#disingenuous marketing

[rachymarie]

ngl kinda convinced that deinfluencing is just Influencing: reverse psychology edition

either that or a temporary front/damage control so as to not appear complicit in influencing practices of overconsumption despite being an influencer themselves (lol)

[brekkie-e]

Thinking a lot about how the devs basically said there is no conflict in the team or between historically opposed people in Thedas in this game because "the stakes are too high, everyone has to work together." When the stakes are very very similar to Inquisitions?? Albeit we as a player know it's "real" this time. The big one.

But correct me if I'm wrong here (I'm not) the previous antagonist was a blighted OP mage with a knock off Archdemon trying to tear down the veil and ascend to godhood? And we are currently trying to *checks notes* defeat a blighted OP mage with an Archdemon trying to fuck up the veil and ascend to godhood? Oh sorry. Two.

Yes, the Blight. But it's hardly as though there weren't Blight concerns in Inquisition. Adamant, anyone?

Anyways, my point being is that the characters of Inquisition have no reason to see the stakes of that story as any less dire than the characters of Veilgaurd. And bless their hearts, those kids have Issues™️. They're all in on petty conflict. That was part of the genius, that the stakes were so high these deeply different people had to find a way to work together despite butting heads.

And the rest of the world didn't suddenly forget it's drama as well? Halamshiral's underlying elven rebellion. Orlesian civil war. The Mages vs the Templars. Chantry infighting. Seeker infighting. Tranquility. They didn't all go, "wait! there's a hole in the sky! we should put aside hundreds of years of systemic issues in the name of togetherness." Excluding the Inquisition that is.

Okay, Blight. Let's talk about the Blight. The Fifth one. You have the most rag tag group thrown together to stop the spread. This is literally the game that founded the series. Its defining features were political conflict. The king was betrayed! In a battle against Darkspawn! During a Blight! What a time to not stand as a united front, Loghain. In your own party, you're trying desperately to prevent Morrigan from emotionally assasinating Alistair. Oh! More conflict. While we are here, let's murder her mom real quick because *checks notes* Blights are when we all come together to hold hands.

If you play as an elf, you're putting up with human nonsense. If you play as a mage, you put up with mage nonsense. If you play as a woman- oh boy. I would make the argument that the realness of that setting, the way it highlighted human nature's best and worst qualities- is why it sunk it's claws into so many fans hearts.

It just.... whatever they've got going in Veilgaurd on only works for a YA novel. Which Dragon Age has never tried to be before. And, frankly, is a weird thing for it to aim for.

[thefloatingstone]

Watching the "Making of" feature for Disney's 'Wish' where they go on and on about how amazing Walt was and how much he loved stories and fantasy and I'm having big feelings in the discord chat about it

[its-all-papaya]

it’s okay to vent and ramble about personal things sometimes, you dont have to be perfect and always happy and positive !! i admire you as an author and even as a stranger i care for your wellbeing ☹️ if posting and deleting is what helps for you, its ur blog and thats perfectly fine !! but like the other anon said, always know that there are people who would listen and not judge !! there’s people that care about you and are just always hoping that good things happen to you even from behind a screen. im sorry to hear about your struggles, no one deserves to face that kind of hardship. idk if this helps at all but ❤️‍🩹 however you choose to talk about it or not talk about it, i hope that things get better for you very soon 🫂

tyyyy anon :,)

tbh i sometimes feel like there's a mental divide for me between like "creators" and others on tumblr, where a lot of writers feel TO ME like celebrities. and the way i see them answer asks and talk about their lives, and the compliments i see them getting on their online personas feel like goals i am aspiring to if i want to be seen in the same "class" as them. which is not real, obviously. like we're all just fucking around here together. but i guess internally i put pressure on myself to be like... a "professional" blog (for lack of a better term?) because i post my fic here, and i know most people follow me for my writing. which is good!! like that's why i made this blog!! i want y'all to follow me for that reason!! but i also internalize it, so when i post my personal stuff, it feels like i'm taking the shine off my own work. i just sort of feel like i'm failing when i let the outside/personal/mental stuff leak tooooo aggressively or obviously onto the feed, because in a perfect world, this would be a wholly positive place for people to engage with my writing and bits of me related to that. it feels like i'm bringing my whole blog down a notch when it gets really personally depressing.

i know i'm a human being who's allowed to have feeling, it just sucks that i impose them on y'all sometimes. hopefully i reach a place in life soon that allows me to experience genuine positive emotion much more often, and i can be a genuinely positive person and presence here without having to think too hard about it. just not there yet !

