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Madeline thinks, not for the first time in her life, that airports on Christmas feel like looking inside a snow globe—everything is a blur of people, muffled voices coming from the speakers, the sound of wheels whirring over the floors. And, of course, the worst part of it all: the snow.
Outside, Madeline can see the blizzard churn in wild spirals, smearing the windows white. Inside, the terminal seethes with stranded travelers in puffy coats, the air sharp with anger and frustration. A baby cries, loud and annoying, somewhere in his mother’s arms. Children run up and down the terminal, asking their parents the question everyone is trying to avoid. A string of holiday songs crackles from the radio of the souvenir shops, the cheerful music feeling just this side of mocking. Everything feels almost apocalyptic, but not for Madeline.
She strides through the chaos like she’s walking a red carpet, head held high, lugging her expensive suitcase behind her. As always, being fashionably late has proved to be the best move—she didn’t even have time to check in her bags before the cancellation notice was issued. A smug smile tugs at the corner of her mouth as she watches the lines of people desperate to get their luggage back.
Her heels click defiantly against the floor, a bold and unnecessary fashion choice for a snowstorm, but she is Madeline Ashton and a little snow will not upstage her, ever. She’s just gotten off the phone with Stefan, her frantic assistant, who sounded like he was on the verge of tears as he confirmed what Madeline already knew—her flight had been cancelled. Madeline had been invited to spend the holidays at a luxurious ski lodge in Canada with a bunch of other celebrities, and she was honestly looking forward to devoting herself to drinking wine, flirting with anyone who dared to spend more than a minute with the Madeline Ashton, and showing off all the gorgeous outfits that her stylist had so carefully prepared for her. Well, at least she could still do that last part in New York, she had told Stefan, a futile and shallow consolation. Her assistant had groaned and hung up the phone.
Now she stalks toward the exit, eyes narrowed at the sight of yet another CANCELLED flashing in bright red onto the departures board. Some people stare at her in spite of the turmoil, some point and ask Wait, is that Madeline Ashton? with hushed surprise, but she pays no attention to them. She’s focused—all she needs is a taxi and her phone, and a couple of calls should be more than enough to get the hotel suite she’d been staying at for the past week for another couple of days.
But the universe, of course, is not merciful.
At the curb, amid the whipping wind and swirling snow, a single yellow cab pulls up like a beacon from heaven. Madeline sees it and can’t help but smile, the sweet taste of victory already melting on her tongue.
She’s quick to move—or would be, if her suitcase didn’t catch on a cobblestone at a traitorous angle. She stumbles, emits an embarrassingly ungraceful sound, and tugs viciously at the handle.
Then, someone else arrives at the door, breathless, their mittened hand already rising to open it.
Madeline freezes. The snowstorm has little to do with it.
“Oh,” a woman says in a small voice that blends far too easily with the wind. “You.”
Madeline blinks, her mascara still sleek in spite of the treacherous weather. She stands awkwardly, one hand in the air, still reaching for the door of the cab, the other pulling at her suddenly too-heavy suitcase behind her.
“Helen,” she says, in the same gloomy tone the speakers inside the airport used when they announced that her flight was cancelled.
In life, nothing can be said to be certain, except death, taxes, and, for Madeline Ashton, Helen Sharp. So, of course, of all the people she could have run into, it had to be her.
They had once been friends. The last time they had seen each other was just over a year ago, a chance encounter not unlike this one. It often seemed to Madeline that fate was determined to make them cross paths and butt heads. They would always argue, and fight, and somehow still never be able to forget each other.
Madeline often thinks about Helen, perhaps a little more than her pride and her common sense would like to admit. But the life of an actress is volatile, and somehow Helen has always been the only constant in her life since that time they shared a room in college.
For Madeline, her life intertwining with Helen Sharp’s is a natural consequence of her existence.
“Madeline,” Helen says, her voice somewhere between surprise and horror. She’s bundled in a sensible beige coat, her scarf unraveling on one side as she clutches a stack of manuscripts and a laptop bag that keeps sliding off her shoulder.
For one eternal beat, they just stare at each other, snowflakes melting in Helen’s hair and glasses, the wind blowing Madeline’s perfect curls into disarray. The noise of engines and horns is the only thing interrupting the awkward silence between them.
“I was just—”
“You should probably—”
They both stop.
“I had the cab first,” Madeline says, reclaiming her starlet poise with a flip of her hair that she usually reserves only for the paparazzi.
Helen tightens her scarf in an attempt to keep herself from rolling her eyes, but Madeline notices anyway.
“That’s not true, Madeline. I saw it before you did.” She glances at her hand, still holding on to the door. “I got here before you did.”
Madeline scoffs. “I mean, I was practically boarding it before you—”
“I’m pretty sure I just saw you stumbling over your luggage,” Helen corrects. “Not boarding.”
“I don’t stumble,” Madeline says, glowering at Helen with a polite smile that screams danger.
The cab honks, startling them both and bursting their little bubble of tension. One of the windows rolls open, and they see the driver staring at them with a bored expression. Madeline can instantly tell he has sensed the drama and has wisely decided he wants no part of it. She wishes he would also be able to recognize that Madeline Aston herself is trying to get in his stupid car, but alas, not all taxi drivers can have good taste in films.
“Ladies, there are people here who actually need a ride,” he says, right before he taps his “OFF DUTY” light and drives off. He stops not too far away, changes the light again, and picks up a family who have just stepped out of the terminal.
Madeline and Helen watch it leave—both of them incredulous for different reasons.
“Great,” Madeline snaps. “This is just fucking perfect.”
Helen shifts awkwardly, her cheeks pink from cold and discomfort, shoulders slumping in defeat. Even though it’s not the greatest consolation prize, at least Madeline can tell she’s not the only one having a terrible day right now.
