You were pulled off your center of gravity, your dull rental skates clattering against his as you stumbled over his prone form.

"Whoa!" Kimi shouted.

Instinctively, he let go of your hands to break his fall. It was the chivalrous thing to do, but physically, it was the worst possible variable.

You were launched.

The stumble propelled you like a stone from a sling, hurling you toward the rink boards. A true beginner would have flailed, panicked, and braced for impact, likely shattering a wrist or a nose against the unforgiving hard plastic.

But you didn't think. Your instinct took over.

You were falling forward, inches from the disaster. Instead of crashing, your core engaged with a violent, steel-trap snap. You slammed your right blade into the ice, forcing an edge out of the dull rental steel that shouldn't have been physically possible.

You turned a fatal stumble into a low, crouching lunge.

You were hurtling toward the wall at speed, but you punched your left toe-pick into the ice in time, whipping your body around in a blur of kinetic energy.

SCREEEEECH.

You spun out of the momentum—three rapid rotations on one foot, a blur of perfect axis and balance—before checking out of the spin with a sharp, professional snap of your arms.

You came to a dead, silent halt.

You were alive and safe, but you had just outed yourself completely.

You slowly slid into a graceful rest position and turned around.

Absolute, heavy silence, broken only by the low hum of the rink’s generator and the ragged sound of your own breathing.

Kimi was still sitting on the ice. He was propped up on his elbows, legs sprawled. His beanie had slid over his eyes, but he pushed it back with a trembling hand. He wasn't looking at his bruised knees. He was staring at you as if he’d just watched an abomination.

You stood there, the adrenaline crash hitting you, replaced instantly by a wave of hot mortification.

"Are..." Kimi’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," you breathed out, smoothing your coat.

Kimi pointed a gloved finger at you, then at the wall, then back at you.

"You just..." He mimicked a spinning motion with his hand, looking bewildered. "You just Matrixed that wall."

"I..." You scrambled for an excuse. Beginner's luck? Extreme Yoga?

But there is no explaining away a bracket turning into a scratch spin on rental skates.

Kimi scrambled to his feet, ignoring the snow clinging to his coat. He skated over to you. He stopped a few feet away, staring at your battered rental skates as if they were alien technology.

"That wasn't an accident," he said, his voice breathless. He pointed a trembling finger at your feet. "You just did a perfect axle.”

He looked up, searching your face like he was seeing it for the first time. The dim rink lighting cast shadows across his features as the gears in his head finally clicked into place. He narrowed his eyes, tilting his head.

"Kimi—" you started, trying to interrupt the train wreck.

"Who are you?" he asked, genuine panic bleeding into his tone. "Normal people don't do that. Are you a pro or something??”

"It started as a joke!" you said quickly, hands flying up in defense. "And then you were being so sweet, and holding my hand, and I didn't want to make you feel bad!"

"I literally explained to you how to balance on ice five minutes ago," Kimi said, his voice rising an octave. He ran a hand through his messy hair, looking genuinely distressed. "I was 'teaching' you. I was holding your hand so you wouldn't fall. And you... You're a pro. How deep does this go?”

"I qualified for the Olympic team last week," you admitted, wincing as the words hit the air.

Kimi made a strangled, dying noise. He turned around, skated a small, clumsy circle, and buried his face in his hands.

"I am never going to recover from this," came his muffled voice. "I felt so cool. I told you to bend your knees! I told an Olympian to bend her knees!"

"If it makes you feel better," you said, skating closer, smoothly now, and gently prying his hands away from his face. "My coach yells at me about my knees, too."

He peeked through his fingers. His face was flushed bright red, a combination of the biting cold and catastrophic embarrassment. "I looked stupid."

"You didn't look stupid," you said softly. "You looked gallant…until you tripped."

He groaned, finally dropping his hands to his sides. "I nearly killed you, and then you turned into a ninja."

"I have good reflexes," you offered with a sheepish smile.

"No," he shook his head, looking at you with a new, intense kind of awe. "You're just amazing."

———————————————

The power dynamic had shifted entirely, but the tension had evaporated. For the last twenty minutes of the session, the charade was dead.

"Okay, but seriously," Kimi said, watching you skate backward with effortless speed, his eyes filled with envy. "How did you find an edge on these? They're like butter knives."

"Fear is a great motivator," you laughed, spinning around to face him. "Here, give me your hands."

You took his hands. "Shift your weight to your heels and stop fighting the ice."

You spent the rest of the time actually teaching him. He was a quick learner; his driver’s brain understood weight transfer and instinct once you explained the mechanics.

As the overhead lights flickered, signaling the end of the session, you stepped off the ice. "You know," he said as you walked out into the biting cold of the parking lot, snow beginning to drift down around you.

"What?" you asked, wrapping your coat tighter against the wind.

He stopped at the car, opening the passenger door for you. He looked at you, his eyes dancing with a competitive spark that you recognized all too well. It was the look of an athlete who had just lost a round and was already planning the rematch.

"Next date," he declared, "we are going go-karting."

You laughed, pausing as you climbed in. "Why?"

"So I can regain my dignity," he said, dead serious.

"Deal," you grinned.

He leaned in then, the cold air between you vanishing. He kissed you. It was soft, sweet, and lingering under the falling snow. It felt better than any podium finish.

"But just so you know," you whispered against his lips, pulling back just an inch. "I'm a fast learner."

Kimi groaned, resting his forehead against yours, defeated but smiling. "Please, just let me win one."

His thumb strokes a slow line along your inner thigh. Every few minutes, his hand flexes—fingers pressing in just slightly, like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

You’re here. You’re his.

His eyes drift to you. Brief burning glances that say he has been waiting for this trip far more than he would admit to anyone but you. When the radio crackles with the announcement of an incoming blizzard, he turnes the volume down, jaw tightening in that familiar, protective way.

“Before we head up the mountain,” Mydei mutters, “we’re stopping to get what we need.”

Another blizzard warning crackles through the radio just as Mydei pulls into the last town before the mountain roads. A low hum leaves him.

“We’ll stop here,” he says, turning into a small winter market lot. “Won’t get caught unprepared.”

You unbuckle, but he leans across the console first, bracing one hand beside your leg.

“Stay in the car,” he murmurs, voice dropping an octave. His fingers find your inner thigh again. Higher this time.

Then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is firm, possessive, and entirely too short. When he pulls back, his thumb drags slowly across your lower lip.

“I’ll be quick,” he promises, voice rough.

“Stay warm,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, before climbing out and leaving you breathless in the passenger seat.

The door shuts before you can press him further, leaving you staring after him as he disappears into the small shop, broad shoulders wrapped in cold light.

He returns five minutes later with a paper bag tucked under one arm and snow dusting his hair.

You narrow your eyes. “What is that?”

He leans down to kiss you again. “Later.”

By the time the cabin comes into view, the snowfall has thickened, a soft curtain of white swallowing the world.

Mydei barely lets the engine cut off before he is out of the car, grabbing your bags, moving with restless energy you recognize instantly: weeks of missing you, condensed into one unstoppable current.

Inside, the door barely closes before Mydei is on you.

His hands find your hips immediately. Firm, possessive, pulling you against him as your back hits the door.

“Finally,” he growls against your mouth.

He kisses you like he’s been starving. Two weeks of restraint, of missed touches, of wanting—all of it pouring into this single moment.

His hands slide from your hips to your waist, then up your sides, mapping you like he needs to confirm you’re real.

“I’ve wanted to have you for myself for weeks,” he murmurs between kisses, voice rough and raw. “Always something interrupting us.”

Your laugh comes out breathless. “We just got here.”

“And?” His mouth finds your jaw, your throat, that spot just below your ear that makes you gasp. “You think I can wait now?”

One hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back so he can kiss you deeper. The other stays on your waist.

“Mydei—”

He swallows your protest with another kiss. Harder. Hungrier. His body presses fully against yours, and you can feel the tension vibrating through him. Weeks of missing you, wanting you, holding back.

Not anymore.

“We haven’t even unpacked,” you manage to whisper when he finally lets you breathe.

“I don’t care.” His forehead rests against yours, breath ragged. “Unpacking can wait. The bags can wait. Everything can wait.”

His thumb strokes your jaw, gentle despite the intensity in his eyes.

Then, he kisses you again.

You eventually break apart. Only because you remember the snowstorm creeping closer.

“We should… go out before the blizzard hits,” you say, still catching your breath. “It’s beautiful.”

Mydei exhales like he wants to disagree on principle, then reaches into the paper bag he’s left on the counter.

“Fine,” he says raspily. “But you’re wearing this.”

He unfolds a bonnet—thick-knit and warm—in colors unmistakably his: ember-red, charcoal, and gold threading that catch the firelight.

Your eyes widen. “Mydei… you bought this for me?”

He steps closer, lifting it with both hands. “You didn’t bring anything warm enough. And I’m not letting you freeze.”