[iirulancorrino]

Long before Roe was overturned, providers’ desire to avoid risk—from professional ostracization to picketing to shootings—shadowed abortion care. This is why medical schools often refrained from offering training in terminating pregnancies, and why abortion procedures were not regularly performed in the vast majority of public hospitals. Since Dobbs, some medical institutions have gone further, hesitating to provide care to women such as Christina Zielke, who was rushed to a hospital in Painesville, Ohio, last September after experiencing heavy bleeding from a miscarriage. Instead of performing a dilation-and-curettage procedure to remove the pregnancy tissue from her uterus, the hospital staff discharged Zielke, apparently in response to a six-week abortion ban that had been passed by the Ohio state legislature. Zielke was soon lying in a bathtub in a pool of blood, wondering if she would die. After she lost consciousness, her family called 911, and paramedics eventually took her back to the hospital, where a doctor performed the procedure.

Such horror stories are a predictable consequence of the fear that criminalizing abortion has spread through the medical community. For fifty years, Roe protected providers from legal risks like the ones taken on by the Jane Collective, an underground network of women in Chicago. Collective members arranged more than eleven thousand illegal abortions in the late nineteen-sixties and early seventies, until a team of detectives raided their makeshift clinic and charged them with multiple counts of “conspiracy to commit abortion.” (Just before their cases went to trial, the Supreme Court legalized abortion.) Arguably, providers face greater legal dangers now than they did before Roe. Carole Joffe, a sociologist who has written about the history of abortion, told me that doctors who performed illegal procedures in the past “typically received sentences of a few years,” whereas physicians today face “an aggressive anti-abortion movement that, in some states, is calling for life imprisonment.” Abortion opponents have also targeted organizations such as Planned Parenthood with spurious lawsuits and violent attacks, in an effort to shut them down.

Planned Parenthood’s motto is “Care. No matter what.” These words suggest an uncompromising commitment to serving patients. Yet some pro-choice advocates feel that the group, along with other large organizations that have shaped the modern abortion-rights movement, has lately seemed more focussed on self-preservation than on taking bold risks. Tracy Weitz, a reproductive-rights scholar who directs the Center on Health, Risk, and Society, at American University, told me she is worried that these groups are being guided too strongly by attorneys whose priority is to shield them from lawsuits. The mission of Planned Parenthood is not “institutional survival,” Weitz said. “Their entire goal, their mission, is to serve patients.” If caution supersedes this goal, she warns, not only will patients suffer but the pro-choice movement will fall into a familiar trap. “One of the critiques of the abortion-rights movement is that we put too much faith in the law, believing that it would protect the right to abortion,” she said. “I think it’s ironic that all of a sudden we have turned over this movement to a whole new group of lawyers—not constitutional lawyers but risk managers.”

In the fall of 2021, a preview of how these dynamics could play out in a post-Roe era unfolded in Texas, after Governor Greg Abbott signed the Texas “heartbeat” bill. Better known as S.B. 8, the law banned abortion after six weeks of pregnancy, and it offered a ten-thousand-dollar bounty to any private citizen who successfully sued someone involved in such a procedure. In the view of some analysts, S.B. 8 was plainly unconstitutional—Roe v. Wade was then still federal law—and designed to intimidate both patients and providers. (Indeed, Planned Parenthood joined the A.C.L.U. and other groups in a lawsuit to block S.B. 8.) One might imagine that Planned Parenthood and other large pro-choice organizations, including the National Abortion Federation, which funds and supports many independent clinics, would have responded to this threat by urging providers to continue offering care and by pledging to defend anyone named in a lawsuit. Vicki Saporta, who served as the N.A.F.’s president until 2018, believes that such a strategy would have been both feasible and effective. “There could have been a legal-defense fund set up to pay out various ten-thousand-dollar suits while S.B. 8 was being challenged, and, in the meantime, care could have continued to be provided,” she said. Planned Parenthood and its affiliates, whose net assets exceed two billion dollars, have “the wherewithal to raise the legal-defense money,” she added.