Above them, an announcement blares: All remaining flights for tonight have been canceled due to severe weather conditions. Please seek alternative accommodations. Stay safe, and happy holidays.
Madeline makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and a groan. Helen winces sympathetically.
“Well, we kind of deserved that,” she says. Helen Sharp, always so self-deprecating.
Madeline gives her a look that could melt snow. Unfortunately, it doesn’t melt any—all it manages is to make Madeline’s forehead wrinkle in a way that would not please her team at all.
For a moment, neither speaks. Helen hesitates, shifting her weight from boot to boot. Madeline can see the cogs inside that strange and brilliant brain of hers turning; after all these years, she still knows her too well. Still remembers her little quirks, what the nervous push of her glasses means.
She looks away. The wind howls around them like it’s stoking the tension on purpose.
Finally, Helen says, “So… Um… Do you have a place to stay?”
Madeline tilts her head, eyebrows twisted—she’s grateful that Stefan is not around to see it—and a small, surprised sound leaving her parted lips. She blinks. The wind must have made her hear wrong.
Helen looks at her, waiting for a response. She seems—sincere. Madeline isn’t quite sure what to do with that.
“No,” she says nonchalantly, still a little taken aback, but she’s quick to correct herself. “I mean, not yet. Everything must be booked by now, but I just need to make a couple of calls…”
For some reason, suddenly her last-minute plan doesn’t seem as brilliant as it did before. By the look on Helen’s face, Madeline can tell she doesn't think it was a great plan, either.
“I thought you owned a place in the city?”
Madeline sighs. “I used to, yeah. I sold it a couple of years ago, though,” she explains. Right now, she deeply regrets that decision.
“Right.”
The silence between them stretches out again for a few seconds that feel like an eternity. Snow falls harder and harder, and Madeline feels a chill run down her spine when she looks up from her extremely inadequate shoes and finds Helen's green eyes staring at her.
And then, because she is Helen, the same Helen Madeline knows and remembers—softhearted, and constitutionally incapable of leaving someone (even Madeline Ashton, of all people) stranded in a storm—she says:
“Um… My place isn’t far. I mean, it’s… small. And messy. It’s just a subway ride or, well, normally a taxi ride, but…” She clears her throat. “But if you need somewhere to stay… you could stay with me.”
“Stay with you? For Christmas?” Madeline’s perfectly shaped eyebrows rise with surprise. “Don’t you have, like… some fancy family gathering to attend or something?”
Madeline remembers the Sharp family parties. High-profile events, unattainable for most—including Madeline herself, who could only fantasize about them thanks to the stories Helen told her when the holidays were over and she returned from her wealthy life to the dingy college dorm room she shared with Madeline like it was nothing. But now they are both adults, and Madeline has had her fair share of parties that would put the Sharps to shame.
Helen swallows. “I mean—I did, yeah, but… You’re not the only one whose Christmas has been rearranged by this stupid storm, you know.”
Madeline bites the inside of her cheek.
“And you want me… to stay with you?” she says, almost in disbelief.
Helen shrugs as if it means nothing.
“For as long as the storm lasts,” she says. The tip of her nose is red now, too. It must be the cold. “I mean, it’s not like we’ve never done this before. You can just stay until you find somewhere better.”
Snow swirls around them. Madeline looks up at the storm, then back at Helen, then at the road. In the distance, she can see a taxi approaching. Madeline doesn't really believe in fate or Christmas miracles, but she does believe in comfort and seizing opportunities. And maybe, somehow, this is an opportunity—she just has to discover for what.
Her sigh is dramatic enough that it manages to elicit a soft chuckle from Helen.
“… Fine,” she says. “For old time’s sake.”
The cab stops in front of them. Helen smiles, something bright and sincere under the storm.
“For old time’s sake,” she repeats.
The taxi stops right outside Helen’s brownstone, tires crunching through thick blankets of snow. The city is quiet with anticipation for the blizzard, with lights glowing warmly from windows and snowflakes drifting lazily in the air until they reach the ground.
After another fight over who should pay for the ride, Madeline steps out first and instantly recoils, clutching her fur-lined coat around her.
“Oh, absolutely not,” she groans when the cold night air bites at the flushed skin of her cheeks.
Helen thanks the cab driver and follows Madeline, a soft chuckle escaping her lips when she sees the pout on Madeline’s face. Maybe she hasn’t changed that much, after all.
“It’s not that bad,” she says. “I find it charming, in a way.”
“Charming,” Madeline repeats, raising an eyebrow. “You’re still the same weirdo I know, huh.”
“I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that or I’ll start regretting inviting you here.” Helen tugs her scarf tighter and hurries to the trunk. “Come on, let’s get the suitcases.”
Helen's luggage is modest—a small suitcase for a few days with her family, nothing more—but Madeline's unnecessarily huge suitcase seems determined to make their night as difficult as possible. The wheels are stuck in the snow, and when Madeline pulls it, it doesn’t budge. Helen tries next, though she knows it’s not going to help much.
“It’s frozen in place,” she says, biting back a chuckle.
Madeline’s eyes narrow, glaring at Helen and then at her suitcase and then at Helen again, like they somehow are in cahoots to play some kind of trick on her.
“Not for long, if I have anything to say about it,” Madeline says, pushing her hair over her shoulder.
Helen tilts her head, watching her as she ungracefully tries to get the suitcase to move. It’s endearing, in a way—seeing Madeline Ashton like this, her face twisted into an angry pout, not caring what people (or in this case, Helen) might think of her. With a wry smile, Helen moves closer to Madeline; together they yank, tug, and groan until finally, with one violent heave, the suitcase breaks free—straight into Madeline’s shin. She stumbles with a yelp, but Helen lunges to catch her.