His fingers brush your cheeks as he slides it over your head, adjusting it gently.

When he is done, he lingers. Thumbs stroking your jaw, eyes softening in that quiet way he rarely lets anyone see.

“Perfect,” he mutters. “Now I can take you outside without worrying.”

You laugh, flushed. “You worry?”

He leans in, kissing the corner of your mouth.

“For you?” His voice dips even lower than usual. “Always.”

The moment you step outside, the world feels quieter. The sky is pale and soft, the snowfall slow and steady, turning every surface into something luminous.

Mydei closes the cabin door behind you and adjusts the collar of his winter coat. Deep red, lined with black fur, the sort of garment that makes him look like he walked out of an illustrated epic rather than a winter scenery.

Then he looks at you.

The bonnet, the cold-pink on your cheeks, the softness of your breath in the winter air…something in his expression melts and sharpens at once.

He takes your hand.

“Come,” Mydei says. “Before the snow clouds swallow everything.”

You walk together along the path that winds behind the cabin, boots crunching in fresh powder. Every few steps, he glances at you. As if checking that you’re warm enough, close enough, his enough.

When the trees open into a clearing, he slows.

You stop beside him.

The world below stretches out in white and blue. Forest, valley, distant lights flickering like tiny stars. Snow drifts lazily in the air. It’s quiet in a way that feels almost sacred.

You exhale, and the breath fogs between you.

“Beautiful,” you whisper.

“Mm.” Mydei’s gaze doesn’t move to the view.

He’s looking at you.

You flush. “That’s not…Mydei, look at the mountains, they’re…”

“No,” he murmurs. “Not the mountains.”

He steps behind you—so close his chest brushes your back—and his arms slide around your waist. His hands settle against your stomach, warm through your coat, steady and protective.

You lean back into him without thinking.

He rests his chin on your shoulder, breath warm against your skin.

“This,” he says quietly, “is what I wanted.”

You swallow. “The trip?”

He shakes his head, nose brushing your cheek. “You. At peace. With me.”

Your pulse stutters.

You turn your head slightly. Just enough for your temple to touch his. His arms tighten around you, drawing you closer until you’re fully enveloped in his warmth, in the snow-laced silence, in him.

“Mydei, you sound soft,” you murmur, teasing.

He huffs a breath. “Don’t tell anyone.”

You smile. “Too late. I already told everyone I know.”

He smirks at that. “Fine by me. As long as I get to keep this forever.”

For a moment, neither of you move. You just breathe together, snow falling around you, the world narrowed down to his arms and your heartbeat.

Then Mydei murmurs, voice sinking right behind your ear: “We should head back. The blizzard’s close.”

You nod, but before you can turn…

He scoops you up.

You yelp. “Mydei!”

“Walking will be too exhausting like this,” he says simply.

“Mydei, put me...”

“No.”

It’s decisive and a little amused.

He looks down at you, something flickering in his eyes.

“You’re warm,” he adds. “And I enjoy holding you.”

Your stomach flips so hard you forget how to speak.

The snow begins to fall harder. Mydei holds you closer, protective and sure.

And the blizzard hasn’t even started yet.

The snow shifts from gentle to sharp in seconds.

One moment, flakes drift softly through the trees. The next, the wind snaps like tearing fabric, and the world turns white.

Mydei tightens his grip around you.

“Hold on,” he says. Low, controlled, unfazed by the sudden violence of the storm.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, burying your face in the warm line of his neck.

Snow whips past you, cold stinging every exposed inch of skin—but Mydei moves with purpose, boots firm, stride steady.

His body shields yours completely.

He doesn’t slow. Not once.

When the wind howls louder, he adjusts you higher in his arms and murmurs,

“I told you we shouldn’t have gone too far.”

“You agreed to the walk!”

“You asked nicely. It affects me.”

There’s a smirk in it, and you tighten your hold around his neck because of course he’s teasing you while carrying you through a blizzard like some mythic warrior.

The cabin appears through the white haze. Dark wood, warm light leaking from the windows.

Mydei exhales, relieved but still focused.

“We’re almost there.”

He reaches the porch, shoulders tense from the cold, and kicks the door closed behind him after stepping inside. Snow melts instantly from his coat, steam rising from the sudden shift in temperature.

He sets you down slowly.

Warmth washes over you.

Mydei brushes snow from your hair with bare hands, then removes the bonnet to smooth your hair back into place.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “Much better.”

Your breath catches.

He knows it.

His thumb grazes your cheek, lingering just long enough to make your knees go weak.

“Go change,” he says softly. “I’ll get the fire.”

You change quickly, and when you return, Mydei is kneeling at the fireplace, coaxing the flames higher. The orange glow paints his skin gold, shadows catching along his arms.

He glances over his shoulder when he senses you enter.

Everything in him softens.

“Come here.”

You kneel beside him. The fire crackles. The storm thrashes against the windows, but inside…

It’s warm and safe.

Mydei‘s hand slips onto your lower back. The touch is casual at first. Then his fingers flex. Once. Twice.

You inhale sharply.

“Cold?” he asks, voice dropping lower.

You shake your head.

His lips twitch. “Good.” He turns toward you fully, and suddenly the air feels heavier. Charged.

His hand moves from your back to cup the side of your neck.

“Keep going,” you whisper, breath catching.

He leans in, his forehead brushing yours.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice a low rumble. “More than I liked.”

Your pulse stutters.

Before you can answer, he kisses you.

Breath mingling with yours as you gasp against him. He deepens the kiss immediately, thumb stroking along your jaw, coaxing your lips open, swallowing every soft sound you make.

You break for air. Barely.

He kisses the corner of your mouth.

“You drive me mad,” he mutters.

Your throat tightens.

He kisses your jaw. “I thought about this every night.” His mouth finds your pulse point, your fingers fist in his coat.

“Mydei—”

He bites. Gentle. Promise more than threat.

He pulls back, eyes dark. “I want you in front of the fire.” His voice is hoarse.

You swallow “Yeah?”

“Mm.”

He lifts you easily, settling you on the soft rug in front of the flames. He shrugs his coat off, removes his shirt, leaving him warm and golden in the firelight.

He settles beside you, one hand slipping behind your back as he pulls you against him, lips brushing yours again.

“You’re so warm,” you breathe.

“I will keep you warm,” he answers, brushing his knuckles along your cheek. Tenderness softens his features. “Always.”

You kiss him again.

This one lasts longer. Slow at first, then deeper, fuller, his hand sliding around your waist, his thumb pressing into your hip in a silent plea.

He pulls back only when you’re breathing hard, and murmurs against your lips, “Let's stay here tonight.”

You nod. You don’t have the breath to answer.

Mydei smiles. “Good.”

You don’t even have time to catch your breath before Mydei lowers himself over you.

The fire pops behind him, flames painting gold over the planes of his face. He brushes a thumb along your lower lip, then replaces it with his mouth.

The kiss is firmer this time.

Hungrier.

Your head tilts back instinctively, and Mydei follows, his hand sliding from your cheek down the curve of your throat to your shoulder. His palm is warm, steady and possessive.

He pulls back just enough to kiss your jaw. Then lower. His lips find the sensitive spot just under your ear, and the sound you make is entirely uncontrolled.

“Mydei—”

He hums against your skin. Deep. Satisfied.

“That’s it.”

His mouth trails lower, finding where your pulse flutters wildly beneath the surface. He kisses it gently first—then deeper, lips parting, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp.

Your hands curl against his chest.

He lifts his head to look at you, and something in his expression turns ravenous.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs.

Your face burns. “Mydei—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

His mouth crashes back onto yours, swallowing whatever you were about to say. The kiss deepens immediately—his tongue brushing yours with careful, deliberate pressure that sends heat spiraling through your entire body.

His hand slides beneath your shirt, palm hot against your bare skin.

You gasp into his mouth, and he groans in response. A low, rough sound that vibrates through his chest.

“Too much?” Mydei asks, lips hovering over yours, breath ragged.

“No… just...”

“Good.”

He kisses you again. Deeper, messier this time, letting himself fall completely into the heat of it. His other hand cups your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone as you arch into him.

His weight settles against you, solid and warm, and when you pull him even closer, he makes a sound somewhere between a growl and a laugh.

“You’re going to end me,” he mutters against your lips.

“Good,” you breathe back.

He kisses you like he’s been starving for weeks.

(Because he has.)

When you finally break for air, he stays close. Forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving, eyes fiery and molten in the firelight.

“I’m not done,” he warns softly.

You laugh, breathless. “I didn’t think you were.”

His smile is slow. “Good.”

The night blurs after that.

Skin and breath and whispered laughter. The fire burns low and golden beside you.

Mydei’s hands are steady on your waist as you kiss him again and again. Your hands and mouths explore and caress each other until the storm outside fades into nothing but white noise. Until there’s nothing left but bliss and heat.

