Chapter 12

Christmas morning: overcast and bright at the same time, the kind of light that makes every window a soft box and every surface a little more forgiving. The building's heat is working overtime, a dry warmth clinging to the air, but Amelia's apartment feels different—humid and alive, the air full of steam and rosemary and the faint echo of Dean Martin crooning from her laptop speaker. Someone, somewhere, is burning something, but that's not her. She's at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hands deep in a nest of parsnips, and there's already a fine constellation of flour on the bridge of her nose.

There's a brisk knock, and she answers with a "Come in!" before the second rap lands.

Conrad steps through the door, arms full of groceries. He's carrying more than seems physically possible: brown paper bags pinched in his fist, another looped through his elbow, and a battered manila envelope tucked under his chin. He scans for a clean patch of counter and deposits everything at once, groceries nearly toppling before he catches them.

Amelia, caught mid-peel, eyes the haul. "Either you're feeding an army, or you've decided to eat your feelings."

He shrugs, rolling a can of sweetened condensed milk between his palms. "Recipe called for backups. Laurel said, and I quote, 'if you can't get it right, at least get it twice.'"

She grins, flicking a parsnip end at the compost. "Wise woman, your Laurel."

He sorts the bags with methodical precision, then freezes, unsure whether to ask or just do. Amelia fills the silence with the whir of the food processor and the sharp slap of roasting pan against steel.

"Wasn't sure if you're a breakfast-first person or a dive-right-in person," he says finally. "My family used to do pancakes, but I'm fine with—"

"I already swung by the bakery," Amelia cuts in, flashing him a grin. "Muffins, in case you were going to starve. Coffee's on the table. Baileys is there too if you'd rather pretend it's milk."

"Baileys? At nine in the morning?" Conrad arches an eyebrow, pouring his coffee.

Amelia gasps in mock horror. "What, you mean it's not the American way to be half-drunk before noon and pray the prep work covers our mistakes?"

He snorts, shaking his head, but when he reaches for the bottle, she catches his eye and lifts her brows. He laughs under his breath and pours a heavier splash than he meant to.

"You ever made a Sunday roast before?" he asks.

"Not on my own."

"That's... reassuring."

She beckons him closer, smirk tugging at her mouth. "Relax Fisher. It's like surgery, but the patient is a sixteen-pound chunk of dead cow and the only risk is overcooking the vegetables. You're here so we'll be fine."

He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and pulls the manila envelope free. "Laurel emailed me my mom's fudge pie recipe. Said it's a crime against sugar but it's what mum would make every Christmas." The story comes out even, no hitch. Maybe that's progress.

"Fudge pie. Decadent." Amelia glances at the recipe, lips pursed. "We'll need a rolling pin."

He shrugs off his jacket, sleeves already rolled, and scans the kitchen. "You sure you want to share the workspace? I can just—"

Amelia shakes her head, setting a roasting pan at his side. "We're in this together, Fisher. Or it's not a proper Christmas."

He can't argue with that. He starts laying out flour and sugar, double-checking every line of Laurel's annotated printout. Amelia slides the beef into the oven and sets the timer, then hops up to sit on the counter, swinging her feet, watching him. The domesticity should be embarrassing, but it's not—not here, not now, not with her.

She dusts her hands, catching sight of the smudge on her nose, and smears it worse trying to wipe it away. "You know," she says, "when I was little, my dad made this roast every Christmas. No ham, no turkey—he knew I absolutely hated them both. We always argued over the potatoes, though. I like them almost burnt."

He glances over. "Because they're crispier?"

"Because I'm a monster," she says, completely deadpan.

He laughs, the sound too loud in the warm kitchen. "Noted. Potatoes: extra burnt."

He starts on the dough, hands clumsy at first, but the memory of watching Susannah work the pastry crust comes back in fragments. Roll, fold, dust, turn. His technique is terrible, but it starts to look like something close to edible.

Amelia peels carrots at his side, using a rhythm that's probably muscle memory from years of being in kitchens. She's the kind of person who makes every movement look intentional, even the little fidgets—brushing a curl behind her ear, wiping down the counter between steps, humming with the music.

He glances up, caught by a phrase in the song. "Do you always play holiday music on purpose, or is it just background noise?"

She pretends to be offended. "I'll have you know this playlist took years to curate. There's a strict ban on Mariah after noon, though."

He nods, grateful. "Some traditions are sacred."