For a second, Madeline ends up with her back against Helen’s front, her arms around her to keep her steady. Madeline’s breath hitches. All she feels is the loud thrum of her heartbeat against her ears, and Helen’s body, too warm and too close, smelling like that expensive perfume that always makes Madeline think of a time when they were younger and closer and probably happier.
Helen steps back quickly, her hands pulling away from Madeline like she could burn her.
“Sorry! I—I thought…” Her voice sounds a little high, a little shaky. “Sorry.”
Madeline looks up, startled and flustered and feeling an inconvenient flush on her cheeks that has little to do with the cold. She clears her throat and smooths her hair, even though it’s still perfect.
“No, it’s fine. I… Yes. It’s—it’s fine.”
They stand there for a heartbeat, in the hush of the snowfall.
Madeline can tell that they are both beginning to regret this idea, but it’s not like there’s any turning back now. She’ll try to book a hotel for tomorrow, but she’ll need to find a way to survive the night.
Helen leads her up the steps to the brownstone and unlocks the door.
“Watch your step. It gets slippery when it’s cold.” She gives the door a hip-bump to shove it open.
They walk inside, both of them still tugging together at Madeline’s suitcase. Warmth spills into the entryway, welcoming them like a gentle hug, along with the smell of cinnamon and ginger from a candle Helen left burning. The living room glows faintly with golden lamplight, and there are mismatched Christmas lights strung up along the bookshelves. A tiny evergreen tree sits in the corner, decorated with homemade ornaments that bring back old memories.
Madeline pauses. “Oh,” she says, because she cannot find anything else to say.
Helen suddenly feels self-conscious. The apartment isn’t particularly big, glamorous, or curated by a celebrity interior designer. It’s just her home—books piled on every corner, memories everywhere. And somehow, Madeline Ashton is standing beside her, watching the place with her mouth parted in what Helen hopes is a positive emotion.
“I—I know it’s a little messy,” she quickly excuses herself. “I wasn’t expecting…”
Madeline shakes her head slowly. “It’s lovely, Hel.”
The sincerity in her voice—or perhaps the nickname from a time gone by—makes Helen’s cheeks warm. She looks away, using the excuse of dragging the suitcase inside. She takes off her snow-covered shoes and leaves them by the door, hangs her coat on a rack, and heads to her room at the back of the apartment. Madeline follows suit, curiously observing every detail of the apartment—the plants that Helen loves to take care of, the framed pictures on the walls.
Once they have left their things in the bedroom, they both freeze in a beat of awkwardness. Helen wishes she could remember how they used to do this when they were younger, when Madeline would show up at her house unannounced and stay the night, when they spent so much time together that they could move around each other in a silent choreography with steps they both knew by heart.
She isn't sure they can go back to that, not after so many years of silence and separation. However, something inside her, perhaps the stupid Christmas spirit, tells her that she would like to try again.
Helen laughs nervously and gestures toward the living room.
“So… Make yourself at home?”
Madeline smiles, something soft and tender in her gaze, and follows her old friend into the living room. The glimmer of the Christmas lights reflects in her eyes.
“I like this place. It’s… warm,” Madeline says after a moment.
Helen’s heart gives a small, traitorous flutter.
“Well, I really wanted it to feel like home,” she says, smiling gently. “Something cozy and… mine, you know?”
“It suits you.”
The words hit Helen somewhere below her kidneys, knocking the air out of her lungs. She busies herself with the hand-knitted blanket, carelessly draped over the back of the couch, and tries her best not to glance at Madeline from the corner of her eye.
They end up in the small kitchen, with Madeline sitting by the small table as Helen makes tea for the two of them. The squeal of the kettle makes Madeline wince in a way that makes them both laugh. When it’s done, Helen sits across from Madeline, stirring honey into her mug as Madeline watches her with an unreadable expression.
Outside, the storm rages on. The snow drifts, the wind howls against the windowpanes in long shuddering breaths. The biting cold seeps in under the doors, but it can't quite reach them. Inside, the world seems to have stopped for the two of them. There is only quiet and warmth, a memory of the time they used to share and that neither of them has quite forgotten.
Their fingers brush when Helen hands Madeline her tea. Madeline inhales sharply, almost imperceptibly.
Neither of them pulls away.
Snow taps insistently against the windows, more insistent than before, a warning that the storm is only getting worse for the night, but Madeline and Helen have other things to worry about.
Helen has turned on every cozy lamp she owns, a futile attempt to make the space feel less small, less intimate. To keep herself from remembering all the things she has spent years trying to forget. Meanwhile, Madeline watches her silently from the couch, holding a second cup of tea, something to keep her hands warm and busy, rather than to drink.
She can tell Helen is nervous, even in her own home. Still, Madeline thinks there’s something fascinating in the way she moves around the place; maybe it’s the familiarity, how she clearly knows every nook and cranny like the back of her hand, how she seems to fit perfectly here, like she was made for this place—or the other way round.
“So.” Helen clears her throat, interrupting Madeline’s strange train of thought. “Should we discuss—uh—sleeping arrangements?”
Madeline cocks an eyebrow, curiosity and wariness brewing.
“Yes,” she says, and her voice sounds calm and steady. Helen motions vaguely toward the hallway.
“I—I only have one bed.” Helen’s voice pitches up embarrassingly. “But it’s big enough for two people! Like… really big.”
“The couch is fine,” Madeline cuts in quickly. She winces, but makes sure to cover it with a rehearsed smile. “Perfectly fine.”
“What? That’s not—” Helen shakes her head. “Are you sure? I mean, just look at it… I’m sure you’re used to something more…”
“Glamorous?” Madeline tosses her hair with affected dignity. A small part of her is slightly offended because Helen thinks she’s too egotistical and that she’s probably incapable of spending a single night on a couch. Another part of her whines because she does indeed not want to spend the night on a couch. “Please, Helen. I’ve slept on worse. Remember that story I told you about that regional theatre tour? The motel in Texas?”