At some point—you don’t remember when—he pulls you fully against him, tucking you into the curve of his body.

His breath slows. Yours matches his.

The world shrinks to firelight and his heartbeat under your cheek.

Before sleep takes him, Mydei presses one last kiss to the back of your hand.

You fall asleep not long after, wrapped in warmth and him.

You wake to silence.

The kind that only exists when snow has blanketed the world outside, muffling everything into soft whiteness.

You stir slightly.

An arm tightens around your waist.

Mydei makes a low, sleepy sound. Something between a sigh and a growl. He buries his face against your neck like he’s trying to hide from morning itself, breath warm on your skin.

“…Don’t move yet,” he mutters, voice rough and low with sleep.

You smile into your pillow. “We should check the generator.”

“No. We‘re on vacation. Need you here.“

He pulls you back fully against his chest, his arm heavy and secure around your waist. His other hand slides up your side—slow, deliberate—and settles at your ribs, thumb stroking lazy circles through the fabric of your shirt.

“…Later.”

You laugh softly. “You’re clingy today.”

“I haven’t had you like this in weeks,” he grumbles against your neck.

It’s not a justification. It’s a confession.

His lips brush the curve where your neck meets your shoulder.

You shift slightly, rolling onto your back just enough to see him.

Hair messy. Eyes half-lidded, still heavy with sleep. The faintest flush warming his cheeks. He looks softer like this. Unguarded in a way he never is with anyone else.

He watches you for a moment, something warm flickering in his gaze.

Then he leans in slowly.

The kiss is soft at first. Lazy. Unhurried. The kind that belongs to quiet mornings when there’s nowhere to be and nothing to do but exist together.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking gently along your cheekbone as he deepens the kiss just slightly. Enough to make your breath catch, but not enough to rush.

When he pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“Stay,” he murmurs.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.”

He pulls you back fully against his chest, his arm heavy and secure around your waist. His other hand slides up your side and slips beneath your shirt, thumb stroking warm, lazy circles against your skin.

You settle back into his chest, and his arms wrap around you properly this time. One across your waist, one higher, hand splayed warm between your shoulder blades.

“Warm enough?” he asks quietly.

“Very.”

“Good.”

He presses another kiss to your temple. Then your forehead. Then the top of your head.

Small, unhurried affections that feel more intimate than anything else.

You close your eyes, sinking into the warmth of him. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the weight of his arms, the way his breath evens out again as he starts to drift.

“Mydei?”

“Mm?”

“Thank you.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then, he asks, “For what?”

“This. All of it. The bonnet. Carrying me through the storm. The fire. Just being here.”

His arms tighten slightly. “You don’t have to thank me for that,” he says, voice low and sincere. “Taking care of you isn’t a favor. It’s just what I do.”

He hums into your hair. “The best deserves nothing less than all the good things.”

Your chest tightens.

“Still,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t answer with more words.

Instead, he kisses your shoulder and holds you closer.

And you stay like that for a long time.

Snow falling softly outside. Fire crackling low in the hearth. The blizzard finally calm.

Just the two of you, wrapped in warmth and each other.

Exactly where you both want to be.

⋆✧✦✧⋆ A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated. :) More Mydei to follow.

-> December event Masterlist

The cold kissed your cheeks. The tight bite of your skates grounded you. Silence bloomed like the breath you held in your lungs.

So of course, that was when the door creaked open.

And just like that, the spell broke. Because of her.

Natasha Romanoff.

Crimson hoodie. Stick slung casually over one of her shoulders. That cocky, half-lidded look she always wore, like nothing in the world could touch her. And if it could, she would probably smirk at it and dare it to try again.

"Didn’t realize the rink was booked for royalty. Again," she said, voice low and smooth. "Should I curtsey?"

You did not open your eyes right away.

You held onto the silence for one more second, one more breath, pretending you had not heard her - pretending the presence at the edge of the rink had not already shifted the air. But her voice had curled around the space like smoke, lazy and insolent.

You opened your eyes.

Natasha was already looking at you, of course.

Her stick balanced against her shoulder, one hand curled around it like she had not just walked in here as if she owned the place. Like this was not your hour. Your space.

You knew the schedule. The hockey team was not supposed to be here for another fifteen minutes. And she certainly knew it too.

But Natasha Romanoff was always early.

Maybe just to piss you off.

Maybe for something else.

You hated that you did not know which.

"Seriously?" You grumbled, locking eyes with her sharp green ones. "Didn’t realize being exasperating was part of your warm-up routine now."

There it was.

That fire in your eyes that made Natasha's heart race more than any goal. That defiant set to your jaw. The way you tried to seem annoyed, and yet could not keep the slightest edge of amusement from creeping into your voice.

She liked it when you fought back.

A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, her shoulder lifting in a lazy shrug.

"You know me," she drawled. "I like to keep things interesting."

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head.

"Yeah? Or are you here early to work on your skating? I’m sure we could find you a beginner’s cone." You said, voice flat, precise.

Your coach, Maria, always joked your tone could cut through ice. Apparently, it could also make smug hockey players tilt their head like they had just been handed a gift.

Natasha let out a low whistle, stepping onto the ice like she belonged there, like the laws of physics bent slightly to make room for her.

"Damn. Someone woke up on the wrong side of the rink this mornings" she murmured, shifting the stick from her shoulder as she stepped around the edge of the boards. She started to make her way out onto the ice, moving like it was as easy as breathing. "But if you’re offering... it's kind of tempting. I do love when you give me your undivided attention."

You rolled your eyes so hard it was practically sure you were going to have bad after-effects because of it.

"I’m trying to train, you know."

She skated in a slow, lazy circle around you, close enough that the wind from her movement stirred your hair just enough.

"And I’m just so distracting," she deadpanned, like it was the truth. "It’s okay. I get that a lot."

Then she flashed you that damn smirk - the one that made your stomach flip even as you wanted to throw a cone at her head.

You did not respond. You would not give her the satisfaction.

You exhaled, skating past her in a slow glide - measured, fluid. It was control. Precision. Grace earned through hours of repetition, exhaustion, discipline.

Skating helped. Focus helped. Her being this close did not help.

Natasha Romanoff had been at the Academy for three months now - a transfer from the Red Room’s elite program. A prodigy, they said. All sharp elbows and gold medals, a rising star, a wildcard, a professional-in-the-making who did not like rules very much but got the job done.

You had not paid much attention at first. Not until she started showing up early to practice. Watching you, making snide remarks, calling you printsessa in her mother tongue. It drove you mad. And maybe, if you were honest, it thrilled you a little too.

"You usually wait a little longer before trying to get under my skin," you muttered, circling back toward the center absently. "You must really be bored."

You did not really expect a reply.

You especially did not expect the one you got.

"Not bored," she replied, a little quieter. "Just... intrigued."

You looked up, startled. She was not looking at you anymore - her focus was on her laces, her long fingers tugging them tighter with practiced ease.

You hated the way it landed in your chest, sharp and warm at the same time. Like a small bruise blooming where your armor should have been.

So you skated harder. Pushed off with power, letting the chill hit your face as you flew into your next sequence - a perfect double axel, clean landing.

When you finished, breath visible in the cold, she was now standing at the edge of the ice in her skates now, hoodie abandoned, stick resting across both shoulders again.

But that smirk on her face had gone soft, just a little.

You skated toward her, deliberate, blades cutting long lines in the frost.

"Enjoy the show?" You asked.

"Yeah. I like watching you skate." She shrugged.

That stopped you. Just for a second. Just long enough for her to notice.

Natasha leaned on her stick, one brow raised.

"And I definitely like when you get all flustered after I say things like that."

"I’m not flustered." You replied defensively, perhaps too quickly.

She grinned, slow and knowing, teeth flashing.

"Your ears are red, printsessa."

"It’s cold."

She laughed then. Really laughed. Not loud, not sharp. Just low and genuine, caught in her throat like something she had not meant to let out. Her eyes raked over you slowly, like she was peeling through every defense without even trying.

And you hated the way you wanted to hear that sound again.

You looked away, eyes flicking toward the big wall clock overhead. Top of the hour. You should have been wrapping up by now.

But you did not move.

"Don’t you have drills to run?" You asked, softer now.

She shrugged again, looking unashamed and unbothered by the question. Like she had known she would end up here all along.

"Coach isn’t here yet. But you should go and rest. Big show in a couple days." She pointed out, giving you a look.

You blinked, caught off guard.

"You know?"

Natasha nodded, eyes catching yours.

"I saw the flyers. Pretty much everywhere for those with eyes to see," she chuckled, licking her chapped lips. "You're the headline."

"Surprised you can read cursive." You teased, smiling.

She gave you a look, mock-offended before a grin took over her face, pearly whites shining.