They work mostly in parallel, Amelia manning the oven with one eye and prepping vegetables with the other, Conrad measuring and mixing with all the tension of a bomb squad. He fumbles the pie crust on the transfer to pan, and she clucks her tongue, showing him how to patch the tear with a little water and extra dough.

"Like this," she says, fingers deft and unhurried.

"Never thought I'd be the one who needs supervision in a kitchen," he mutters.

She shrugs. "You're learning. That's more than most."

He glances at the timer, then at her. "You always do Christmas like this? I mean, just you?"

She stares at the carrots, not looking at him. "Before this year I'd always be at our house in London and Mum would try to get home, but after Dad she found it harder to be around. Easier to just...create a monstrosity that is called dinner, watch a film, call it a day."

He recognizes the strategy. "You don't have to make this an event if you don't want to."

She shakes her head, looking up at last. "I do, though. It's an almost orphan Christmas. You're just lucky enough to have been drafted."

He considers this, then leans back against the counter, flour streaking his black sweatshirt. "I prefer the term 'shitmas.'"

She snorts, nearly drops a carrot, and laughs so hard she has to set the peeler down. "You're a menace," she says, voice unsteady. "A genuine menace."

He grins, the word echoing in his head.

They keep cooking, more in sync now. She lets him baste the roast, shows him how to flip the parsnips without splattering oil. At one point, their elbows knock, and instead of pulling away, they lean into it, the contact lasting a second longer than it should.

The kitchen fills with heat and the wet, grassy scent of roasting rosemary. Amelia spoons the vegetables into a dish, then pours herself a glass of cheap white wine, offering one to Conrad. He declines, but she pours it anyway, setting it beside his workspace.

They keep up the banter, trading family kitchen horror stories, debating the superiority of Yorkshire pudding versus mashed potatoes, ranking the worst holiday songs by emotional damage. Conrad finds himself relaxing, letting the space shrink to just the two of them, the music, and the haze of flour floating in the sunlight.

When the timer goes off, they check the roast together. Amelia pokes it with a thermometer, pronounces it perfect, then whips off her apron and spins once in victory.

"Moment of truth," she says, holding up the fudge pie for inspection.

He surveys it. "It's not burned, so we're already ahead."

She cuts two slices, plating them with care, and they sit at the kitchen table, knees knocking under the old Formica. She takes a bite, pauses, then lets her face break into a real, unfiltered smile.

"This is good," she says, surprised.

He tries his, expecting disappointment, but it's better than he remembers. For a moment, the kitchen is quiet except for the scrape of forks and the croon of Sinatra from the speaker.

When Amelia looks up, her eyes are bright with something he can't quite name. "Your mum would be proud," she says, and it's not a throwaway line.

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

They finish the pie, split the last bite, and sit for a while, letting the fullness and the warmth settle around them.

After a minute, he clears his throat. "Thanks for letting me crash your tradition."

She bumps his knee with hers under the table. "It's better this way," she says, simple and true.

The kitchen, for once, is quiet in all the right ways.

Outside, the sky is still overcast, but inside, the holiday feels real—imperfect, improvised, but theirs.

They sit in the silence, neither in a hurry to leave it behind.

The living room glows with more intention than extravagance: a string of warm LEDs zigzags across the bookshelf, a squad of candles squat on the coffee table (all in mismatched glass jars), and the tiny pine on the window ledge wears a crown of copper wire stars. Amelia's idea of holiday decor is understated but sincere—a safe haven, not a showroom. The radiator chuffs along, adding a hiss-and-click percussion to the low-volume playlist looping from her laptop.

Conrad helps ferry dishes to the sink, then hovers in the kitchen doorway, uncertain if he's supposed to retreat or stand at parade rest. Amelia waves him on with a casual, "TV's yours. Just avoid the local news. Last time I checked, a Santa was arrested for indecent exposure and the city's still debating the ethics of lawn inflatables."

He perches on the sofa's edge, sinking instantly into a depression shaped by years of previous sitters. The fabric is corduroy, probably second-hand, but there's a weight to it that makes you want to stay. He tugs a throw blanket over his knees and fidgets with the edge, waiting for her.

She brings out two mugs of hot chocolate—the good kind, thick and nearly black, a skin of melted marshmallow already forming on top. She hands him one and plops down beside him, tucking her feet under a knit blanket. The proximity feels different now, an echo of the kitchen intimacy but also a little new, a little unsteady.

"Movie time," she announces, grabbing the remote. "You ever watched a real Hallmark Christmas film?"

He shakes his head, wary. "Does Die Hard count?"