“God, don’t remind me,” Helen says, chuckling at the memory of Madeline’s outraged voice over the phone. Madeline’s smile also softens at the shared memory, unexpected warmth flickering across her face, although it’s gone in a moment. “But seriously, Mad, I don’t mind…”
“I’m taking the couch,” Madeline says, lifting her chin.
Helen sighs, fighting back the sudden urge to roll her eyes. She knows Madeline well enough to know that, when it comes to her, there are some battles that aren’t worth fighting for. Madeline is too stubborn.
“Okay,” she murmurs. “If you’re sure…”
She turns her back to Madeline with the excuse of retrieving extra blankets. She keeps them everywhere, flannel and fleece and yarn that she knitted herself, some plain and dull, others with undignified patterns that give away her love of autumn and winter: snowflakes and snowmen, plaid, little hedgehogs with funny hats.
Madeline’s lips twitch as Helen piles them ceremoniously onto the arm of the couch.
“That many?” she teases as Helen places one last blanket on top of the pile with a ‘plop’.
“This place is quite old,” Helen explains, hands resting on her hips, her tone a little wistful as she glances at the room. She looks kind of proud of herself, with her eyes bright and her hair, still slightly damp from melted snow, curled around her temples in shiny dark red waves. “It can get really cold at night. You’ll thank me later.”
“Whatever the hostess says,” Madeline says, picking up one of the blankets made by Helen, observing it with curious eyes.
Helen bites the inside of her cheek. Despite the cold, her hands are suddenly sweating.
“D-Do you want to do anything?” Helen asks before she can stop herself. “I—I mean, it’s not that late, and I’m pretty sure I have some old Christmas films somewhere, or maybe we could…”
Madeline sputters a laugh, wrapping an exaggerated shawl of blankets around her shoulders like a queen, and looking right at home on Helen’s lumpy couch. The sight makes Helen’s stomach churn uncomfortably.
“Sure, Hel,” Madeline says, her tone affected. “There’s nothing I want more right now than to watch little Cindy Lou Who finally warm the Grinch’s heart. Or cry when the Muppets teach Scrooge the true meaning of Christmas. Or subject myself to the torture of watching Emma Thompson open that damn Joni Mitchell album again, or…”
“Okay, fine. I get it. A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed,” Helen mumbles, rolling her eyes. “Besides, you cannot lie to me. I know you. You used to love those films.”
“And I used to have a different nose. People change, Hel.”
Helen smiles in spite of herself. “Well, I see you’re still impossible.”
Madeline opens her mouth to shoot back a cheeky remark, but before she can respond, the lights flicker.
Once, then twice.
There’s a solid ten seconds where nothing happens, only Madeline and Helen staring at each other with anticipation.
And then—darkness.
The apartment is suddenly silent, except for the muffled sound of the storm raging outside, almost like a chuckle making fun of their situation. The strings of lights on the bookshelves all die at the same time, the warm light of the lamps blinks off, and even the hum of the heater stops. The entire world seems to have turned off in an instant, leaving them alone in the eerily quiet darkness.
“Oh, no.”
Helen freezes. Her mind is already going at a thousand miles per hour. There are too many things she needs to check. First of all, she needs to check the fridge. She also left her laptop charging, she needs to make sure it hasn’t exploded or anything like that. Does she have an emergency charger for her phone? Does she…?
The sudden chaos in Helen’s brain is interrupted by a soft, unmistakable sound—a tiny, stunned gasp coming from the couch. She turns around slowly, though her eyes are still adjusting to the darkness. At least there’s the faint glow of the streetlights outside.
“Madeline?”
“Helen.” Madeline’s voice drifts through the dark, an octave higher than usual. “Helen, please, tell me that was not the power.”
Helen bites the inside of her cheek.
“It was the power.”
“Oh,” Madeline says. “That’s—great. This is great.”
“It’s okay, I—” Helen takes a tentative step through the dark, bumping her foot on a table. She hisses and curses under her breath. “Fuck. Ouch. Okay. Hang on… I have candles somewhere.”
Madeline lets out a small, pitiful whine. As she tries to move across the living room without breaking anything (why did she ever think it was a good idea to have all those books piled around?), Helen can hear Madeline attempting to regulate her breathing, slow and steady.
An unbidden memory surfaces from one of those corners of her mind she thought she’d forgotten a long time ago: a younger Madeline, curled up in Helen’s bed during a blackout, mumbling something about how much she hated the dark, and Helen, sitting beside her, holding her hand until the power came back on.
The memory makes something old and familiar ache in her chest.
“Mad,” Helen says gently, “are you… Are you okay?”
There’s another silence, longer this time. Helen swears she can hear Madeline’s brain working overtime to stop herself from having a panic attack. She narrows her eyes, trying to navigate her house as fast as she can.
“Y-Yeah, I’m okay,” Madeline says, a brittle attempt at bravado. It’d sound somehow convincing if Helen didn’t know her so well. “This is absolutely fine, I’m…”
“You are scared of the dark,” Helen says, her voice soft. “At least when we were younger, you were.”
A beat. Madeline exhales sharply.
“… You remember that?”
Helen smiles faintly in the dark, thankful that Madeline cannot see her.
“Of course I do, Mad.”
Once she manages to make her way into the kitchen without accidentally assaulting most of her furniture, she rummages through the drawers until she finally finds a box of candles. She’d bought it once on a whim after reading in a writing blog that candles helped some people to get in the mood for writing. They hadn’t helped Helen with her writer’s block—in fact, they’d only made her feel pretentious and worry about a potential fire hazard—but now she’s extremely thankful that she didn’t throw them away. The flame blooms slowly, pushing warmth into the shadows.