"You wound me, printsessa. Here I thought we were bonding," she drawled, hand clutched against her chest in an exaggerated motion. "I'm surprised you still bother pretending you don't like the attention, though."

The words slid under your skin before you could block them.

You bristled, stepping away from her with a shiver.

"Try not to fall on your face, that’d be a shame." You glanced at her over your shoulder one last time before stepping out of the rink, exchanging quick greetings with her team mates.

⧗

December 19th

The Academy of the Arts was buzzing with anticipation for the university's holiday special. Bright lights had been illuminating the building, and banners proudly displayed the name of the upcoming showcase - The Rising Stars.

Hundreds of parents, family, and friends filled the auditorium. The chatter was loud, excited.

Natasha was there too. Seated between Clint and Steve. Her arms were loosely crossed over her chest, eyes sharp and ready when the curtains flew open to reveal you in the center of a rink, spotlight making you shine. Natasha tried not to straighten too noticeably.

The person at her right leaned in, elbow brushing hers.

"Hey, isn't that the skater? The one that always looks like she's debating whether killing or fucking you before your practice?" Clint - God help her, her best friend - asked in a genuine curious tone, skilled eyes narrowing in recognition.

"Hey, language!" Steve mouthed from his side, getting completely ignored by Clint.

Natasha shot her best friend a withering look, her lips twitching in that way they did when she was one second from flipping someone over. And she could - he knew.

"No. Shut up, Barton." She muttered but did not look away from the ice for too long. You were already moving.

He chuckled, not unkindly.

"Hey, I'm just pointing out a fact," he replied with a playful grin. "I'm pretty sure she thinks you're the bane of her existence or something. Too bad, she's kinda your type."

Natasha rolled her eyes - but there was an edge of fondness in it as she pushed his face away from hers with a huff.

"She's not my type." She insisted - a little too quickly. She could feel his gaze lingering on the side of her face, knowing he was trying to read her. He gave her a look like he had just hit a bullseye without even trying.

Damn him for being good at that.

"Right, and I'm not the best archer this town has ever seen." He grinned, smug and happy.

"Meh. Kate's better." She muttered, but the corner of her mouth curled upward anyway. She let her own gaze slide back to the rink where you continued to grace the ice, skating with effortless grace.

Kate, on his other side, grinned like it was the first day of Christmas and she had just been handed the best gift.

Clint gasped, looking truly offended.

"You did not-"

"Deal with it." Natasha fired back, too preoccupied by you on the ice to care about the look on Clint's face. Her breath caught when you landed your axel clean, the motion precise and sharp like you had cut through the sky itself.

And then - too soon - before she knew it, the curtain fell.

That was two days ago.

And Natasha had not seen you since.

Until today.

Most students had already left for the holidays, scattered back to homes across the country.

But not Natasha.

She was not leaving for another couple of days. And apparently you did not leave either because here you were.

In the cozy student commons, run by a kind old man named Stan who had sent a campus-wide email earlier inviting stragglers to warm drinks and leftover cookies. The fireplace crackled, and the room smelled like peppermint and cinnamon.

You were curled up on a couch, book in hand, a thick blanket over your legs. A mug of cocoa steamed gently on the table beside you.

You had not expected her to find you again.

But she did.

No skates this time. Just boots, jeans, hoodie. And that signature Romanoff silence.

She stood across from you, like she was not sure if she was allowed to sit.

You had not noticed her enter but you felt her presence - that quiet kind of gravity that only came with Natasha Romanoff.

You looked up, blinking once.

"Oh, hi..." You said, silently shifting your legs to make room on the deep red couch you were laying on.

"Mind if I sit?" She asked, her voice lower than usual, almost careful. Like she was not sure what kind of answer you would give.

You nodded toward the space beside you without speaking.

Natasha lowered herself at a respectable distance, not too close. But close enough that the warmth from her hoodie brushed against your blanket.

She took a sip of her drink; peppermint hot chocolate, with the tiniest melted marshmallow caught in the corner of her mouth - Stan’s special.

"You looked good," she said finally, eyes on the fire. "At the show, I mean. You looked really good."

You smiled faintly, pursing your lips as you felt the light rosy color arrive high on your cheeks. You did not try to fight it.

"Was that another compliment, Romanoff? Careful, you're starting to get good at giving them." You replied teasingly, giving her an amused look.

She shot you a sideways smirk, the one that you hated to love, her long lashes lowering as she took another sip.

"You be careful. ‘Cause if you keep smiling at me like that and I might start thinking you like my compliments."

Then she leaned back, just slightly, close enough that her shoulder brushed yours.

You shook your head, huffing, your fingertip brushing the cover of your book absently.

"I didn't think you'd be there."

Natasha shrugged, looking at you with those bright eyes of hers.

She took another slow sip of her drink as she observed you above the rim, her head lolling against the back of the couch once she was done.

Her smirk widened.

"Of course. I’m your number one fan."

You hated - absolutely hated - the way your heart jumped at that. Because it was so Natasha: teasing without being mean, her demeanor arrogant without being aggressive. She had a way of getting under your skin that made you feel like you were standing on thin ice, with a crack starting somewhere below your ribs.

You looked away from her, watching the flames dance and thought about all the evenings she showed up early at the rink. All the times she watched quietly from the side before stepping onto the glass with her signature smirk and fierce eyes. All the sarcastic comments that never felt mean, even if they were sharp. So, was she? Was she your number one fan? Was the teasing comment only that, a teasing comment? Wasn't this more than you both pretended it was? Were the heated, shared glances just that? Were the urges to shut her up more times than not with your own lips a normal reaction?

The fire crackled, casting shadows that flickered across her face and yours. She observed you watch the flames, like she was trying to read every thought behind your eyes.

She smiled faintly, silence stretching.

"You ever skated outside?"

You turned around, lost for a second, getting out of your head with a slight shake of it.

"Like... a frozen lake?" You frowned, not sure to follow.

Natasha nodded, swirling the rest of her hot chocolate in the mug.

The fire continued to crackle between the two of you, a quiet, steady sound like a heartbeat.

"Yeah, exactly that." She said it casually, but there was a new gleam in her green eyes. A gleam you were slowly getting more familiar with every time she looked at you.

"No."

Natasha nodded slowly, savoring with a smile like she won at a game you were not aware of playing.

"Good," she said, then slowly she stood. "Come on."

You blinked, looking up at her with a suspicious expression.

"...What?"

She held out her hand, warm and certain and smirked like it was a challenge she had already won as well.

"I know a place."

"Natasha," you sighed, eyes narrowing. "I’m not in the mood for vague cryptic Romanoff bullshit." You said, trying to put more distance between you by tugging on the blanket as if it could somehow protect you of her charms.

She leaned down, just slightly, eyes locked onto yours with that maddening confidence.

"Then be in the mood," she replied, voice low and playful. "I’m serious, though," her tone softened just enough to make you pause. "It’s worth it. Promise."

Her hand stayed there, outstretched, waiting. Like she knew you would take it in the end.

"Or, you know, stay here and freeze your toes off reading about other people’s adventures instead of making your own."

You stared at her for a beat longer, the usual push and pull thrumming between the two of you like static. She was infuriating. Confident in a way you did not always trust. Lazy about things you worked your ass off for. But she had been quieter since your show.

You hated how much you noticed.

And maybe it was the way she looked at you right now - something almost gentle under that cool, amused exterior - that made you do something stupid.

You trusted her.

"...Fine," you muttered, pushing the book and blanket away before grabbing your coat laying on the backrest of the couch. "But if I die out there, I’m haunting you." You added, letting your hand join hers.

She smirked, satisfied. Her hand closed around yours like a warm vice. Her skin was a little rougher than expected and her palm was just a little calloused on the underside.

"Deal." She said, her smile widening as she pulled you to your feet, fingers still holding tightly to yours.

The place turned out to be about a ten-ish minute walk from campus - minus both stops to grab your skates - through a trail behind the athletic center that curved into the woods. There was no path, not really, just a winding trail of boot prints and old, half-melted snow.

Natasha carried both sets of skates by their laces in one hand, the other still loosely clasped around yours - even after you had put on gloves.

Neither of you mentioned it.

Eventually, the trees opened up to a small clearing and beyond it, a wide, frozen lake. With one single lamp flickering like it was fighting for its last breath.

The moon hung low and full above the treetops, casting silver light across the ice. It looked like something out of a snow globe: silent, pristine, shimmering under the stars. And not a single soul around.

You stopped at the edge, breath caught in your throat.

"Oh, wow. That's beautiful, Natasha."

She watched you pause, something softening in her gaze as you stood there at the edge of the lake under the silver light.

The snow was crisp under her feet as she moved to stand beside you. She looked from the lake up to the sky at the stars that glittered like little diamond pinpricks in the endless black.

"Yeah," she murmured quietly, her own breath ghosting out in front of her. "It is."

