The smell of gingerbread still hung in the air when I woke up, sweet and faintly spicy, like a memory that had stuck around overnight. I’d baked way too much last night, but that’s kind of my thing—baking. Weird for a guy, I know, but it just feels like home. Anyway, the smell hit me, and then it hit me what day it was: Christmas Eve.

And Bryn.

Bryn hates Christmas. Like, hates it. No lights, no gifts, no Mariah Carey blasting in the background. Just her, in her apartment, punching the life out of her poor punching bag like the Grinch on a caffeine kick. I’ve known her for a while now, but she’s never explained why. She just shuts down this time of year, and every year, I try to pull her out of it.

I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and started typing:

_Hey. I know Christmas isn’t your thing, but I made some gingerbread and got a few games. You down for some friendly competition?_

I stared at the screen for a second. I wasn’t expecting much. Bryn wasn’t exactly easy to convince, especially when it came to anything involving holiday cheer. But whatever. I hit send.

Then, because I hate waiting, I threw on my coat, boots, and hat and decided to walk over to her place. It was snowing, the kind of fluffy snow that crunches under your boots in a way that’s weirdly satisfying. The bakery on the corner smelled like heaven, and I caught myself smiling like some kind of Hallmark movie lead.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, snapping me out of it.

_Dude. You’re insane. Fine. If I come over, will you finally quit bugging me about it?_

__

I laughed.

_You’ve got a deal._

_Lucky for you, work actually gave me Christmas off this year._

_Perfect. See you at 6:00?_

_Fine. But I’m not wearing anything festive._

I grinned as I pocketed my phone. She was going to come over. That was a win in my book.

Fast-forward to later, and I’m in the mall, dodging Christmas shoppers who look like they’re competing in some kind of Olympic sprint. I wasn’t here for much—just something small for Bryn. Even though she didn’t do Christmas, I wanted her to feel like she mattered.

I wandered around until I found it: a pair of red pajamas with little green mugs of hot cocoa and candy canes all over them. They screamed cozy—which was funny, because Bryn would never admit to liking anything remotely cozy. Still, I knew she’d secretly love them.

And then I saw it: an espresso machine. She’d been eyeing one for months, ever since she got hooked on lattes from our favorite coffee shop. It was expensive, but I couldn’t resist.

By the time I got home, I was broke, but I had a grin on my face as I wrapped the espresso machine and stuffed the pajamas into a festive bag.

At exactly 6:00, the doorbell rang.

I opened it to find Bryn standing there in her puffy jacket, her black hair loose around her shoulders. She looked awkward, like she wasn’t sure if she should be there.

“Hey,” I said, stepping aside. “You wanna come in? It’s freezing out there.”

She walked in taking off her coat and handed it to me. Her sweater was simple—gray and kind of oversized—and she was wearing those beat-up sneakers she always refused to replace.

She stopped in the middle of the room, her eyes scanning everything: the tree with its warm white lights, the stockings over the fireplace, the snowman pillows on the couch. I’d gone all out this year, hoping she’d feel a little less… Grinch-y.

“This is… a lot,” she said finally.

I raised an eyebrow. “Good a lot or bad a lot?”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “Good. I think.”

I laughed and handed her a mug of cocoa. “Here you go. It’ll help you warm up some.”

She smiled warmly. “Thank you.”

An hour later, she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, icing all over her hands and shirt, glaring at her gingerbread house like it had personally insulted her.

“This is rigged,” she muttered, squeezing the bag of frosting way too hard.

“How is it rigged?” I asked, trying not to laugh.

“You’re a baker, Sage. This is basically your sport. You should be disqualified.”

I leaned back against the couch, smirking. “It’s not my fault you can’t figure out how to use icing without turning it into a crime scene.”

She glared at me, then pointed the frosting bag at my face. “One more word, and I’m aiming this at you.”

I held my hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Focus on your masterpiece, Picasso.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

By the time we finished, the table was a mess, her shirt was officially ruined, and neither of our houses looked like they’d survive a light breeze.

“Let’s call it a draw,” I said, surveying the wreckage.

“Fine. But only because I’m tired,” she replied, flopping onto the couch.

After cleaning up, I grabbed the gift bag from under the tree and handed it to her.

“What’s this?” she asked, her brows furrowing.

“Just open it.”

She pulled out the pajamas first, holding them up and squinting at the pattern. For a second, I thought she was going to throw them at me.

Then she screamed.

“They’re so stupidly cute!” she said, jumping up. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

“Go put them on,” I said, grinning.

She came back a few minutes later, wearing the pajamas and looking way too good in them. Her pale skin made the red pop, and the goofy pattern made her seem… softer. Less guarded.

“These are perfect,” she said, doing a little twirl.

“You’re welcome.”

She flopped back onto the couch, dangling her legs over the arm rest. For a moment, it was quiet, just the crackle of the fire filling the space. Then she spoke.

“I didn’t always hate Christmas,” she said softly.

I turned to her, surprised. “No?”

She shook her head, her gaze fixed on the tree. “When I was a kid, it was my favorite.” She smiled with the lights reflecting in her eyes. “My dad didn’t have much, but he made it feel special. We’d bake cookies, watch movies—he even managed to get me presents, even though we couldn’t afford much.”

Her voice cracked, and she took a deep breath. “Then he died on Christmas. I was only ten. And after that… I don’t know. It just stopped feeling like Christmas, you know? My mom left long before he died, so it was just me and him. Then it was just me. Ignoring it just felt easier.”

I didn’t know what to say. I truly hurt for her as she opened up about it.

“I’m sorry, Bryn,” I said finally.

She shrugged, trying to play it off, but I could see her wiping at her eyes. “It’s fine. I didn’t mean to dump all that on you, I’m sorry. I do tend to be good at ruining things.”

“Hey.” I reached over, putting a hand on hers. “You didn’t ruin anything. And for what it’s worth, you’re not alone anymore.”

She looked up at me, her brown eyes wide and vulnerable.

“I mean it,” I said. “I know I can’t replace your dad, but I’m here. Always. I love you, I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t say it now. And it’s okay if you don’t I just.. needed you to know.”

Her gaze flickered between my eyes, like she was searching for something. Then, out of nowhere, she grabbed the front of my shirt and kissed me.

It was soft at first, hesitant. But then it deepened, and all I could think was how long I’d wanted this.

When we finally pulled apart, she was smiling—a real, genuine smile that made her look like a different person.

“Okay,” she said, her voice teasing. “Maybe Christmas isn’t so bad after all. I think I might actually celebrate it again.”

I grinned. “Only if you spend it with me.”

She laughed a bit. “Deal.”

We spent the rest of the night watching movies on the couch, her head resting on my shoulder as the snow fell outside. She fell asleep halfway into the second movie. And for the first time in years, Christmas felt like magic—not just for me, but for her, too.