Instead, Planned Parenthood’s South Texas affiliate instructed its providers to stop performing all abortions, even before six weeks. The affiliate’s apparent anxiety about lawsuits was shared by Planned Parenthood’s leaders and by its attorneys in Washington, who warned that Republicans in Texas could weaponize S.B. 8 to try to bankrupt the organization. Meanwhile, the N.A.F. announced that it would stop funding any providers and patients who didn’t comply with S.B. 8—and even pressed clinics to perform a second ultrasound after patients had endured Texas’s mandatory twenty-four-hour waiting period, in case a heartbeat could be detected then. Many Texas doctors refused to adhere to the N.A.F. directive. In fact, some physicians had the impulse to publicly flout S.B. 8. Shortly after the law took effect, Alan Braid, a provider in San Antonio, published an op-ed in the Washington Post in which he acknowledged having performed an abortion after the six-week limit. He explained that in the early seventies, while completing his ob-gyn residency, he had seen several women die from illegal abortions. “I understand that by providing an abortion beyond the new legal limit, I am taking a personal risk, but it’s something I believe in strongly,” he wrote. Braid told me recently that, at the time, he’d talked to several physicians who shared his feelings and who, like him, were willing to defy S.B. 8. If doctors were willing to fight, he wondered, why were institutions designed to protect women’s rights capitulating?

[ouidamforeman]

Every time a book reviewer or journalist is a sex negative hack about a weird or dark genre of erotic or romance fiction I gain the strength of a thousand more suns that just gives me more power to make my characters do even grosser and more unethical things nasty style the next time I get a fanfiction idea

[askshivanulegacy]

ABO, huh? 😏

*raises my hand to ask a question* what if we collectively refused to refer to AI as 'AI'? it's not artificial intelligence, artificial intelligence doesn't currently exist, it's just algorithms that use stolen input to reinforce prejudice. what if we protested by using a more accurate name? just spitballing here but what about Automated Biased Output (ABO for short)

[tangerinequeen19]

.

[peemil]

AND YOU KNOW WHAT? i don’t think i’d care frankly if you people just stopped FUCKING RECOMMENDING IT TO ME

[reineyday]

hey yall so the article screenshotted in the og post is from 2016 (last edited 2017) and it's actually talking about the first deadpool movie. (article link)

below is a full screenshot of the title + author and the caption, which makes it clear that the author isn't necessarily claiming deadpool is straight, he's just extremely disappointed that deadpool in the first movie seemed too straight.

his gripe was that the director confirmed movie!deadpool is pansexual but it was marketed as a bigger deal than it turned out to be in the movie, so as a gay man himself, the author was disappointed. pansexual people are attracted to any/all genders so ofc wade's romance with vanessa doesn't make wade any less queer (honestly imo the author's opinion does come off bipanphobic), but the author mostly just seemed let down that any jokes that might've hinted toward his pansexuality didn't come clear enough to feel affirming to him as a queer viewer, esp after all the hullabaloo surrounding deadpool's queerness.

that being said:

i think the author of that article would be pleased to watch deadpool 3 and see that reynolds is at least trying with the odyssey scene and the exorbitant amount of touching and invading-personal-space poolverine does in the movie to back up all the blatantly queer deadpool 3 marketing, and relying on that power of the imagination from the fans to connect the rest of those dots. at the end of the day, it's still more in disney's hands than it is in ryan reynolds's 😔 but it is way harder to call deadpool straight after watching deadpool 3 than it is to watch deadpool 1 and i think that's what matters here.

fascinated by people claiming that deadpool is straight meanwhile here's how they marketed Deadpool 3:

[astrologista]

most youtube stars are managed by corporations and media conglomerates. mr. beast isn't "just a cool kid like you from a small town", he doesn't manage his own account. he is like a tv star but worse because he utilizes the image of being self-made and independent as a youtube user to his benefit. same with dream and his minions or whoever the fuck they are. by the way it doesn't make sense to donate to big name streamers who have a following in excess of 10k and sponsorships because someone is managing them, they don't need help paying the rent. you can see their setup, come on now. if you're feeling generous, give to a smaller streamer or better yet, give to someone truly in need like the homeless. also you can buy followers and engagement on any social media platform now if you want to trend or look like you're doing good. most social media personalities are not saying what's really on their mind "unfiltered". they are being sponsored by corporations and political interests. most of the lgbtq stars on tiktok are airbrushed and don't represent the grassroots community. web content used to be truly user-generated and the average forum user or youtube user was assumed to be a nerd and a nobody. there was true anonymity and no such thing as a "face reveal". the "best" part of all of this is that children don't even know the difference and think that all of this is genuinely organic and real

i just thought that was interesting

[transmutationisms]

i think it's pretty disingenuous to claim that illiteracy is secretly beneficial to the ruling class lmao. lots of assumptions baked in there about the putative value of written information specifically, and about written information as some kind of bastion of truth to power (known voice of the people, the publishing industry). but more to the point it just seems profoundly detached from the extreme hostility that, say, the entire job market systematically exhibits toward illiterate people and even low-literacy people. nothing about our current society is set up to accommodate those who cannot or do not read, like literally this renders people instantly socially marginal and you can see it happening if you've ever seen someone struggling with, say, reading and filling out forms at the doctors office or for a driving test, not to even mention the interpersonal ramifications like the general widespread assumption that reading ability = intelligence = worth. there is no social force or mandate from above demanding illiteracy---quite the opposite in fact

[tomorrowusa]

People need to be reminded of Trump's woeful incompetence which came to a head during the pandemic emergency and resulted in the unnecessary deaths of hundreds of thousands of Americans.

The Obama administration successfully dealt with the threats from swine flu and Ebola. There was no swine flu disaster, there was no Ebola disaster, and there was even no Zika disaster because competent people were running the US. Near the end of Obama's term, his National Security Council staff put together a 69-page playbook on how to deal with pandemic emergencies. It's called "Playbook for Early Response to High-Consequence Emerging Infectious Disease Threats and Biological Incidents". Of course Trump ignored the document and plunged the nation into COVID hell.

Trump team failed to follow NSC’s pandemic playbook

Michelle Obama, in one of her best speeches ever in Kalamazoo this weekend, excoriated Trump's incompetence.

Michelle Obama laced into Donald Trump in a searing speech in Michigan on Saturday, accusing the former president of “gross incompetence” and having an “amoral character” while challenging hesitant Americans to choose Kamala Harris for US president. “By every measure, she has demonstrated that she’s ready,” the former first lady told a rapt audience in Kalamazoo. “The real question is, as a country, are we ready for this moment?” [ ... ] In raw and strikingly personal terms, she asked why Harris was being held to a “higher standard” than her opponent. Trump’s handling of the Covid-19 pandemic and his failed attempt to cling to power after losing the 2020 election should alone be disqualifying, Obama argued. But now the people who worked closest with him when he was president – his former advisers and cabinet secretaries – had stepped forward with a warning that he should not be allowed to return to power.

ICYMI, here is Michelle Obama's speech in Michigan.

Too many people have been afflicted by Trumpnesia. They seem to have forgotten the catastrophe that happened starting on 22 January 2020 when the first COVID infection was discovered on US soil. On that day Trump told CNBC: "we have it totally under control" and "it's going to be just fine".

Instead of following Playbook for Early Response to High-Consequence Emerging Infectious Disease Threats and Biological Incidents, Trump did the usual bullshit Trump things like criticize the Oscars and rage-tweet from the bathroom. He belatedly declared a state of emergency on Friday the 13th of March – the day after the stock market crashed.

Don't let anybody in real life get away with describing the Trump years as some sort of utopia.