It was easy to forget the school behind you, or tomorrow's problems, or that the world was anything more than this moment.

You sat beside each other on a half-buried tree trunk to lace your skates.

"Do you come here a lot?" You asked, trying to sound casual.

She hummed, lacing up her shoes with quiet efficiency. She looked over when you shifted beside her to do the same. Her gaze lingered on your hands, nimble and quick with the laces.

"Sometimes. When I need to clear my head. Don't wanna think."

Natasha's fingers brushed yours as she finished tying her other laces. It was an innocent, almost unintentional touch. But it still sent a tiny buzz up your arm, electric and alive.

The admission surprised you.

But before you could think of an answer, she was already stepping onto the ice, her skates clicking softly against it.

You finished, giving both your skates a little tap each before standing up, eyes locking with hers, smiles matching.

"I'm not sure this isn’t sanctioned by the academy..." You muttered.

A smirk curled at the corner of her mouth, somewhere between a little amused and a little smug. She skated backward on the ice, arms behind her back as she tilted her head, watching you carefully.

"I won’t tell if you won’t." She drawled, raising a brow in question.

She looked effortless, standing before you under the shimmering moonlight. Like a goddess from out of a fantasy, all confidence and power and elegance.

She was so stupidly beautiful.

You could not help but let out a quiet laugh, and it surprised both of you.

Natasha blinked at the sound and froze for half a second, like she had not known you could make a noise so unguarded.

Then her smirk softened into something quieter. Warmer.

You joined her on the ice and Natasha instructed you the spaces to avoid the few bumps here and there.

And then, you skated. But this time, it was different.

Not a performance. Not training.

The two of you just... skated. Freestyle. A few turns. A long glide. Something unchoreographed.

You saw her matching your speed out of the corner of your eye. And for a while you were just moving together.

Like dancers.

Soft smiles exchanged and longing glances.

Your heart beat faster, but you told yourself it was just the cold. And that even if you could feel the shift in the air, nothing to do with the weather but everything to do with what was happening between you.

Natasha was skating circles around you, literally, at first.

She did not say anything. Just passed close enough that you could hear the subtle shift of air as she moved. Her presence was impossible to ignore, it always was, even when she was not speaking. It was like trying to ignore the storm while standing in the middle of it.

She coasted behind you, her silhouette slipping into your peripheral vision and vanishing again like a shadow.

You hated how aware of her you were. How your skin buzzed every time she came near - and that since the very beginning.

You turned on your heel and pushed off, catching up to her with a practiced flick of your blades.

Natasha watched you close the distance between you, eyebrows raising in amusement. She skated backward, a lazy, easy glide, the wind playing with the strands of hair that slipped out of her beanie.

"I didn’t bring you here to race, you know." She said, a little softer now.

"Then why?" You smiled, loosening your pace to talk without screaming against the wind to be heard.

She slowed down as well, skating side by side. Her eyes were bright in the moonlight, reflecting the stars around you. Her expression was more open now, almost soft, which was a rarity in itself.

"To see you like this."

You frowned, slowing to a glide.

"Like what?"

Natasha did not answer at first, just skated in front of you, arms folded loosely, her body language easy, controlled. Dangerous in how good she was at hiding things.

"I don’t know... You’re always in control," she said finally. "Under pressure all the time. Out there? In training, in class, on the rink. You don’t let anyone close, not really. But when you skate for yourself... when no one’s watching..." Natasha trailed off, making a gesture towards you with her hand. Her voice dipped.

"You’re stunning."

There was no teasing in her voice now. No cocky smirk.

Just honesty.

The words hung between you like the fog of your breath in the cold.

You stopped moving entirely, your skates scraping gently to a halt.

She stopped too, turning around to face you better. Her expression was still oddly soft, like she forgot to put up the mask of arrogance she always wore, like she made up her mind and decided not to wear it around you any more.

The wind stirred, ruffling through her hair and yours, carrying the crisp smell of winter with it. The soft snowflakes followed, flickering on their way down.

You did not answer, not with words at least. You could not.

Your body moved before you let yourself take time to overthink it all, shifting closer, blades aligning with hers as you both began to skate again, slow and quiet.

And then side by side.

Every turn, every pivot, every crossing of your paths felt like a silent conversation. The sound of your blades was like a shared heartbeat, rising and falling in sync.

Natasha would get ahead of you, then slow down just enough for your gloved hands to brush. You would match her pace without meaning to. Then you would drift apart on the curves, draw close again in the straightaways, until your shoulders almost touched.

And in those nearly-silent moments; passing glances, caught breaths, the electric awareness of closeness not yet acted on - it felt like the space between you hummed.

At one point, she spun lazily ahead, then looked over her shoulder to see if you were following. Of course you were.

Her eyes locked onto yours, and something in your chest twisted. She did not say another word, but it was all there, plain as day. The tension, the ache, the mutual question hanging in the cold.

Were you ready to do this?

The moment stretched thin. So charged it could snap.

You moved toward her again, but this time she did not move away. She stopped entirely, eyebrows raised.

You came to a stop directly in front of her, your hands loose at your sides.

You could see the way her eyelashes caught the moonlight. The way her lips parted slightly, like she was about to say something but did not.

"Thanks for this." You said, a tentative smile on your lips.

Something flickered in her eyes, gone again too fast for you to know what it was.

Natasha smirked then, that familiar, charming, infuriating smile that made your pulse quicken.

She reached up and gently wiped a stray flake of snow off your cheek. The motion was slow, soft.

She reached into the pocket of her jacket then, pulling out something tiny.

Mistletoe...?

"Seriously?" You asked in a flat tone, eyes narrowing. But you could not hide the way your breath hitched.

Natasha did not say anything, just held it above both your heads with her charming smile that always annoyed you to no end.

Her gaze never left yours as she twirled the little green leaves in her fingers.

You stood still, waiting. She did not lean in. She did not move or talk.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" You whispered, eyebrows raised expectantly.

And now she moved.

Her free hand found your waist, squeezing it gently, her touch warm even through the layers of fabric separating you.

"Permission."

The word did not match her smirk - it was said too gently, too honest - and it hit you like a blade to the ribs.

You shook your head, because gosh, you wanted to close the space. You wanted to taste what it was like when that smirk melted away. One of your hands curled into the fabric of her coat to tug her closer.

And then her lips were on yours - soft, almost hesitant, but undeniably hers.

Not a crash. Not a brush.

Just a gentle, perfect landing.

"I’ve wanted to do that since the first time you told me off." Natasha whispered against your mouth, her free hand gently cupping your cheek, the pad of her thumb carefully brushing the heat of your cheekbone.

You pretended to scoff, but you melted. Both your hands cupped her warm cheeks to guide her face back to yours, lips meeting in another kiss.

She deepened it immediately, tilting her head to the side and pulling you closer, her warm fingers now gripping the back of your waist.

She tasted like cocoa with a hint of vanilla and snow.

Her heart was pounding, her chest squeezing, asking for more air. But she still took her time, her lips moving soft yet sure against yours. Like she imagined it too many times and knew exactly what to do.

She kept the mistletoe above both your heads the whole time, though.

Christmas had never been her favorite season.

But this year... Well, she was starting to change her mind.

Your feet slid over one another racing to the front doors in a jog. Another wave of guilt washed over you for the tenth time tonight for being, what was it now-- an hour late to dinner? How your lovely, saint of a husband worked endlessly to make your homestead full of comfort and homeliness-- and yet you couldn’t make it in time for a meal he had spent endlessly curating. You would beat yourself over the head if you had a moment to spare.

But there was nothing you could do to turn back the time, to slide any quicker on the glassy, frozen ground. Tripping to race up to the door, you fumbled over stone steps in impatience.

The delicately carved door handle was just as cold as the tip of your nose was, hardly putting up a fight as you pulled it toward you. The door opened with a breeze of thick comfort blowing against exposed skin unveiled on your body. Warmth and the smell of a working oven flooded to the points of your cheeks, the door’s creaky nature betraying you as it let the other resident of the house know of your return home. 

This would be the part where you shout “Honey, I’m home!”

But you’re given no time, no time at all. A crackling fire fills your ears, the sudden appearance of a dastardly large silhouette clouding your vision of the kitchen table, plates upon plates decorating a tablecloth you knew so well.

“It’s nine.” His voice relented, the emotion detected and yet hard to describe as you look up to read his face. 

His cheeks are tinted a slight red, as if he had been outside in the cold, waiting for you. 

“It is; I’m sorry, Cirdan. I really thought I'd get here sooner, we were trying to wait out the snow. And, well.. That didn’t really do much.”

His eyes were full of thought, expression in their hardened lids and watery irises. Being late for things seemed to be your specialty. It broke your heart into desperate pieces when you saw the look on his face-- hardly concerned with the cold food, but locked on to you to see what had gone wrong, if you were hurt, what he could do to fix it all. 

