Archive of Our Own

— 🐈‍⬛ —

The last days of December and the first ones of January are the coldest. I’d never really noticed before. Maybe because I’m always cold, no matter the day or the month.

Some people clearly didn’t agree with me, though. There were girls wearing the shortest skirts I’d ever seen and tops that barely covered anything at all. I’ll never understand how someone can choose looking good over being comfortable.

Then again, I’m pretty sure I never look good anyway. And honestly, I don’t care.

There were a lot of people there. From both Higgs and Truham. If last year’s party had felt absurdly big, this one made it look tiny in comparison—maybe not even twenty percent of this.

After the fireworks, and everyone shouting “Happy New Year!”, Nick and Charlie started saying their goodbyes. They got into the car. Charlie looked at me through the rearview mirror, and when I gave him a thumbs-up, they finally drove off.

I waved back and stayed standing on the pavement longer than necessary. I don’t even know why. My legs just refused to take me back inside, while my eyes drifted toward the house instead, carefully taking in all the decorations covering it.

I imagined myself as part of them. I guess it would be comfortable. Being stored away in a box all year long, only to come out for one night and then get locked away again. Over and over.

Becky’s house was big. Big enough to make me uncomfortable every time I stood in front of it. The windows were enormous, buying curtains for them must’ve been a nightmare.

I was too busy wondering what kind of architect would design such a massive house and still not include an attic when a voice pulled me out of my thoughts.

“There you are! Got you, Victoria,” he says, in a playful tone that almost makes me want to take off my shoe and throw it at his face.

I turn around.

“Oh no, I think you’re mistaken,” I say. “I saw a girl named that run off that way.” I point toward the corner of the street.

Michael laughs as he walks closer. One of his curls falls over his forehead, but he quickly fixes it—and for a second, I’m grateful he didn’t decide to do that gelled side-part hairstyle today. I like his hair like this, natural, I think.

The thought surprises me, so I shove it away immediately.

“My apologies, miss…” he says. “Your name, if I may?”

“Annabel.”

“Oh, I see. Thank you very much for your help. Lovely night, Miss Annabel,” Michael says, walking off in the opposite direction, only to turn around moments later and run back toward me.

I try to escape, but before I can, he grabs me from behind and lifts me just a few centimetres off the ground. Just enough for my feet to kick uselessly in the air.

“Put me down right now! God, you’re so annoying!” I say, though a laugh escapes me halfway through.

“Time to go,” he says. “I promised your dad I’d get you home as soon as possible, and I think we’ve already stayed long enough.”

I struggle a bit more before Michael finally sets me down. I stand in front of him and straighten my skirt.

“You talk to my dad like you share custody of me.”

“Well,” he adjusts his glasses, “technically, that’s exactly what we do. You’re kind of like a puppy.”

“You did not just compare me to a pet,” I say, pretending to be offended.

Michael opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. I let out a small snort that passes for a laugh and turn away.

“That’s not what I meant!” he adds, hurrying after me.

He manages to catch up and takes my hand, and we walk back into the party together.

“I’m just going to grab something to drink and then we’re leaving,” I say.

“Mmm, if all you want is vodka, vodka, and more vodka… then yes, great plan.”

“What? No. Becky told me there’d be lemonade.”

“There was,” he says. “But I’d like to remind you that exactly half an hour ago we came downstairs from the bedroom with you saying the exact same thing. And there was nothing left.”

Right. Michael was right. Of course he was. I’d forgotten. I look at him and frown.

“The sooner we leave, the better chance we have of finding a shop that’s still open so I can buy you one,” he replies, giving my shoulder a light pat.

It’s not that I didn’t want to leave the party. Really. It wasn’t that. I wasn’t even having fun. Becky had invited me and I hadn’t seen her once all night.

I just didn’t want to go home. Not for any specific reason. Just… I don’t know.

I could’ve stayed at Michael’s house, watching stupid movies like we were before Charlie called to say he and Nick were picking us up so we could all come together. I’d already told Becky I wasn’t coming, but I guess Charlie decided to drag me along anyway.

I was about to refuse a second time, but before I could, Michael had already changed out of the old sports shirt he wore as pyjamas and into a button-up I didn’t even know he owned.

“Wow, very formal,” I’d said.

He told me he had to take advantage of the chance, because he knew he’d never wear it again.

And that’s how we ended up here.

“Fine. You win. Let’s get out of here,” I say.

Michael nods and takes my hand again, guiding me through the crowd toward the front door.

