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The smell of Christmas, it turns out, is the same in London as it is in Wisconsin, but the absence feels sharper somehow, like the edge of a perfectly cut crystal glass.
I stare at my phone, scrolling through the pictures my cousin posted of the family gathering back home. Snow piled high outside my aunt's farmhouse, everyone crowded around that ancient dining table that's been in our family for generations. My finger hovers over the heart button, but I can't bring myself to tap it. It feels too much like admitting how much I miss them.
My flat feels especially empty today. Eight years in London, and I still haven't figured out how to make December 25th feel like anything other than an exercise in homesickness.
When my phone buzzes with Reece's name, I answer it immediately.
"Y/n? You sound awful. Have you been crying?" His voice has that particular British concern that somehow manages to be both caring and slightly embarrassed by its own caring.
"No," I lie, wiping at my eyes. "Allergies."
"In December?"
"I'm allergic to the idea of snow."
"You're a terrible liar," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Listen, I'm making Christmas dinner. Nothing fancy, just a proper British Christmas. You should come."
"Don't you have family plans?"
"They've gone to the countryside. Besides, everyone's coming. Mark, Steve, the whole lot. It'll be fun. Say yes, Y/n."
The thought of spending the day alone in my flat watching "It's a Wonderful Life" for the third time this week (even though I hate the film) makes the decision easy.
"What time should I be there?"
"Five-ish? Bring wine if you like, but I've got everything else sorted."
I spend far too long deciding what to wear. It's just friends, but it's Christmas, and there's something about the holidays that makes me want to make an effort. I settled on a dark green sweater dress that my mother always said brought out my eyes, a pair of black tights, and the pearl earrings that were my grandmother's.
Reece lives in a charming terraced house in Islington that I've visited countless times for script readings, impromptu dinner parties, and those nights when our friend group drinks too much wine and argues about films until 3 AM. But as I approach his door, something feels different. The windows glow with warm light, but I don't hear the usual cacophony of voices that accompanies our gatherings.
I ring the doorbell, balancing a bottle of red wine and a small wrapped package in my arms. When Reece opens the door, I'm struck by how different he looks. He's wearing a proper button-up shirt and what appear to be newly pressed trousers. His usually disheveled hair is combed, and there's a slightly frantic look in his eyes.
"You came," he says, as if there had been some doubt.
"Of course I came. You promised me British Christmas, whatever that entails. I'm assuming there's pudding that's on fire?" I step inside and hand him the wine. "Where is everyone?"
Reece takes my coat with careful movements, hanging it precisely on the rack by the door. "Ah, about that. There's been a slight... well, it's just us, actually."
"Just us?" I repeat, following him into the dining room, where I stop short.
The table is set for two, not the usual chaotic arrangement we create when the whole group is here. There are candles. Actual candles, flickering in the center of the table. The good dishes are out—the ones Reece once told me belonged to his grandmother. Christmas music plays softly in the background.
"I hope you don't mind," he says, fidgeting with the wine opener. "It's just, you mentioned last week how hard the holidays are for you, being away from your family, and I thought... well, I thought perhaps a quieter evening might be nice."
He's looking everywhere but at me, his hands unusually clumsy as he opens the wine.
"That's... really thoughtful," I say, suddenly aware of how intimate this all feels. "But you didn't have to go to all this trouble just for me."
"It's no trouble," he says quickly. "None at all. I wanted to. That is, I always cook on Christmas anyway, and it's better with company, isn't it?"
Something is definitely off. In the years I've known Reece, I've never seen him this nervous. He's usually the composed one in our group, the dry wit always ready with a perfectly timed comment. Now he's practically vibrating with some undercurrent of tension I can't quite identify.
"Can I help with anything?" I ask, following him into the kitchen, where the rich smell of roasting meat fills the air.
"No, no, it's all under control. Well, mostly." He gestures to a pot on the stove. "The gravy's being temperamental, but what else is new?"
I lean against the counter, watching as he moves around the kitchen with surprising confidence. "I didn't know you could cook like this."
"There are many things you don't know about me, Y/n Y/l/n," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes my stomach do a small flip.
"Is that so?" I say, trying to match his light tone, but something in the air between us has shifted. "After eight years of friendship, I thought I had you pretty well figured out."
"Eight years, three months, and sixteen days, to be precise." Reece turns away to check the oven, but not before I catch the slight flush on his cheeks.
"You've been keeping track?" I ask, my heart suddenly racing for reasons I can't quite explain.
"I remember the day you walked into that first production meeting. You were wearing that ridiculous jumper—"
"It wasn't ridiculous," I protested. "It was fashionable."
"It had tiny, hand stitched toads on it, Y/n." He's smiling now, more like himself. "And you sat down next to me and immediately started arguing with the director about the third act."
I laugh, remembering. "He was completely wrong about the character motivation."
"You were completely right," Reece says, his voice softer. "You always are."