Some people disingenuously claim they don't know enough about Kamala Harris despite her 20 years in public service. We all know more than enough about Trump's egregious ineptitude which turned a national emergency into a prolonged national nightmare.

[nientedal]

I am of the very strong opinion that if a company requires your payment information up front and charges you as soon as a predetermined period ends, that is not a "free trial." That is a paid subscription with the first week free. Or three days, or month, or whatever. They call it a trial to make it sound better and get you to sign up, but it's not a trial, it's a registered subscription with a free period before billing starts.

It should 100% be illegal for companies to make you give them your payment information when you sign up for a free trial version of their product. It is not necessary and there is no good fucking reason for them to do it. It’s blatantly just so they can steal forgetful customers’ money.

[capseycartwright]

the argument that we need to see more platonic male friendships on tv would be one i could take seriously if we lived in a world of male best friends who are just constantly falling in love but queer friends to lovers stories (for all genders and most definitely for men) is not at all an oversaturated market and pretending as if it is, is incredibly disingenuous behaviour.

if anything the overwatered market is platonic male friendships on tv. try name me one tv show airing right now that doesn’t have at least one central platonic male friendship. like genuinely. you can’t. i just think there’s no need for us to be silly about it and write think pieces about the desert of male platonic friendships we’re facing in media when it’s simply ~ not true ~

(also friends to lovers is the best trope there is why is it so bad to want more of that)

[sushirrrry]

RIBBON a harry styles christmas one-shot; 15.4k words cw: intercourse (m/f) summary: harry, a cynic during the holidays, meets marianne, who turns his holiday blues into the prettiest colors of reds, greens, and whites. happy holidays <3

The only thing that Harry hated more than Christmas was the obligational Christmas parties that would precede it.

Anything that revolved around Christmas seemed to harsh his mellow; it was a build up to a day that truly didn’t seem to mean anything to him. He wasn’t religious, wasn’t surrounded by the family anyone would call supportive or happy, and most of all, he was alone most of the time beside his friends that seemed to keep him grounded. But they all had lives, families of their own to celebrate with.

Maybe it was because he never felt the joy in it—the simplicity of laying around the fire in the morning, sipping coffee as he looked out at the snow falling in heaps from the sky.

The holidays felt like a chore, like something people did because they always felt that they had to. Harry didn’t want to, so he just chose not to. Maybe that disillusioned cynicism led him to be more Scrooge than Frosty, but his hatred of the color red, twinkling fairy lights, and eggnog didn’t seem to cease when he was walking towards a house with a gift tucked under his arm, and a bottle of red wine was held in his other hand.

His friend, Manuel, had invited him for a holiday party—while he had attempted to say no, the office where he worked seemed to convince him that it wasn’t just about the party, but more about the conversations and refreshments that would also be involved. Drinking was a hobby that Harry could definitely get behind, so he found the bit of holiday joy in him.

Just for an hour, anyways, he had told himself.

Harry had been sat at his desk, staring at the blinking cursor on his laptop screen. It mocked him, a silent reminder of the article he had promised to deliver three days ago, but had been caught up on his phrasing, which meant that his true journalistic tendencies had given him the worst imposter syndrome since he had begun working there over five-years prior.

The topic was festive cheer in London—a piece meant to capture the magic of the holidays for his editor’s seasonal roundup. But every time he tried to summon the right words, his mind wandered to the irony of it all.

Harry, the self-proclaimed Grinch of his social circle, tasked with romanticizing a season he barely tolerated. Yet, there he had been, writing about the holiday markets, sending letters to Santa, and the most festive places to find the holiday lights.

The idea of writing about twinkling lights and joyful carolers felt disingenuous, like trying to paint over a gray sky with glitter. He sighed, rubbing his temples. Maybe he’d made a mistake trying to test his abilities on writing what he didn’t know—he had decided to try something new in taking on a project that he didn’t necessarily love. He was good at writing what he liked, so he was trying his hand in writing something he knew nothing about.

Now, the only person to hold accountable for choosing this was himself. It mocked him;  Harry’s cynicism made every attempt to write about holiday joy feel like a bad joke.