When Helen walks back into the living room, the soft glow of the candle illuminates Madeline’s face, pale and tense and strangely younger under the faint light, like a blurry memory from a time gone by.
Helen carries the candle toward her, sitting next to her on the couch. Close, but not too close.
“Hey.”
Madeline blinks at the flame, her features relaxing slowly. Helen can hear her breath steadying.
“You look like a ghost,” Madeline murmurs, smiling half-heartedly.
“How do you know I’m not the Ghost of Christmas Past, haunting you so you can finally remember the love you once held for The Muppet Christmas Carol?”
“Ha, ha, very funny.” Madeline shakes her head, but she leans closer to the candle, closer to Helen.
Helen lights more candles—on the dining table, on the bookshelves and the sideboard, on the windowsill—until the living room shimmers in a constellation of golden, flickering stars. Madeline watches her, expression unreadable in the glow.
They sit together on the couch, the storm howling louder and louder just beyond the walls. Candlelight dances across Madeline’s features, her gaze softening in a way that makes Helen suddenly very aware of the tiny space between them. Madeline seems to notice too, wrapping herself tighter in the blankets and looking away whenever their eyes meet.
“Are you feeling better now?” Helen asks, her voice soft but apprehensive. “I’m… I’m not sure when the power will be back, so…”
“It's okay. I just need—” Madeline stops herself. “You being here is enough.”
Helen ignores the loud thrum of her heartbeat against her ears.
“O-Okay.”
There is a brief silence, interrupted only by the sound of the wind and the never-ending hum of the city, still living even underneath the storm. Madeline shifts uneasily beside Helen.
“Can we… talk?” Madeline asks in the most sheepish, least Madeline Ashton-esque tone Helen has ever heard. “About anything. Something—something to distract us.”
Helen looks at her, the candlelight casting a strange shadow of concern across her face.
“Of course we can.” Then, an idea pops into her head. Something so stupid in a moment like this that she knows it’ll definitely work. "How about… raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens?”
She watches Madeline's eyebrows twist into a confused frown, like she’s having a hard time believing those words have actually come out of Helen’s mouth, but then something flashes in her eyes—something bright and soft, at last—and the confusion quickly turns to laughter. She throws her head back, letting out a loud, unabashed laugh, her shoulders shaking slightly.
“I didn't know you'd given up writing to pursue comedy,” Madeline says, shaking her head but unable to hold back the smile tugging at her lips. Helen's chest swells with pride. “You're so funny today, Fräulein Maria.”
“I've always been funny, what are you talking about?” Helen says, putting a hand to her chest with feigned offense.
“You mean your jokes have always been terrible.”
“Maybe, but they've always made you laugh.” Helen smiles at her. “Some things never change.”
Madeline nudges her knee against Helen’s.
“I guess they don’t.”
The contact jolts through Helen like a spark.
Outside, the wind howls louder, beating against the windowpanes. The sound startles Madeline, her hand instinctively reaching for Helen’s wrist, and her fingers stiff against her skin—too late to pull back, but both of them extremely aware of the sudden contact.
Helen swallows, hoping that Madeline cannot feel her wild pulse on her fingertips.
“You can… actually sleep in my room, you know,” she says gently. “If the dark is too much. The bed is big enough, I swear.”
Madeline hesitates, pride warring with fear behind her eyes.
“Okay,” she whispers, shoulders dropping in defeat. “Fine. We can… We can share. For practical reasons.”
“Yeah,” Helen says. “Practical.”
They stand, pretending the moment doesn’t make them both feel too small. Silently, Helen gathers the blankets; Madeline takes the candle to follow her, and gathers what little of her dignity she still possesses after this. Their shoulders brush as they walk toward Helen’s bedroom, but neither pulls away.
Helen lights more candles on her nightstand, her room glowing warm in the night. Madeline hovers uncertainly near the edge of the bed, fingers fidgeting anxiously. Helen wonders what exactly is making her so visibly nervous that she cannot bother to put one of her facades on anymore—the dark, or the storm, or the fact that they haven’t spoken in such a long time but their bodies still remember how to move around one another like it’s second nature.
“It really is big,” Madeline mumbles, more to herself than anything. It makes Helen chuckle.
“Must be a Christmas miracle.”
Madeline’s mouth curves in a small, genuine smile.
As they slip beneath the covers, each in a corner of the bed as if afraid that any accidental touch might burn them, the candlelight shimmers across the ceiling and the storm continues its tantrum outside, loud, but not enough to drown the thick silence between them. Inside, the room feels too small, too warm.
Madeline exhales, long and shaky. For a moment, Helen thinks she’s going to get out of bed and run back to the couch, as far from Helen as the house and the dark allow her.
Instead, she turns so she’s facing Helen, her eyes glimmering under the faint glow of the nearly burned-out candle.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For remembering. For—for everything.”
Helen wants to reach out for Madeline’s hand, but she doesn’t.
“Always.”
The hazy sunlight spills into the kitchen almost like in a dream. The soft hum of the refrigerator is the loudest sound in the room. Madeline is still trying to make sure that she’s actually awake and her mind isn’t playing tricks on her as she sits by the tiny kitchen table, staring at the unevenly browned toast in front of her.
She glances over at Helen, who’s carefully trying to scrape the burnt bits off another slice of bread, her brows furrowed in concentration. The kitchen smells faintly of charred bread and tea, something far off from the sterile, perfectly curated scents of five-star hotels and celebrity resorts that she’s gotten used to. It makes her feel almost out of place here, but part of her—one that she’d never let admit anything out loud—thinks this feels almost… cozy.
Her stomach grumbles, and she picks up the toast with a delicate sigh, fingers lightly dusting the crumbs off. How did she even end up here? She should be somewhere in Canada, getting drunk out of her mind while she pretends to like whatever other second-rate celebrities had the same miserable Christmas plans as her. And yet, here she is—still stuck in New York City, in a cramped apartment, trying to eat a piece of toast that is starting to make Madeline question if Helen has ever been anywhere near a toaster in her life.