She rolls her eyes. "You wish. No, this is a true classic: ex–child star returns to save her dying hometown's bakery and falls in love with a man who almost certainly has a dark secret involving mistletoe."

The movie opens on a snow-dusted village set, every prop just a little too crisp. Conrad watches in silence for two minutes, then leans over. "Do they always cast the same four people?"

"Yes," Amelia says. "And they always resolve the plot in under ninety minutes. It's legally required."

He sips the cocoa, which is so dense he nearly chokes. "This is incredible," he says. "It's like drinking chocolate mousse."

She bows her head, mock humble. "Family recipe. The trick is to never, ever use water."

They watch the movie, passing the bag of popcorn back and forth. When the lead actress's name is revealed as "Jingle McKinnon," Amelia cackles so hard she nearly spills her drink. Conrad deadpans, "That's what I'm naming my firstborn," and she wipes her eyes, grinning.

A half hour in, the couple in the movie has their first "accidental" kiss, staged under a plastic holly bough. Conrad glances sideways. "You ever been caught under mistletoe?"

She pretends to shudder. "Once, in Year Nine. The boy sneezed on me, and then blamed it on allergies. Utterly scarring."

He laughs. "That's not so bad. At least you didn't have to slow dance with the school principal at the holiday dance."

She tilts her head, interested. "You did that?"

He shrugs. "Our prom committee was...creative. They paired everyone up randomly for a waltz lesson, and I got Vice Principal Matthews. She wore orthopaedic heels and led every step."

Amelia processes this, then grins. "I bet you crushed it."

Conrad sips his drink, cheeks a little warm. "I didn't trip. That's as much as I can say."

Amelia snuggles deeper into the blanket, stretching her legs to rest against the side of his thigh. The contact is casual, but her toes flex every so often, as if checking to see if he'll move. He doesn't.

The movie continues its inexorable march to the Big Realization scene. The leads exchange meaningful glances over a tray of iced cookies, while the soundtrack pivots to an up-tempo Michael Bublé cover of "Santa Baby." Amelia sets her mug down, eyes lighting up.

"Oh, this is my jam," she says, and before Conrad can protest, she's up off the couch, hand extended, palm open like an invitation.

He blinks at her. "What are you doing?"

"Dance break," Amelia says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Come on. I promise not to break your toes."

Conrad hesitates, caught off guard. For a split second, Belly's laughing face flickers through his mind, sharp and unwelcome. He exhales, sets his mug down, and lets Amelia tug him into the narrow strip of floor between the sofa and coffee table.

The space is too cramped for anything elaborate, so they circle slowly, her hand in his, her other hand resting lightly at his shoulder. She counts the beat under her breath—"one-two, one-two"—and at first, he just follows, waiting for the awkwardness to sink in. But it doesn't. Almost without thinking, his palm settles at the small of her back, and the rhythm clicks into place.

Amelia's brows lift, surprised. "Fisher's got moves."

Conrad smirks. "I was an escort, thank you very much."

She freezes mid-step, then bursts into laughter so loud the candles on the shelf flicker. "I'm sorry—a what?"

He grimaces. "A debutante escort. It's a Cousin's thing. My mom forced me to take ballroom lessons in high school. For the social graces."

Amelia is already grinning. "Was this before or after Vice Principal Matthews and her orthopaedic heels?"

Conrad shoots her a flat look but ends up snorting anyway.

She studies him for a beat, then nods, mock-serious. "Honestly, it makes sense. You've got the posture for it."

He flushes, unsure if that's a compliment or a jab. "I was shorter than half the girls."

Amelia slips an arm around his waist, pulling him back into motion. "Did you wear a tux?"

He groans. "Black tie. Every time. The collars were medieval torture devices."

"Please tell me there are photos."

"God, I hope not," he mutters, but the way his mouth curves gives him away.

They keep dancing, the song looping into something slower, her body pressed close enough for him to smell her shampoo. She's got a solid sense of rhythm, but every so often she throws in an off-tempo step just to see if he'll stumble. He never does.

After a minute, they're both laughing too hard to keep up, and collapse back onto the couch, out of breath and a little tangled in the blanket.

She tucks her feet under her again, prodding his calf with her toe. "For the record, this is the best Christmas I've had in awhile."

He tips his head back, eyes closed. "Same."

They don't say anything for a while, letting the end of the movie play out. The lead characters confess their love at the town's Christmas Eve dance, then kiss, then get caught in a CGI snowstorm while all the supporting actors cheer.

Amelia rolls her eyes. "You'd never catch me dead making out in public."