Once outside, I take out my phone.

BECKY

T: I’m heading out. I looked for you to tell you, but I couldn’t find you.

Which wasn’t exactly true. I hadn’t really looked. But she wouldn’t know that.

B: So early? Tori, you’re such a party pooper.

T: Tell that to my parents.

Happy New Year.

B: Happy New Year, love. xx

I put my phone away and nod at Michael. We start walking.

…

After a while, we finally come across an open shop. Thank God, I think.

“I’ll wait here,” Michael says, leaning against a car parked right in front of it.

“Do you want anything?”

He thinks about it, glancing through the glass toward one of the shelves before looking back at me.

“I want… some of those,” he says, pointing at a bag of crisps. “A soda, and—oh, and some gummies.”

I stare at him for a second.

“Yeah… no. I don’t have enough money for all that.”

Michael smiles slightly and pulls his wallet out of his pocket. He opens it, takes out his card, and holds it out to me.

I raise an eyebrow.

“What?” he says, still smiling. “I just got my first paycheck deposited. What can I say? I’m a fully responsible adult now.”

I look at the card for a moment longer, sigh, and finally take it.

“Well? Go on,” he says. “Make the most of my salary, darling.”

I can’t help but let out a small laugh.

“God, you’re so weird,” I say as he slips his wallet back into his pocket.

“Yeah. I love you too,” he replies. Damn it, why won’t he stop smiling?

“Cringe.”

Finally, I turn around and walk into the shop. I grab Michael’s soda, my lemonade, the crisps, the gummies, and a pack of mints sitting by the counter.

“Is that everything?” the cashier asks as I place the items down.

“Yes.”

“Card or cash?”

“Uh… card. Debit.”

“Alright.”

Once I’m done paying, I take the bag and head outside. I think I hear the cashier say something like “Lovely night,” but I only realise once I’m already out the door, and saying goodbye from there would somehow be worse than having ignored her entirely.

Michael holds out his hand and I give him the bag. I take out my lemonade, open it, and take a sip.

“You know my parents aren’t home, right?” I ask.

“That’s right. Your mum said they were staying at your aunt’s house.”

“Then why were you so desperate to leave the party?”

“You looked uncomfortable,” he says. “I figured putting on my hero cape was a good idea.” He takes a sip of his soda. “Besides, we weren’t even at the party.”

“We were at the party.”

“We were in the house of the party. If we’d actually been at the party, we would’ve been downstairs. Not lying on God-knows-who’s bed watching The Perks of Being a Wallflower.”

“It’s Becky’s room. She said we could stay there.”

“Alright, fine,” he says, and then falls quiet.

I think about it for a few seconds.

“Are you upset?” I ask.

“Why would I be?”

“Because it sounds like I didn’t want to leave.”

Michael turns to look at me, having to tilt his head down slightly because of the obvious height difference.

“I know you wanted to,” he says. “Even if you act like you didn’t.”

I don’t say anything for a moment.

“…Yeah,” I admit finally. “You’re right. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.”

…

— 🥇 —

We’ve been walking for a while now. Long enough for me to suddenly realise that we’re not actually heading to her house. We’re just… moving forward. No real direction.

“What do you think Oliver’s doing right now?” I ask, trying to distract her from the fact that she’s just led us onto a street that does go toward her place.

Victoria… Tori… sometimes I don’t know what to call her. I suppose it depends on how close she’s letting me get that day. Everyone calls her Tori. She calls herself that too.

She presses her lips together for a moment before answering.

“I don’t know. Probably sunk into the couch, trying to fall asleep so he doesn’t get bored.”

I laugh quietly.

“Must run in the family, then.”

Tori looks at me and nudges me lightly with her elbow.

“Ow!” I say dramatically. “Great. Now my arm’s going to fall off.”

“Good,” she says, taking another sip of her lemonade. “You deserve it.”

We’re walking close enough that our shoulders brush every now and then. It isn’t uncomfortable. And it isn’t entirely accidental, either.

While she’s distracted with her drink, I let myself look at her for a few seconds. At the way her fringe falls across her face. At how the warm glow of the streetlights makes her look… different. Closer.

I think about saying something. Anything that might sound like a compliment.

But I don’t.

Not because I don’t mean it—

but because saying it would mean stopping, looking at each other, breaking this fragile balance that seems to exist only as long as no one names it.

So I keep walking. Beside her.

And for now, that’s enough.