“Not your best work, I suppose?” she quips, not too mean.
Helen glances up from her own mess, an annoyed glare behind her glasses.
“I guess not,” she says, with a small laugh that sounds more like she’s trying to reassure herself than Madeline. “Sorry, I haven’t used this thing in years. I don’t know what happened.” She points at a half-empty jar of jam with an apologetic smile. "Maybe we can salvage it?"
Madeline shrugs, shaking her head.
"It's fine. I’m not really a toast person, anyway." The words slip out a little more harshly than she intended, but she doesn't correct herself. Let Helen think she’s still the high-maintenance diva, used to Michelin-star meals and a personal chef cooking for her.
Helen moves to sit across from her, placing the toast down with an air of concentration. She chuckles quietly at Madeline’s expression when she sees the burnt bread. She almost looks… fond, like part of her used to miss this version of Madeline, the one who doesn’t hide her emotions behind a perfect smile and a flutter of her eyelashes.
The awkwardness still hangs between them. Outside, the storm has softened into a snowfall, stippling the windows with white dots, and the cold air can still be felt even in the small space of Helen’s kitchen. The power came back at some point during the night, after both of them had managed to fall asleep in spite of the thick tension smoldering them.
“So,” Madeline says casually, taking a sip of tea, “what are your plans for Christmas?”
The question is casual enough, but it’s like a weight dropped in the middle of a frozen pond. Madeline can see the cracks instantly. Helen looks at her and tilts her head, like she doesn’t quite understand the question.
“Family,” she says softly. “I’m… I was going to my family’s place.”
Her gaze flickers toward the window, but quickly returns to her hands, holding her own mug of tea a little too tight. Madeline watches her, curious. She’s wearing a thick sweater over her pajamas, her hair tied in a messy bun, glasses sliding to the tip of her nose. Perfectly comfortable in her own home, with Madeline. The mere mention of her family makes her stiffen, like something is trying to drag her away against her will.
“You don’t sound excited about it,” Madeline says, leaning in slightly.
Helen looks back at Madeline, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Well… Things aren’t as simple as when we were kids,” she says. “Right now, it’s… more of an obligation, I guess.”
An obligation. Madeline’s brow furrows as she stirs her tea. She’s been there—those hollow holiday gatherings, surrounded by the same people who had never made the slightest effort to even pretend to care about her. Her family stopped being family years ago, after everyone decided she was more of a trophy to show off than a person.
“I get it,” she says quietly, voice softening. “I haven’t seen my family in years.” Helen’s eyebrows raise at that. Madeline rarely spoke about her family when they were friends. She didn’t have any reason to; she wasn’t interested in Helen’s pity, or worse, in Helen rubbing her perfect little rich family life in her face. “I was supposed to go to this resort, you know, one of those celebrity-only things. But I guess… It’s all just a distraction now. I don’t have anything better to do on Christmas. And being alone is—” The words come out before she can stop them, and she instantly regrets it. “Whatever. It’s stupid.”
Madeline feels herself blush. What does she expect with this stupid confession? Sympathy? Understanding? If anything, she deserves to have Helen laugh at her—the great Madeline Ashton, throwing a pity party because nobody actually cares about her. Boo-hoo.
And yet, for some reason, Helen doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t even smile. She simply nods, her expression soft, like she’s really hearing Madeline.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice is quieter now, careful. There’s a beat, like she’s considering her next words. “Maybe… Maybe you don’t have to go. I—I mean, if you don’t want to. You could—stay.”
Her words hang in the air, almost too loud. Madeline doesn’t know if she wants to laugh or cry. She certainly doesn’t know how to respond, so she reaches for her cup again, hoping the warmth will melt away the sudden lump in her throat and the odd ache in her chest.
“Stay? For Christmas?” She asks, pretending to sound indifferent. “What would I do here?”
“I don’t know. Whatever you want. Maybe nothing.” Helen shrugs, looking almost shy. “It’s quiet here. There’s no pressure. And you don’t have to be anywhere but here.” She pauses, then adds, her voice barely above a whisper, “It’s okay if you don’t want to. But it would be nice… to have someone around. A friend.”
It’s said so quietly, so earnestly, that Madeline believes she’s making it up at first. And then the weight of it hits her, like a punch to her gut. The idea of staying here—staying with Helen—is ridiculous.
But for the first time in years, the idea of being with someone who actually seems to care about her, at least in their own fucked-up way, feels comforting. It’s not her usual Christmas, with the glitz and glamour of high society. That’s easy for Madeline—smiling, pretending. But this… This is too real. Just the thought of it terrifies her.
And yet, something inside her makes her say, quieter than she intended, “Maybe that doesn’t sound so bad.”
Helen smiles, a smile that’s almost a sigh of relief, and it makes Madeline’s chest tighten just a little.
“I’m glad,” Helen says, still smiling, though it’s a little uncertain.
Madeline watches her, and much to her own surprise, she finds herself looking forward to Christmas.
The city feels different today—quieter, like it’s holding its breath after the storm, waiting for the chaos to come again. Snow still falls gently around them, the streets covered in a perfect blanket of white scattered with footprints. Madeline and Helen are making their way back to Helen’s place after venturing out to do some last-minute emergency grocery shopping. The storm has subsided, but the gray skies warn that it could come back at any moment, and neither of them wants to tempt fate.
Madeline still can’t quite believe she’s here walking down a narrow sidewalk in Brooklyn in boots that don’t quite match her coat. But here she is, and for some reason, the cold and the fact that she’s wearing Helen’s shoes because she didn’t pack anything appropriate for this weather don’t bother her as much as they should. She doesn’t even care that much that Helen is forcing her to help her carry the bags.