The timer on the oven beeps, breaking whatever spell has fallen over the kitchen. Reece busies himself with oven mitts and roasting pans, directing me to take the wine to the table.
Dinner is magnificent—a perfectly roasted turkey, crisp potatoes, Brussels sprouts that somehow taste nothing like the ones my mother used to make me eat, and the promised Christmas pudding, which Reece does indeed set on fire with dramatic flair.
"This is amazing," I tell him, genuinely impressed. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"
"My grandmother. She believed no one should leave home without knowing how to prepare a proper meal." He refills my wine glass. "What about you? Any hidden talents I don't know about?"
"I can tie a cherry stem with my tongue," I say, then immediately blush. "I mean—that came out wrong."
Reece laughs, but there's a different quality to it, a warmth that makes me feel both nervous and exhilarated. "I'd like to see that sometime."
After dinner, we move to his living room, where a small Christmas tree twinkles in the corner. I suddenly remembered the package I brought.
"I got you something," I say, retrieving it from where I left it by the door. "It's nothing fancy."
Reece takes the package with careful hands. "You didn't have to do that."
"Just open it," I say, suddenly self-conscious.
He unwraps it slowly, revealing the vintage film book I found in a secondhand shop last month. It's a first edition of essays on British horror cinema from the 1960s, something I knew he'd appreciate.
"Y/n," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "This is... how did you find this?"
"I have my ways," I say, pleased by his reaction. "I remembered you talking about this author last year."
"I can't believe you remembered that." He looks up at me, his eyes searching mine. "I have something for you too."
He retrieves a small box from under the tree, wrapped in silver paper with a perfect bow.
"You really didn't have to," I say, but my fingers are already working at the wrapping.
Inside is a delicate silver bracelet with a single charm—a tiny typewriter.
"Reece," I whisper, running my finger over the intricate detail. "It's beautiful."
"Look at the back," he says quietly.
I turn the charm over and see tiny engraved letters: "Stories yet to write."
"I know how much you miss home, especially at Christmas," he says, his voice gentle. "But I wanted to remind you that there are still so many stories ahead of you here. With... with all of us."
Something in the way he says it makes me look up. He's watching me with an intensity I've never seen before, and suddenly I'm aware of how close we're sitting, how the firelight is playing across his features, how familiar and yet somehow new his face seems to me in this moment.
"Thank you," I say, my voice barely audible over the soft Christmas music. "Would you... would you put it on for me?"
He takes the bracelet, his fingers brushing against my wrist as he fastens the clasp. The touch sends a current through me that I can't ignore.
"Y/n," he says, not letting go of my hand. "There's something I should tell you."
"Yes?" My heart is hammering so loudly I'm sure he can hear it.
"The reason I invited you here tonight... it wasn't just because I thought you'd be lonely."
I wait, barely breathing.
"It's because I've been wanting to tell you... for years, really... that I—"
My phone rings, the shrill sound cutting through the moment like a knife. It's my family's FaceTime call, the one we scheduled weeks ago.
"I should take this," I say, reluctantly pulling my hand away.
"Of course," Reece says, leaning back, the moment broken. "It's your family."
I answer the call, and my screen fills with the faces of my parents, my sister, my cousins, all crowded around my aunt's living room back in Wisconsin. They're loud and joyful, passing the phone around so everyone can say hello. I introduce them to Reece, who waves awkwardly from beside me.
"Is this the famous Reece we've been hearing about?" my mother asks, her eyes twinkling with something that makes me blush.
"Mom," I warn, but she just laughs.
"Well, we won't keep you from your Christmas," she says. "But Reece, you take care of our girl, you hear?"
"I'll do my very best," he says, and there's a promise in his voice that makes my heart skip.
After the call ends, a silence falls between us, heavy with unspoken words.
"What were you going to say?" I finally ask. "Before the phone rang?"
Reece looks at me for a long moment, then takes a deep breath. "I was going to say that I've been in love with you since you argued about that third act eight years, three months, and sixteen days ago."
The world seems to stop spinning. All these years, all these moments, all these feelings I've pushed aside because I was afraid of ruining our friendship—
"Say something, please," he whispers, vulnerability etched in every line of his face.
Instead of speaking, I lean forward and press my lips to his. He makes a small sound of surprise before his arms come around me, pulling me closer. The kiss is gentle at first, then deeper, years of unspoken feelings finally finding their expression.
When we finally pull apart, I'm breathless. "I think I've been in love with you too," I admit. "I just didn't know how to say it."
"We're writers," Reece says with a soft laugh. "You'd think we'd be better with words."
"Some stories take time," I say, touching the typewriter charm on my wrist. "But I think this one might be my favorite."
Outside, snow has begun to fall on London, soft flakes drifting past the window. For the first time in eight years, December 25th doesn't feel like an exercise in homesickness. It feels like something wonderful.
It feels like the beginning of our story.
The end.