“Don’t apologize. I’m just.. So glad you’re home.” He genuinely sounded relieved, a rough stutter you hadn’t heard in a long time, if not ever before. 

His body, so untraditional to what elves were expected to be, came forward to hold you just as gracefully as any normal, lean and tall version of the creature would. But he was all brawn-- a hard and heated rock that snug itself tight against you. A thick hand made its way into your hair to press the top of your head to his pointed nose. 

His taut inhale was shaky, white strands of hair much longer than your own crowding your view. 

“I was nearly about to go out there and find you myself. It’s no place for you to be, out there in the snow. Cold and alone.”

It sounded as if he had scared himself with anxiety-ridden thoughts about where you were in your tardiness. 

“I know.” You muffled against his chest, the wool of his sweater smelling like sweet potatoes and rosemary. 

If it were anyone else you’d be embarrassed to press your head deeper, to lean into the touch so clearly full of desire. But you knew no other way to make up for all that you had done. Your briefcase bag fell to the floor, crumpled and forgotten. 

The affection was so tender you nearly forgot about the sensation of frostbite clawing at your fingernails and the aching in your stomach. It resounded out in the room with an acidic gurgle, forcing your body to go rigid with a mix of exhaustion and embarrassment. 

You could feel the soundless laugh Cirdan let out through the shake in his body-- his warm, scarred arms your safe space. Even the apron two sizes too small on him smelled of sweets. It  hugged him enough for you to feel the ridges underneath his sweater. 

“Are you hungry?” He asked, gently releasing you from his stroking bear hug. 

“You have to ask?” You mumbled, still somewhat embarrassed by your show of weakness. You were supposed to be the strong one, carrying out the toughness of reality and endless meetings between the human and elven realm, while your unconventional elf husband finally had a chance in his brutality to rest, to be easy and let his heart and scars heal. But you were only human. 

“I kept it warm for you, wasn’t sure when you’d be back.”

 Your chest ached at those words.

You were tempted to let out another ‘you don’t have to do that’ or ‘you should’ve just left it in the fridge’, but it would only serve to dishearten him even more. 

“Thank you,” Was all you could half-heartedly murmur, looking up to stare at him. 

His hair fell sloppy along his face, snowy locks hiding his grey, blinded eye. He had started letting it show in privacy, when scrubbing the stove oven or reading in his colossal wine-red chair, black specs you called his ‘old man glasses’ falling off his nose. You pushed the heavy strands behind his pointed ear, letting your hand slide down the curve of his jaw. 

Cirdan merely smiled longingly, crinkling at his eyes and gazing at you as if you were all the stars in the sky held in front of him. He leaned just slightly into your touch, its coldness offering a stark contrast to his warm, honey skin. 

“Go, sit by the fire. I’ll bring your dinner.”

You were again ready to protest, but an intensely soft fleece blanket was draped over your head, covering from your forehead to your calves. It was originally made for your husband, twice any human’s size and still long enough to cover his shoulders. Cirdan had turned to the loveseat beside him to grab it, leaving you to buckle under the weight of swarms of fabric as he moved toward the kitchen. Blindly, you made your way to the orange glow in the middle of the room, bright flames caressing freshly chopped oak.

The corners of your home closest to the outside world had a chilled air of ice, but within the middle was where the heat resided, beckoning you to the fireplace onto a small elk hide rug. 

Cirdan’s footsteps upon the soft kitchen floor came toward you, steam rising from the plate held in his hands. He seemed so relaxed, shoulders drooped and yet posture enviously perfect, an effect of having an elven spine and ruthless upbringing. His loose sweater was soft on his carved shoulders, reminding you of your shared cozy bed-- of his body radiating glowy warmth against you, rustling sheets tangled as you push deeper against the crook of his neck.

But your stomach was too insatiable for anything other than food right now, even warmth. The herby, peppery scent brought drool to your mouth, looking at the elf with wide eyes in hungry desperation. 

“It’s hot, let it cool off for a second.” Cirdan blows on the mouth-watering food as he hands the plate to you with a potholder on its lip, protecting you from the heat. He is quick to grab a pillow and place it in your lap, gently letting the plate rest.  “I kind of went overboard; something in me felt like cooking tonight... We can give the leftovers to the neighbors.”

“No!” You shout territorily, covering your plate as if he were ready to steal it from you. “It's mine to eat, I mean.” 

You don’t leave room for the conversation to continue, shoveling a forkful of well-seasoned vegetables in your mouth. The moment a green bean touches your tongue you realize your mistake. 

“Haw, hawt!” 

Your open mouth does a dance as you try to fan the heat, so eager to eat that you forgot to heed his warning. 

“I told you!” Cirdan exclaims, a laugh escaping him as he reaches for a glass of water on the table behind him. “I guess my intuition knew you’d try something like that.”

You take the glass with unheeded swiftness, letting lukewarm water settle in your fiery mouth. 

A hesitant swallow leaves your tongue numb and your hunger yet to be filled.

You reach for another bite, this time for a heap of buttery mash potatoes, soft and fluffy like the piles of snow outside yet starkly contrasted in their steamy heat. 

You know better now, blowing on the fork before taking a hesitant, small bite. 

Cirdan merely gives you a watchful, entertained grin. He doesn’t have the pompous smirk of most elves you’ve met with, but instead a full, close-lipped smile that reaches to his sharp eyes, his uncharacteristically full cheeks rising, his face slim and etched like the rest of his kind yet with more ruggedness and expression in it, remnants of a jagged past etched into his skin. 

“I’th really good.” You cover your full mouth, singing his praises with potato and sweet, savory bread in between. 

“I’m glad you like it,” The comment he passes hardly utters any attention to what you say, instead busy watching you consume like a ravenous animal. Cirdan brushes back hair that falls close to your plate, stroking just gently a thumb over your cheek. 

You swallow a few more bites before you feel the ache in your stomach subside. The intense way the elf keeps looking at you is not unforeign, but you still have yet to be comfortable with it. 

“Thank you for the food,” You wipe your mouth with your sleeve, hoping you weren’t too many levels of disheveled. “but, I have another favor to ask.”

“Hm?”

You witness in his eyes the willingness, eagerness to see what you desire. 

“Let me brush your hair?” 

Cirdan’s lips part in an ‘o’, before returning to the usual gentle hardness of his face.

“That’s all? I thought you were ready for dessert.” 

The elf lets out a stifled laugh, deep and bouncing off the small cabin walls in pure delight.

You shoot a self-conscious gaze at him, lips half upturned in a hidden smile; you’re not sure whether to laugh or bashfully tell him nevermind.

“You know you don’t have to ask. I was waiting until you were done to clean myself up--” He turns to the side, opening a stool compartment stuffed with a myriad of little things from nail polish to old lighters. His gentle hands searched for a delicate hairbrush, elven in the intricacy of its design and dwarven in its robusticity. The curving vines against the brushes ivory skin along with its weighty hold made it a piece of craftsmanship worthy of generational pass-down. 

 He takes your plate fit for kings off of your lap, moving it to the floor closest to the fireplace. In this house, everytime you attempt to do something, it seems to be done at-hand immediately before you can think to move. 

Cirdan wordlessly hands you the brush, tender fire under his palm gliding over the icicles you called fingers.

You attempt to scoot behind him, blanket nearly falling from your shoulders to do so, but the elf catches you. 

“I’m not letting you freeze to death on my behalf first,” He grunts, grabbing your hands in a chokehold. “You're practically frozen my love.” 

The tendrils of his fingers wrapping over your own were akin to hot coils, oddly welcoming and conflicting to your body void of warm blood. 

“Your behalf? I’m the one who suggested the idea!” You shake your head in mild disbelief. “Besides, being near the fire is warming me up. I’ll be unfrozen soon.”

Your airy voice is sarcastic and not nearly as teeth-chattering as it once had been-- yet still, Cirdan huffed over your fingertips, letting out heavy breaths to warm the parts of you that were yet to be anything but icy. 

“You aren’t going to win this fight.” He looked up at you, a serious furrow of his brows, “I won’t lose you to such simplicities of frostbite, you’re too precious.”

Oof. Right in the heart. Everytime you see his resting brooding face like that your chest lurches in worry--- but then he’ll say something so sweet in sincerity that you want to collapse into a puddle.

You open and close your mouth like a gaping fish, unsure what to say to beat, or even match that. 

The elf deeply exhales once more against your trembling fingers, letting silence float between you with the sound of crackling flames flickering in between. 

With a final heavy breath against your knuckles, he straightens your fingers out, placing them over his heated cheeks. Even with the ridges of bone and scar on his face, he was squishy and pliant like a human. Your thumb brushed against the healed tissue leading from the bridge of his nose to his blinding eye, relishing in the slow blinks he gave. He looked… tired, and yet full of comforting bliss. You break the silence with an anxious swallow.