It was then that he heard Manuel approach his desk, a sly look on his face as he started off with, ‘I know that you probably won’t come, but.’. Harry had rolled his eyes, but kept the smile on his face to let his friend and coworker know that he wasn’t just doing this for the holiday, but that he was still a good member of society, and a social one, at that.

So, instead of complaining, he had found a small gift for Manuel and his girlfriend, Franny—again, against everything that Harry was, and found it in himself to at least look the part of joyful.

When he had approached their home, Manuel looked him over with a already drunken, precarious smile that welcomed him as soon as the door opened.

“There he is,” Manuel laughed, pulling Harry inside, “Didn’t get the memo that you were supposed to wear red or green, but I guess I can’t be picky.”

Harry looked down at the black jumper that coated his body, the black denim pants making him stand out against the bright, bold colors of the holiday season. He handed Manuel the small gift—which was a puzzle of Dachshunds with Santa hats sitting around a fireplace. He knew that Manuel and Franny had two, so he was a bit chuffed with himself that he could find a gift that would actually make sense.

“Red and green just aren’t my colors,” Harry told him with a smirk. “Coal is black—still Christmas themed.”

Manuel laughed, “Only for the bad boys and girls.”

Harry shrugged with the same smirk that he had been wearing; Manuel took Harry’s coat, along with the gift and led him to the kitchen. “You can put the wine there in the kitchen—feel free to open it and get yourself a glass.”

The flat was already buzzing with the chatter of partygoers and the faint strains of Christmas music when Harry arrived. The scent of mulled wine and spiced biscuits lingered in the air, mingling with the occasional waft of a fresh pine wreath hung by the door.

Warm fairy lights draped across the walls cast a golden glow over the room, illuminating the sea of faces as people laughed and mingled, their cheeks rosy from the warmth and alcohol. It seemed that Harry knew most people here—knew was also a strong word, but he had been familiar with a lot of the faces here.

Harry could hear bursts of laughter coming from the kitchen, where someone was loudly debating the merits of figgy pudding and the actual necessity for fruitcake in the holiday season. The whole scene was a chaotic patchwork of holiday cheer, meticulously curated to appear effortless. He scanned the room, his writer’s mind noting every detail as potential material, before grabbing a glass of mulled wine from a nearby table and retreating to the sidelines.

Manuel’s place was decorated within an inch of its life: fairy lights twinkled around every doorway, garlands adorned the walls, and a massive Christmas tree dominated the living room, its branches weighed down by an excess of ornaments—each one meticulously placed. Harry stood with his glass of mulled wine from the kitchen and tried to blend into the background, his writer’s mind quietly cataloging the clichés for potential use later.

That was the way his mind worked, using every ounce of inspiration he needed was standing in this room with him.

“Enjoying yourself?”

The voice caught him off guard from his studying of the atmosphere. He turned to see a woman standing beside him, her dark hair tied up in a loose bun as strands fell into her face. She had an easy smile and the kind of confidence that put people at ease; the reindeer on her sweater was wearing an elf hat, which Harry took note of quite quickly.

“It’s... definitely festive,” Harry said, lifting his glass took take a small sip of the warm liquid, nodding to himself. He hadn’t recognized the woman, not knowing if she had worked in his building or not.

“Festive?” she repeated, her eyes narrowing in mock offense. “You’re not a Grinch, are you?”

Harry took a moment to look at her, wondering if she had been serious with her approach. When she saw her smirk and lifted eyebrow, he bit the inside of his lip and shrugged at her.

“I prefer the term ‘realist’,” he countered. “But sure, I guess we can villainize the term with ‘Grinch’.”

She laughed, a warm, genuine sound that made him smile despite his deepest will to not show any smile at all.

“Marianne,” she said, extending her hand out to him; her eyes were a deep chocolate brown, almost matching the doe-like creature on her sweater. Her lashes fluttered, long and full of volume to brighten them in a way that Harry felt intrigued by.

“Harry.” He shook her hand, noting the faint speck of paint on her knuckles. “Artist?”

“Teacher,” she corrected. “And you?”