He side-eyes her. "You sure about that?"

She throws a popcorn kernel at him. "Shut up, Fisher."

The closing credits roll, soft jazz filling the room. Amelia pulls the blanket higher, chin tucked just above the edge, and glances over at him.

"You want to watch another?" she asks, voice already thick with fatigue.

He looks at her, the way the lights from the tree cast little stars in her eyes, the warmth of her body radiating through the shared blanket, and knows he could do this for hours.

"Yeah," he says. "I do."

She cues up the next movie, then lets her head loll onto his shoulder, not asleep, just resting. He rests his cheek on the top of her head, careful not to disturb the moment. Outside, the city's quiet, the only motion the blinking of the crosswalk sign in the empty street.

Halfway through the movie, he feels her breathing even out. He lets himself drift, the sounds of low-grade Christmas drama and the heartbeat of someone else so close it fills in all the spaces the year had left hollow.

When he wakes, it's dark except for the string lights and the pale blue of the TV. Amelia's still there, curled into his side, her hand resting in the space between them. He moves to cover her with the blanket, and she murmurs, not quite awake, "Don't forget to turn off the oven."

He grins, the words an echo of something half-remembered and sweet.

He doesn't move, not for a long time.

The next movie sequenced plays, the lights keep glowing, and for the first time in ages, Conrad lets the world blur and fade, content to just exist.

Tomorrow can wait.

The day after Christmas, the world outside is all slush and iron sky—a bleak-grey, post-holiday hangover that seeps into the bones of the building. Amelia's little pine tree has started to list under the weight of its own ornaments, but she refuses to un-decorate until at least New Year's. She's spread out on the living room rug with a book, hair damp from a shower and legs poking from a blanket like stray lines in a sketch. The whole apartment smells like clementine and laundry detergent.

Conrad is in the kitchen, one foot tapping to the beat of a song he'll never admit he likes. He's foraging for breakfast, but all the usual options are gone, so he settles on cold roast beef sandwiched between slices of the previous night's garlic bread. It's decadent, excessive, and a little trashy, but that's what holidays are for.

He slides a plate onto the table next to Amelia's book. She looks up, gives him an eyebrow. "That's breakfast?"

"It's postmodern," he says. "Like deconstructed steak and eggs."

She snorts, sits cross-legged, and accepts a wedge of bread. "I'll allow it, but only if you make tea."

He sets the kettle, knowing exactly which mug she'll want ("London: Mind the Gap" in faded blue), and how much milk to add after the steep. By the time he's done, she's already devoured half the sandwich and has started dog-earing a page in her book.

They eat in a companionable silence, the kind that doesn't need filling. After, they take their tea to the window ledge and watch the rain bead and crawl down the glass. The courtyard is abandoned, save for a single jogger in a Santa hat and three feral squirrels fighting over the trash can. Amelia rests her chin on her knees. "Is it weird that I don't want the holiday to end?"

Conrad shrugs, sipping his tea. "You could always celebrate Russian Orthodox Christmas. It's in January. Just say it's for cultural awareness."

She grins. "You'd be an excellent bad influence."

He's not sure how to reply, so he just smiles and goes back to watching the squirrels.

Conrad's phone buzzes against his thigh. He pulls it from yesterday's coat, draped over the chair back. Laurel. His thumb hovers over the screen. "Do you mind if I take this?" he asks, watching Amelia pour the last drops of tea into her mug. "Go ahead," she replies, eyes never leaving her book. He drifts into the kitchen, mug in hand like a prop. "Hey," he says, voice dropping to a murmur. "Merry belated Christmas!" Laurel's voice competes with clattering dishes. "How was it? Heard you weren't coming home." "It was good. Quiet." Conrad leans against the counter, back to the living room. "Watched some movies. Made dinner." "With your neighbour?" The question has a teasing lilt. "I told you, we're just friends," he says quickly, checking over his shoulder. Amelia turns a page, oblivious. "How was yours?" "The usual chaos. Listen, I've got a signing in San Francisco on the tenth. Dinner?" "Yeah," he says, something like relief in his voice. "I'd like that."

When he hangs up, the apartment feels louder in the silence that follows. Rain patters against the window. Amelia shifts in her chair, not looking up, and he wonders if she was paying more than she let on.

The week between Christmas and New Year's slips by in a pattern of rainy days, slow mornings, and domestic truce. They orbit each other's apartments, drifting between study breaks and lazy afternoons, finding a routine that feels like it's been there longer than a handful of days.