“I can't believe this.. you should be scolding me, making me eat cold leftovers in a dark room for being late, once again. Instead you're welcoming with open arms and a full stomach? I just don't get you; I don't know if I ever will.” 

You smile a little sadly, grateful and mystified.

“Maybe you won't understand it,” Cirdan moves his lips to your palm, nudging it with a kiss. “but it's what I'd want.”

You did understand that. All those nights he laid in the cold snow after throwing himself against battalions as a living shield, coming home to an even colder room, eating alone and wondering if anyone was thinking of him. If he meant anything more than a body to be used. He wouldn't let you feel that way, if he could help it.

You nuzzled so hard against his face it made you both scrunch up your noses. 

“Oh I just-- wish I could stick you in my pocket and never let you go-- never let you feel anything but warmth and softness and love again.”

Cirdan grinned, his expression practically basking in the adoration. 

“You don’t know how good it feels to hear you say that.” 

You kiss him rough, not caring if the temperature difference sparks you both, making your noses tingle with electricity and your lips buzz. With gentle encouragement your hands holding his face might lead elsewhere, but tonight you wanted to show him the chaste devotion, the love he deserved in any way you knew how. Cirdan was fervent with his kiss, though he still seemed concerned with your warmth as his hands searched blindly for the blanket slipping from your back. 

You roll your eyes, letting your lips fall away with a warm breath. You're quick to get back to what you want, the task at hand.

“We're getting off track-- will you let me brush your hair now? I promise I won't freeze you with my icicle fingers.”

You drum your fingers against the sides of his cheeks, watching as he reaches for the forgotten brush on the rug, slightly dazed. You leave the tepidness of his face to snatch it with playful ease, ushering him to turn around.

“All right, all right, my love,” He concedes with a sigh. “Whatever you desire.” 

You grasp the edges of his messy hair as he faces away from you, pulling out the slipping black elastic band to let the rest of it fall; It’s gently knotted at the tips, but the rest of it still holds a sleek shine created from fine, thick strands and patient washing. 

“It’s my turn to take care of you..” You mumble, holding a fistful of silvery white strands with a calm stroke of the brush. The rhythm lulls you into a peacefulness, listening to the flickers of fire in front of you, the gentle snowfall from outside your little world of warmth and coziness. The blanket falls to your elbows-- you don’t go to fix it, so enraptured with the task at hand. 

Cirdan begins to hum just the slightest, his eyes shut in a stoney, calm expression that you can see if you tip just slightly sideways. It was a solemnly elven tune, and yet it slowed your heart so simply that you felt a wash of nostalgia and ease run through you. 

You’d saved up for the past year to afford to pay your share of the cabin the gang was renting over Christmas. One weekend in the Smoky Mountains – it wasn’t the height of luxury, but it was six hours from Hawkins. After the year you’d all had, you needed the escape. 

Just you, Nancy, Robin, Vickie, and Steve – one big dysfunctional family. That’s what you thought you signed up for, so it pissed you off when everyone but Nancy bailed. Steve had some Dustin emergency to tend to, and Robin didn’t want to leave him to deal with it by himself. And, of course, Vickie went everywhere Robin did.  "It's supposed to snow pretty heavy, too," they'd said.

“Isn’t the entire point of this trip to get away from the drama and neverending horrors?" you huffed, slinging your duffel bag in Nancy’s station wagon. "And who doesn't want to see snow on Christmas?” You didn’t care if there was a fucking blizzard; you would rather be stuck in the mountains than around the dinner table with people trying to pretend everything was normal. Or worse – breaking down like Joyce did over Bob, sobbing into the mashed potatoes. 

Nancy was quiet, loading the car with far more suitcases than was necessary. She pursed her lips, and her brow furrowed like it always did when she was trying to find the words to say something difficult. 

“It’s just that… Well, Dustin was hit harder than anyone by this, and he doesn’t have another adult male figure in his life,” she said quietly. “Not anymore.” 

Shit. 

“Nance,” you said, sliding into the passenger seat, “it’s not that I don’t care about the kid. I just wish–” Your eyes stung with unshed tears. “I wish he’d stop haunting me.” Eddie was your best friend, and no one could stop talking about what a hero he was. The same town that formed a witch hunt against him, the fucking reason he died, was now insisting he was a saint. He would’ve laughed in their faces. 

Nancy didn’t say another word about it, but she did give your leg a comforting squeeze before backing out of the driveway. The warmth from her fingers on your thigh lingered long after she’d taken her hand away. 

The cabin was warm, cozy, and more spacious than you expected. The glow of the flames in the fireplace made the pine paneled walls shine, and the mountains themselves were picturesque. You weren’t the type of person who tended to stare in awe of nature, but Nancy was. You found yourself watching her instead. A grin lit up her face when you stood on the balcony together and looked out over the horizon. 

“I’m glad we still decided to come,” she murmured, her delicate fingers clutching the railing. “I hope I remembered to pack the camera.” While she rushed inside to rummage around in one of her many pieces of luggage, you allowed yourself a moment of weakness. A couple of tears slipped down your cheek and you wiped them away hastily. The chill December air bit into your damp skin and brought you back to the present, just in time for her to saunter back out. 

“Smile!” Nancy said, clicking the shutter on her Polaroid camera before you could react. She couldn’t help but crack up when the photo developed and revealed you standing there in front of that gorgeous view, scowling. She recreated it – tried, anyway. Just before you snapped the picture, she burst into peals of laughter. The contrast was ridiculous. One deadpan, the other laughing so hard she was blurry. The corners of your mouth twitched up into what almost  passed for a smirk; she was impressed. 

“Well, well – looks like the infamous (y/n) isn’t unbreakable after all.” That earned her another scathing look but you didn’t really mean it. You just knew that if you did anything else, you might confide in her that you’d already been broken for a while. 

“C’mon, Nance, don’t waste any more film on me.” You headed inside before she could argue. 

Although the two of you made a valiant effort at small talk, you eventually ran out of things to say. Nancy brought board games, which might’ve been a real icebreaker, but none of them were meant for two. Nothing on this trip was. The cabin slept six people and the walls seemed to echo in a lonely way. It’s not that you two had never spoken in depth about anything before, but you’d never been alone together. It created a funny sort of tension you couldn’t shake. 

She busied herself with unpacking her things in the bedroom closest to the den while you searched through the tapes stacked next to the stereo. Most of them were lame, but Nancy loved sappy romantic ballads even though she pretended not to. You decided on some compilation, a mixtape titled “Honeymooners.” 

Gods above. Could it get any cornier?

You shook your head and smiled before popping it in. When you turned back around, Nancy was watching from the doorway. Both of you turned away at the same time. “I was just–”

“Yeah, music is a good–” 

The dam broke, and you laughed for the first time in months. It surprised you and you choked on your own breath, earning more giggles from Nancy. Suddenly, the cabin didn’t feel quite as empty as it had when you arrived. 

You watched a movie together after dinner – It’s A Wonderful Life. Nancy was watching with a thoughtful look on her face; you were just trying to make it through without thinking of Eddie too much. It’s not that he’d have liked the movie – he would’ve gagged at the mere thought of sitting through it. But it got to you when the guy’s guardian angel showed him how much worse life would be for everyone without him. 

“Hey. We can turn it off if you want,” Nancy said softly. You didn’t realize she’d been watching you, that she’d notice anything was off even if she looked. When you didn’t respond, she pressed the power button and stood up, smoothing down her pajamas like she was headed somewhere important. That was her – polished and pretty no matter what. During the battle against Vecna, she was the only one still wearing makeup. 

“C’mon, let’s see if it’s snowing yet.” She reached for your hand; you hesitated. “I don’t bite.” She flashed that perfect smile again and it was like gravity, pulling you into her orbit. You reached out. 

Just as your fingers touched, the lights flickered. Your hands clasped tightly; Nancy was shaking. Someone else may not have known. Someone from her college would probably think she was just afraid of the dark…but you knew. You remembered the way the lights flickered and burst all over town just before the rift opened in the ground and swallowed people up like a monstrous maw. The electricity going haywire meant one thing in Hawkins – evil was near. 

“Hey, it’s probably just the weather,” you whispered, squeezing her hand gently. Your words soothed her, and her fingers were steadier laced with yours. She nodded and took a deep breath. 

“Right. It has to be. It has to.” You knew she was trying hard to convince herself. In truth, you had to see it for yourself to keep your own rising panic at bay. Hand in hand, you made your way to the window. 

Nancy breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the fluffy white flakes drifting down. It must have been happening for a while; the balcony was already blanketed with a thick layer of snow. 

“Shit.” There was a new sort of danger to contend with. Mother Nature wasn’t Vecna; She was a lot scarier. “Do you think we’ll get trapped here?” you asked. Nancy’s brow creased again and she chewed on her lip, a nervous habit. 