We turn the corner, and I finally see her house coming into view—before I even have time to ask myself whether I want us to get there.

“Are you staying?” she asks suddenly.

I don’t know why it takes me a few seconds to answer. She fills the silence herself.

“I mean, only if you want to, obviously. I just—well, I was going to be alone, so…”

“Yeah,” I say at last. “Of course.”

Tori nods and walks up to the door, unlocking it.

“Come in. I need to shut this window,” she says, stepping away, and then I hear her mutter something like, “Who decided windows should close from the outside?”

I step inside, and the first thing I notice is that the fireplace is lit.

Right. Of course.

An empty house with an unattended fire.

I think about putting it out—the house is already warm enough—when Tori comes back in and locks the door. I turn to look at her. She’s looking at the fireplace.

“…Did you light it?” she asks.

“Oh—no. It was already on when I came in. Is that a problem?”

She looks at me for a few seconds, then turns away to finish locking the door.

“No… no, it’s fine.”

She says it’s fine.

It isn’t.

There’s nothing steady in her voice. It sounds rehearsed, like she memorised the answer and repeated it without really thinking.

I glance toward the fireplace. The wood crackles softly. The sound is low, almost comforting.

Too comforting.

Tori moves away from the door and walks straight past the living room, heading into the kitchen.

“If you’re hungry, there’s pizza. I’m going to heat some up,” she says, not really looking at me as she rummages through the fridge.

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll help,” I say, following her.

I open a drawer and take out two plates. Tori takes out the slices and puts three on each plate.

“It tastes better reheated,” I say.

“Okay.”

She puts both plates into the microwave. While it hums, I lean back against the counter and run a hand through my hair.

I notice Tori looking at me, but she doesn’t say anything.

I pretend not to notice. I always do. Because if I acknowledge it, she’ll stop.

It doesn’t take long for the sound of the fire to slip in between the microwave’s buzzing.

And then my mind drifts.

I remember bolting out of my house, barely grabbing my bike before pedalling toward Higgs while my mum shouted after me, asking if I’d lost my mind.

When I saw the fire taking over the building, I froze.

I almost turned back. Almost gave up.

Until I remembered why I’d gone there in the first place.

She had to be there.

And I was right.

After shouting into nothing for what felt like forever, I finally saw her.

She looked so small next to the massive flames. She was gripping the fire extinguisher so tightly I thought it might burst in her hands…

The microwave beeps, snapping me back to the present. Both of us flinch slightly at the sound. Maybe she was just as far gone as I was.

I take the plates out. Tori holds her hands out and I pass them to her. She’s about to take them to the dining table when I say—

“Can we eat in the living room?”

I don’t even know why I say it. It just… comes out. My thoughts reaching my mouth before I can catch them.

She hesitates, then nods.

“Yeah. That’s fine,” she says, heading that way.

I exhale. Grab a glass, scoop some ice from the freezer, take my soda, and follow her.

She sets the plates down on the coffee table and sits on one of the cushions. I sit beside her, mirroring her position.

I don’t know if it’s the hunger, but the pizza tastes really good. I can feel my mood lift by at least twenty percent.

“Where’s your bracelet?” Tori asks.

I look down at my wrist. I always wear a bracelet my dad gave me when I was a kid; it’s thin leather, with a small metal plate engraved with my initials, “MH.” Which, by the way, I found out not long ago apparently doubles as an affectionate term between couples… why was that what came to mind just now?

“Oh, I took it off to shower. I was about to put it back on when you arrived, so I forgot.”

Tori nods, like she’s picturing it there. Like she needs to confirm it still exists, even if she can’t see it.

…

— 🐈‍⬛ —

When we finish eating, I wipe my hands on the napkin and lean back against the couch, resting my hands on my stomach.

“God, I’m going to explode,” I say.

Michael laughs and leans in right beside me.

“I could still eat more, but if I explode, then you wouldn’t have me in your life anymore, and that would be terribly sad.”

“How depressing,” I reply.

We both laugh.

I lean forward to grab the plates and stand up, but I feel Michael tug me back from behind, forcing me to sit again.

“Wait. Not so fast,” he says. He wraps his arms around my waist and steals a kiss.

“And that was for…?”

“Just stay here,” he says, hiding his face in the space between my shoulder and my neck. His lips tickle my skin. “I’ll wash them. I’m not risking you getting distracted while washing knives and then stabbing me in the back.”

I place my hands over his. He tightens his grip, pulling me closer. My back rests against his chest.