When the rain lets up, they take walks around the block—Amelia in her battered trench coat, Conrad with his hood pulled low—just to stretch their legs and make fun of the window displays. One day, they return to find a passive-aggressive note from the super about "noise violations," signed "S. Williams, Unit 4B." Amelia rolls her eyes, crumples the note, and tapes it to her fridge as a badge of honour.

They read together, sometimes on opposite ends of the sofa, sometimes shoulder to shoulder, the books passing back and forth between them with pencilled comments and Post-it notes stuck to the margins. Amelia reads fast, like she's trying to outrun the ending; Conrad reads slow, underlining favourite lines, doubling back to puzzle out a word or a turn of phrase.

They play Scrabble at the kitchen table, each round more cutthroat than the last. Amelia is merciless—she hoards her high-value letters, uses all seven tiles with a flourish, and goads him into challenge after challenge. "You can't pluralize 'zenith,'" she says, squinting at the board. "And 'meatus' is definitely not a word."

"It's an anatomy term," he insists, grinning. "Look it up."

She does, and when she finds it in the dictionary, she nearly chokes on her tea.

Every night, they trade off who cooks. Conrad improvises elaborate stir-fries, testing how many different sauces he can combine before the results are inedible. Amelia prefers simple but classic: pasta, steak and veg, chicken and rice. Sometimes they order takeout and eat it on the floor, surrounded by open textbooks and printouts for the upcoming semester.

In Conrad's apartment, Amelia unconsciously straightens his books, grouping them by subject or colour. He notices, but never says anything; instead, he lets her make little changes, like adjusting the angle of his desk lamp or swapping his old mug for a new one she brought over as a joke. He repays her by making sure there's always milk in her fridge, or by quietly running her dishwasher when she's not looking.

The inside jokes build up fast: the squirrel mafia, the "zeniths" incident, the ongoing saga of Jingle McKinnon from the Hallmark movie. Whenever they need a break, one of them will say, "It's a Jingle emergency," and they'll queue up another awful holiday movie, no matter the time.

Some nights, when it's late and the wind makes the windows rattle, they sit in the dark and talk about nothing—favourite childhood pets, weird dreams, which superpower would be least useful on a college campus. It's always easy, always safe.

On New Year's Eve, the weather clears just enough for the city to light up its fireworks. Conrad finds Amelia in the hallway, struggling into a pair of boots with mismatched socks, her hair in a messy braid.

She grins up at him. "Ready for the big moment?"

He zips his jacket, grabs a blanket from his bed, and follows her up the echoing stairwell to the roof.

The air is cold and crisp, the kind that makes every breath visible. The skyline shimmers, office buildings winking red and blue, and in the distance, a thread of fireworks blooms above the river, each burst perfectly mirrored in the glass of the high-rises. They find a dry spot behind a vent, spread out the blanket, and huddle close, watching the city get loud.

Amelia produces a bottle of wine from her coat pocket and a pair of coffee mugs from her bag. "Stacy from down the hall gave it to me. I think she just feels sorry that the age is 21 here."

Conrad takes a mug, popping the cap with a pocket knife. "She's right. It's a travesty."

They drink, passing the bottle back and forth, and toast to the new year. Amelia pours a little on the concrete "for the ghosts," and Conrad adds, "especially the ones who flunked Chem 101."

They stay out until their noses go numb, talking about what classes they're dreading and whether it's possible to ever learn to like the taste of kale. At midnight, when the sky explodes with colour and everyone below starts to cheer, Amelia leans into his side and whoops, "Happy New Year, Fisher!" loud enough to startle a pigeon from the satellite dish.

He feels it, the happiness, right in his chest. Not the blinding kind, but a slow-burning ember that might last through the coldest night.

On the way down, their hands brush on the banister. He thinks maybe she did it on purpose, but he's not sure and doesn't want to ask.

Back inside, she pauses at her door, hand on the knob, hair haloed in static from her scarf.

"Thanks for not making me spend it alone," she says, soft.

He wants to tell her that he can't imagine it any other way, but instead he just nods, and says, "Good night, Mills."

She smiles, her real one, and disappears inside.

He stands in the hallway for a long minute, watching the colours fade from the sky through the stairwell window.

He goes to bed and dreams of city lights and the warmth of someone close by. When he wakes up, it's still winter, but the world feels new.

The first text of the day is already waiting on his phone:

"Emergency Jingle at 1400. Don't be late."

He thumbs back "Copy" and starts the kettle, already picturing her waiting with that crooked grin, the two of them settling into another perfectly ordinary, extraordinary day.