She glances over at Helen, who’s walking beside her, bundled in a thick scarf and coat, cheeks flushed from the brisk air. Their arms keep brushing as they walk, but it doesn't make them pull away from each other. Madeline tells herself it’s because of the cold.
“Careful,” Helen says, voice gentle but direct, as Madeline hits an icy patch on the sidewalk. Without thinking, Helen reaches out, her hand catching Madeline’s arm with just the right amount of pressure.
Madeline’s breath catches. It’s the smallest of gestures, but it sends an unexpected warmth through her, something she doesn't really want to acknowledge. When she looks at Helen, she simply loops her arm around Madeline’s and looks away, acting as if she weren’t as surprised as Madeline is by her sudden boldness.
The air between them feels different than last night, but still full of tension. However, it’s not the usual tension—it’s not about their ability to keep hurting the other, the constant need to one-up each other. It’s something softer. A quiet understanding. Their friendship that isn’t exactly a friendship, but something neither of them can quite name.
Madeline shifts her gaze to Helen again, and their eyes meet for a fraction of a second. Just enough to feel the pull, the warmth. Helen’s steadiness. She smiles to herself, and wonders why she would want to be anywhere else right now.
Next to her, Helen can’t seem to focus on anything other than the way Madeline’s arm feels under hers. Her heart is racing in her chest as she watches Madeline over the corner of her eye, feeling a strange mix of comfort and nervousness. It’s the way Madeline carries herself—always so poised and self-assured—and yet, in these moments, Helen feels like she’s seeing someone else. Someone softer, maybe even vulnerable. The girl she once knew, but still different.
It makes Helen want to reach out again, to close the space between them, but she doesn’t. Instead, she takes a deep breath and tries to act normal.
But nothing feels normal. Not when they’re walking side by side, the snow falling softly around them, with Christmas music drifting on the air from the stores and the houses down the street.
Helen swallows, heart hammering in her chest. A stupid thought crosses her mind; she chuckles under her breath and, before she can really stop herself, she says, “You know, this is just like in Once Upon a Christmas Prince.”
Madeline stops dead in her tracks. She turns her head slowly toward Helen, her eyes wide with horror. Suddenly, she is paler than the snow around them.
“You… You've seen that?” Madeline says, then forces an awkward laugh. “Wow, Helen, I didn't think you were that kind of person.”
Helen would be concerned about the sheer terror on Madeline's face if she didn't know the reason for her reaction—the film is straight-up garbage.
“They show it on TV every year, Madeline,” Helen says, a little offended that Madeline would think she would watch that of her own free will. Even though she does watch it every year. “It's humanly impossible not to have seen it.”
“God, I wish I could erase it from my memory,” Madeline says, shaking her head. “It paid well, yes, but it’s just so…”
“I mean, it’s… entertaining.” Helen shrugs. “And your musical number is…”
“Stop, Hel!”
Madeline shoves her playfully, an honest smile dancing on her lips. Helen’s heart is still drumming against her ears, but the knot in her stomach eases, knowing that she can still manage to get Madeline to smile.
“I can't believe you would waste your holidays watching that movie. I'm sure your family wouldn't approve,” Madeline jokes, though her words make something stir uncomfortably inside Helen.
She thinks about her family, the cold silences, the forced smiles. About all the excuses she’s made only to spend so many Christmases alone before, more times than she can count. How many times she’d just wish the holiday season would be over as fast as possible.
“Well,” Helen says, her voice barely a whisper. “It was either that or spending the holidays with people who don't even care about me that much.”
The words are out before she can take them back, before she can realize the kind of confession she’s making. She can feel the weight of them hanging between them, thick and charged. She immediately regrets saying it. But Madeline doesn’t look away. She doesn’t even flinch. Instead, she smiles. A small, private smile that makes Helen’s heart skip a beat.
“I get what you mean, Hel,” Madeline says, her voice low and sincere. “But if it helps, at least this year you have someone who cares about you.”
Madeline herself seems surprised by her own words, but she doesn't take her bright eyes off Helen. Her cheeks are a little red, and Helen knows that this time the cold isn’t to blame.
Helen wonders if this is it—the shift she’s been waiting for. The so-called Christmas miracle everyone talks about. Everything aligning, just like it always does in the movies, even in the ones that aren’t that good.
But it’s real. It’s real, and it’s happening here, in the quiet of Brooklyn, with Madeline by her side. And even though they’re not quite there yet, Helen knows neither of them wants this moment to end just yet.
Helen’s apartment smells like cinnamon and spices and like a memory of a time she’d almost forgotten. Madeline stirs the pot on the stove, but her glance keeps slipping over to Helen. She’s wearing a faded red apron now, the one that hangs on the back of the kitchen door, and she’s staring at the recipe book like it’s written in a whole different language, which makes Madeline both smile and worry.
Madeline’s not sure what she expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. The place is quiet now, only interrupted by the bubbling pot, but it’s not the stifling kind of silence that usually presses in on her when she’s alone.
Every so often, Helen will look over at her, catch her eye, and then look away quickly, as if she’s not sure how much of this—this closeness, this familiarity—she can handle. Madeline doesn’t blame her. It’s all too intimate, too vulnerable. There’s no grand drama, no cameras flashing, no people gossiping. It’s just them, and that’s probably more terrifying than any other scenario.
“You know,” Madeline says, trying to break the silence, “I’m actually kind of surprised that this looks edible, considering what you did with the bread this morning.”
“Very funny,” Helen says, glancing over, though there’s a grin tugging at the corner of her lip. She’s standing at the counter, chopping vegetables and making sure they’re following all the steps from the book, and when she glances up again, her gaze lingers for just a second too long. “Just so you know, I consider myself an above-average cook.”