“You know I wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. I’d stab you from the front. Waiting until you turn your back takes too long.”

Michael laughs against my neck, then lifts his head just enough for me to turn slightly and kiss him again.

I feel him smile against my lips before he lets go. I shift so he can stand too. He gathers the plates, gets up, and heads to the kitchen.

I’m left alone in the living room.

The fireplace is still on.

The lamps are off, leaving only the orange light drifting across the walls—slow, uneven, like it’s breathing.

The firelight reflects off the glass table.

For a second, it isn’t the living room.

It’s another day.

Michael is standing in front of me, a few steps away, trying to take my hand to pull me along. The orange light washes over him completely, highlighting the dark circles under his eyes, deepening his curls, making him look unreal.

He’s talking. I know he is, because his lips are moving, but I can’t hear anything.

All I can see is the fire behind him.

The way it reflects in his glasses.

The way it trembles along the edges of his silhouette.

The way it feels like, if I take one wrong step, I might lose him right there.

I remember thinking I couldn’t look at him for too long.

Not because he scared me.

But because the color behind him—

I blink, and the living room snaps back into focus. The fireplace is still burning in front of me. I realize my hands are clenched tight around the cushion.

Michael comes back and looks like he’s about to say something when a loud crack comes from the logs. I feel my shoulders tense, my grip tightening again.

We both end up staring at the fire now. I don’t notice when Michael sits a little closer to it.

He makes a small gesture with his hand, inviting me over.

I could stay where I am.

I could make up an excuse.

But I don’t.

I move closer, almost cautiously, like I’m afraid of making too much noise.

He lets me settle between his legs, and I do. I rest my back against his chest, and he slides his hands around my waist, linking them in front of me.

He presses a small kiss to my shoulder before resting his chin there.

We stay like that for a long while, watching the fire and feeling the warmth coming from it—and from ourselves.

I realize his breathing isn’t completely even.

Not rushed.

Just… attentive.

I don’t know how much time passes before I finally hear Michael swallow.

“Tell me,” he whispers. His voice is low, gentle.

“What?” I reply.

Michael tightens his hold on me. I keep staring ahead, but I can feel his head tilt as he looks at me.

“You’re thinking too much.”

My first reaction is to tense up. Not to pull away. Just to go completely still.

I let out a small huff.

“I always think too much. That’s nothing new,” I say.

Michael lowers his voice even more.

“I know.” His hand moves from my stomach to my face, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “That’s why I want you to tell me.”

I think about it for a few seconds. I want to say something— I really do— but I can’t.

I lean into him more, shifting until my forehead is almost resting against his neck.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” he says, looking at me.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

And then he doesn’t say anything else.

He doesn’t push.

He doesn’t insist.

He just is.

We breathe each other in until I finally manage to pull a single sentence from my throat.

“Could you…? Could you turn it off?” I ask. My voice comes out lower than I meant it to.

Michael stays quiet for a few seconds, then presses a soft kiss into my hair.

“Okay,” he says.

Michael doesn’t move right away.

His arms remain around me— firm but gentle— like letting go too suddenly might make everything fall apart. I feel him take a deep breath once, then again.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmurs near my ear.

I nod, even though I’m not sure he sees it.

His hands slide carefully down my sides before letting go completely. The cool air hits immediately when his chest leaves my back. I stay where I am, hugging the cushion without realizing it.

I watch him stand and walk toward the fireplace. The orange light follows him as he bends down, as he adjusts the grate, as he picks up the poker with calm precision. He doesn’t seem rushed, but he doesn’t hesitate either.

The fire begins to die down slowly. First the sound fades, then the intensity. The flames shrink, as if they understand they’re no longer welcome.

When the last glow disappears, the living room is left in shadow.

Michael stays there a second longer, just to make sure. Then he comes back.

He doesn’t say anything when he sits down with me again. He just does it— closer than before. He gently pulls me back into his arms, this time with more intention, like now he really can hold me.

I place my hands over his and lace our fingers together.

“Thank you,” I say, barely above a whisper.

Michael lowers his head and presses a slow kiss to my temple. He doesn’t rush it. He doesn’t steal it. He gives it.

“Always,” he whispers.

I lift my face just enough to reach him. The kiss that follows is brief, soft, almost shy, like neither of us wants to push the moment too far. His lips linger near mine a second longer than necessary.

“I’m here,” he adds quietly, like it’s a secret.

And this time, I believe him.