“If we do, at least we have plenty of food and wood for the fire.” Her features smoothed back out and she perked up. There was an undercurrent of anxiety she couldn’t hide, though. You were both still spooked and jumpy. Someone had to break the spell.

Her cheeks were flushed pink from the wine you brought and the heat of the fireplace, and you could see hints of copper in her hair you’d never noticed before. The power died about two hours before, only a few minutes after the flickering began. 

“So, (y/n),” Nancy started. “Truth or dare?” 

“Um, dare.” The truth was the last thing you wanted to talk about. It would spoil the moment. “Am I gonna regret this?” you groaned, sliding your hand down your face. If you didn’t pretend to be apprehensive, she’d notice something was off again. 

“I dare you to, hmm…oh, I know! I dare you to kiss that mounted bear head,” she said. She giggled and hiccupped – and with that adorable display, how could you say no? Besides, it was way safer territory. 

“Poor guy was probably just trying to find berries and now he’s being kissed by a drunk idiot.” You gave the big dusty thing a smooch right on the nose and patted its head. You wiped your mouth and made a face. “That thing is musty and disgusting. I was very brave for that, you know.” Nancy snorted and rolled her eyes. 

“Like you haven’t kissed worse,” she quipped. 

You went quiet and still. For once, Nancy didn’t pick up on it. She was tipsy and in a much better mood than she’d been when she was shaking and pale in the dark. “I mean, you’ve gotta admit it. There have been times where Eddie’s been mustier than the bear.” She laughed and covered her hand with her mouth. “Sorry, that was mean.” 

“I…Nance, I’ve never–”

She sobered quickly. “Oh. You never kissed Eddie? I’m sorry, you guys were just so close. I thought…God, I’m an idiot.” 

“No. I mean…I’ve never kissed anyone,” you mumbled. Your cheeks burned and you curled in on yourself. It was just one of many milestones you’d never experienced, and you’d only ever told Eddie why. 

Her lips parted and she stammered. “Wh-what? I mean – you don’t – there’s no way – I mean, come on–” “Yeah, well, the dating pool isn’t exactly teeming with people I can kiss in Hawkins,” you scoffed. You weren’t thinking. The words just rushed out, embarrassed and prideful. The last thing you wanted was Nancy pitying or humoring you. 

“Sure there are!” she said, still oblivious. “I mean, maybe you were just too busy to notice,” she said, searching for anything encouraging to give you. 

“Can we just drop it?” Your voice came out harsher than you meant it to, and you instantly regretted it. Nancy’s face fell and she cast her eyes down at the floor. Your heart sank and you scrambled to make up for it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap like that. I just… it’s complicated, okay?” 

She didn’t say anything. Each second that ticked by made you feel worse. You were tired of everything coming back to the one person whose absence felt like a hole punched through your chest… the ghost you left the state to escape – and you only lashed out because you were terrified to tell her the truth. It wasn’t her fault. 

Fucking idiot. What’s your problem? It’s Nancy! 

That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? It’s her. 

Your brain was at war with your heart, and it was maddening to just sit there and see that wounded look on her face. You felt frozen and helpless. That’s when a memory floated to the surface, unbidden. 

Eddie stood in the kitchen nursing a beer while you lounged on the threadbare couch pillows. You stared at the ceiling and noticed a small water stain beginning to form. You’d have to do something about that before it got worse. 

“You know you can tell her, right?” he said, crossing one lanky leg over the other. 

“Tell her what?” You played dumb, because of course you did. He snorted, set the bottle on the counter, and flopped onto your legs like a jackass.

“You know what, asshole. That you like her. I may not be the brightest bat in the cave, but I’d have to be braindead not to notice the way you stare at her.” You glared at him, but you were blushing. That goofy, crooked grin spread across his face and he pointed in your face. “Aha! I knew it. You like Nancy Wheeler. You wanna kiss Little Miss Prom Queen!” 

You sat up and punched him in the arm. 

“Ow! Okay, okay, you hate her! She’s the worst and you wanna puke when you think about her! Happy?” You glared again and crossed your arms over your chest. 

“Jerk.”  

Eddie’s smile returned and he waggled his eyebrows. “Yeah, but you love me.” 

“Keep dreaming, Munson.” 

“Truth or dare?” Nancy asked in a low voice, pulling you out of the past. It was a test and you knew it. 

“Truth.” Your heart was pounding against your ribcage and it was like you couldn’t breathe. She nodded. It was what she was hoping to hear. 

“What’s so complicated about never having been kissed?” she asked. She looked up and held eye contact, refusing to back off. Nancy wasn’t the type of person who’d budge after she made up her mind to ask the hard questions. That’s what made her such a good journalist. 

You thought about Robin and Vickie and how she never once judged them. They’d kissed in front of the whole group lots of times. It was safe to tell her. She didn’t need to know everything, but you could give her most of the truth. 

“Nance…I’m a lesbian.” 

She opened her mouth to speak and then snapped it shut again. She tried again. “So, um, like Robin?” You nodded and tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. There was nothing you could think of to say in reply that didn’t make you want to hurl yourself off the balcony. 

“Oh,” she whispered. “I see.” You squeezed your eyes shut. There were so many questions bouncing around in your mind; it was hard to concentrate. 

Does she think I’m creepy for agreeing to be alone with her now? Does she think I’m trying to hit on her? You knew your thoughts were ridiculous but you couldn’t shut them off. Your body rocked back and forth with anxiety. 

You smelled her perfume before you saw her. It was sweet and comforting. You recognized it as the one in the teddy bear decanter Steve had gotten her for her birthday years ago. When her fingers lightly traced down your arm, your eyelids fluttered open. The path she drew tingled pleasantly; you shivered and she leaned in. 

“(Y/n?)” she murmured. “It’s your turn to ask me.” You felt the warmth of her breath fan across your cheek. 

I have to be dreaming. This doesn’t make any goddamn sense! You felt like you were losing your mind. You pinched yourself just to be certain – sure enough, she was still sitting there, staring at you expectantly. 

You had to clear your throat before you could get the words out. 

“Truth…or dare?” you asked, your voice shaky. She didn’t answer at first; she just gazed at you with heavy-lidded eyes and a lazy smile. 

“Dare.” The entire world seemed to hold its breath. If you were wrong… you didn’t even want to think about the consequences. 

“I dare you t-to, um–” 

Before you could get the words out, she grabbed your face in her hands and kissed you. Her lips were full, soft, and sweet like strawberries and wine. It was tentative but not unsure. You melted into it with a small surprised gasp. The two of you broke away with sticky, glossy mouths and red faces. 

“That was–” you breathed, dazed. She didn’t give you much time to recover.  

“Come here.” Nancy pulled you into her lap with a brilliant grin. One hand tangled in your hair, and the other splayed across your lower back; your lips met again. You looped your arms over her shoulders and clutched at the back of her shirt. She was warm – always so warm. Everyone made it seem like first kisses were awkward and clumsy, but with her it felt as natural as breathing. It wasn’t something you expected from her; she had more experience than she let on. It showed in every kiss, every touch. 

Her tongue swiped over your bottom lip and you parted them for her. An involuntary moan slipped out and she giggled without breaking the kiss. The only other sounds in the cabin were heavy breathing, the crackle of burning logs, and fingers brushing over fabric. Every touch was intense and the heat between the two of you rose to a fever pitch. 

Nancy broke the kiss and you whimpered. 

“Relax,” she said with a soft laugh. “I just wanted to ask you a question.” You looked up at her, confused and struggling to catch your breath. “Truth or dare?” she said. 

“Uh, dare?” 

“I dare you to take off your shirt.” 

You didn’t need further encouragement. “Yes ma’am.” 

You woke to the smell of something sweet sizzling on a griddle. The power must’ve come back on in the middle of the night. The rug underneath you was soft, and you were covered with a fluffy quilt you didn’t remember putting on. It was her. Of course it was. 

You padded to the kitchen with bleary eyes and the quilt wrapped around your bare skin like a dress. 

Nancy was standing there looking poised as ever, one hand on her hip while she flipped pancakes with the other. She was humming something to herself; you thought it might be some old love song, one of the sap-fests she loved so much. You leaned against the doorframe for a while, watching her, wondering if she understood how beautiful she was – in every light, with or without makeup, in fancy clothes or none at all, she was captivating. Thinking about the curves of her body in the soft orange glow of the fire made you blush again. All you wanted was to go to her and kiss her again, but you hesitated… What if she didn’t want it anymore? 

Don’t overthink it, dumbass. Eddie was in your head again, and for once, you took his advice. You crossed the kitchen and kissed her cheek, enveloping her in your quilt. 

“Merry Christmas, sleepyhead,” she said, nuzzling her nose against yours.

You’d never been more grateful to be haunted.