Madeline laughs, but it feels different than usual. Lighter, more real, like they’re sharing something genuine again. It’s strange. She hasn’t felt this comfortable around someone in a long time—especially not after time made them drift away.
“It’s true,” Madeline adds, her tone softer. “You’ve always had a knack for that… I remember how you used to make that pasta dish every time we had study sessions.”
The memory makes Helen smile wistfully.
“I thought you hated that pasta,” she says, her voice more subdued now.
Madeline shrugs, the corners of her lips pulling into a small, nostalgic smile.
“I didn’t hate it. But I wasn’t exactly thrilled about the garlic bread you’d burn every time either.”
Helen snorts. “Okay, fair. My garlic bread was… an acquired taste.”
“Just like your toast?”
They both laugh together this time, and it eases into something warmer and quieter. A comfortable silence this time. The scent of the stew fills the air, and Helen pushes the cutting board aside to join Madeline by the stove, the two of them working in sync now without thinking about it. It’s almost like they’ve never been apart—like they’ve been here, doing this, all along.
After a few minutes, Madeline speaks again, her voice a little quieter this time. “I’m glad we’re doing this. After all these years, it feels… right.”
Helen’s eyes flicker to hers, her expression softening in a way that makes Madeline’s heart beat a little faster. “Yeah. I wasn’t sure if we’d ever be able to just… be normal again.”
Madeline nods, her gaze lowering to the pot as she stirs absentmindedly. She thinks of their days back in college, and wonders what ‘normal’ means for them. She’s not sure she can ever just be normal with Helen. She isn’t sure she wants to be.
“We were kind of terrible to each other back then. And still, I missed you more than anyone…”
She trails off, the words hanging in the air, and for a moment, Madeline feels all the moments between them flash before her eyes—how, in spite of everything, they’ve both only felt right at home with each other.
“I’m sorry,” Madeline says quickly, afraid that she’s said too much, that she’s been too honest. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No,” Helen interrupts, her voice quieter than usual. “It’s okay.” She sets her spoon down and turns to face Madeline, the weight of the moment heavier now, tension thick in the air. “I get it. You don’t have to explain.”
Helen meets her eyes then, and for just a moment, it feels like the whole world has narrowed down to this quiet, fragile connection between them.
“I’m not good at this,” Helen says. “I don’t really know if I’ve ever known how to be with someone like you.”
Madeline smiles at that, her heart skipping a beat. She doesn’t think of the implication of Helen’s words, not yet. She’s just so relieved that she gets to have this moment, to be honest with someone without being scared of consequences.
“Someone like me?” she repeats. “You mean a pain in the ass?”
Helen looks flustered, rubbing her hands over her apron, and Madeline can’t help but laugh softly, something tender stirring inside her. God, she’d missed Helen so much.
“No,” Helen says, shaking her head, though there’s a faint blush on her cheeks. “I mean, someone who’s always surrounded by people, someone who’s…”
She stops herself again, the words coming out in a rush, too fast for Madeline to keep up.
“Not here?” Madeline finishes for her, the hint of a teasing smile on her lips.
Helen freezes, her eyes wide, and Madeline feels a sudden jolt—of clarity, of understanding. The strange distance between them all these years starts to make sense now.
"Yeah," Helen says quietly. "I guess I’m just—scared of being left alone."
And there it is. The reason she’s been running from this the entire time. And Madeline knows, Madeline understands, because she has spent years keeping people at arm’s length, hiding behind a façade of fame and status for that very same reason. Because nobody can leave you behind if you never let them get close to you in the first place.
But standing here, in Helen’s warm kitchen, with Helen standing so close that Madeline can count every freckle on her flushed cheeks, Madeline realizes that she’s willing to take the risk this time.
“Me too,” Madeline says, her voice soft but certain this time. “But I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t do that. Leave you.”
Helen steps a little closer, close enough to feel the slight tremble of Madeline’s body, to see the vulnerability she’s been hiding so carefully. It’s as if everything between them—the distance, the old push and pull—just fades away, leaving nothing but this moment.
Then, without a word, Madeline reaches for her hand. It’s the smallest, most tentative movement, but it sends a shiver down Helen’s back. She doesn’t hesitate. She takes Madeline’s hand in hers, feeling the warmth of it, the way their fingers intertwine together.
Madeline steps closer, closing the distance between them, her breath warm against Helen’s cheek. There’s a flicker of something in her eyes, something deep and tender, and before either of them can second-guess it, Madeline’s hand is on the back of Helen’s neck, her lips are brushing against Helen’s.
The kiss is soft at first, gentle, a hesitant exploration of everything they’ve both been holding back, but it quickly deepens, more sure, more urgent.
“I really—,” Helen begins, barely a whisper against Madeline’s lips. “I really like you, Mad. I want to—”
“Me too,” Madeline breathes out, fingers tangling in Helen’s hair. “Me too, Helen, so much.”
Helen smiles into the kiss, and her hands find the curve of Madeline's waist to pull her closer so that their bodies are closer and closer. When they finally pull away, their foreheads resting together, their breath mingling in the quiet of the kitchen, Madeline whispers, “I don’t want to be alone on Christmas anymore.”
Helen smiles, her heart lighter than it’s been in years.
“You don’t have to be.”
She leans in again to press a feathery soft kiss against Madeline's lips, who sighs and smiles, and puts her hands on Helen's shoulders… just to suddenly push her away.
Helen blinks once, twice, confused and a little dizzy from the kiss.
“Oh, God,” Madeline says, horror flashing across her face. Helen tilts her head in confusion. “This really is like Once Upon a Christmas Prince, isn’t it?”
“Please, don’t ever say that again,” Helen says before pulling her for another kiss.
And for the first time in a long time, both of them wish that this Christmas would last forever.