“Uh, a writer,” He nodded, referencing Manuel who had been standing next to the tree, talking to a few other coworkers of his, “I work with Manuel, actually. Same agency. Currently battling a deadline, actually. Thought I’d come tonight to find some… inspiration.”

“Ah, the glamorous life of the creatively tortured,” Marianne teased, which made Harry’s heart skip a beat at the nonchalance of her wit, “What are you writing about?”

Harry sniffled, feeling his body get warmer at the thought of her initial intrigue; she was watching him intently.

“Uh, well,” He swallowed, “Really just writing about the festivity of London during the holiday season. What makes everyone so happy this time of year. That kind of thing.” Harry looked down into his cup, almost like he had been ashamed that he was unable to come up with those areas in his life.

Marianne nodded in understanding, humming along as she thought about it.

“You’ve really got that ‘I’d rather be anywhere else then here’ look, which is ironic considering this party is practically a Hallmark movie, and I’m not sure I know anyone that would pass up a comfy little Hallmark movie.”

Harry felt the smirk he had been wearing continue to creep up on his face. “Don’t let Manuel hear you say that. He’s very proud of his aesthetic,” Harry looked at the 8ft tall tree, “Lots of… color.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Did you see the mistletoe over the door? Also, very subtle.”

Harry turned towards the mistletoe that he had been standing underneath in the doorway from the kitchen space to the living space. A flush grew on his face as he took a few steps forward.

Marianne noticed, biting the inside of her cheek at his forward awkwardness before she took in a breath.

Harry licked over his lips before he turned back towards her, “So, how do you know Manuel and Franny?”

Marianne held onto her own mulled wine taking a gracious sip, her other hand in her back pocket before blinking a few times. “Uh, well, I work with Franny, actually. We work across the hall from one another.”

It occurred to Harry that he recalled Franny being a teacher, “Oh, right—I knew that. I mean—I knew that she was a teacher.” He corrected himself. His eyes looked up at the television that had started to play Last Christmas, people’s faces were audibly excited to hear it. Harry took in a breath, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the sound of it.

Marianne hummed, “Yeah, she teaches older kids, but I’m with the little ones,” She showed him her knuckles again, “As you can see by the lack of coloring inside the lines.”

Taking another long swig of the mulled wine, Harry cleared his throat noticing that it had gone down rather smoothly. His shoulder was bumped by someone trying to get by, and he took a step towards Marianne. But this time, he was tackled by the smell of an ocean breeze, coconuts and the salty air.

He furrowed his brows before shaking his head.

Harry glanced at her knuckles, biting back a smile now that he was a bit closer to her. “You have the hands of someone who truly understands chaos.” He teased her dryly, licking his lips to taste the subtly of the mulled wine remnants.

Marianne raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Ah, yes, artist. I think some artists may be offended by the comparison. Don’t expect me to pull out the crayons and start coloring in the lines with you, Harry.”

Harry chuckled, the sound light and easy, then his gaze flickered back to the TV, where the first few notes of Last Christmas were filling the room. Again. He groaned, shaking his head. “If I hear that chorus one more time tonight, I might just start questioning my life choices.”

“Poor Harry,” Marianne said dryly, a mischievous grin tugging at the corner of her lips. “Are you going to cry into your mulled wine now? Do I need to get you a tissue?”

“My empty mulled wine cup,” Harry shot back, half-joking. “I mean, it’s basically a Christmas carol written by a sadistic mastermind who knew exactly how to ruin people’s will to live. It’s basically Stockholm Syndrome in song form,” He rolled his eyes, “But I only give it a small pass because it’s Wham!”

Marianne snorted into her drink, clearly trying not to laugh. “Honestly, though, I get it,” She raised her brows, “The Wham! part, I mean. I love George Michael.”

Harry said, a playful edge to the tone in his voice. “We’re all trapped in this toxic cycle of holiday cheer, Marianne. How are we supposed to be happy in the state of the world?”

Marianne shot him a look, trying to suppress a laugh. “You’re ridiculous. You know that, right? Did Santa spit in your eggnog? Maybe you should think more about being thankful that your world is supplying mulled wine and Last Christmas on repeat rather than the worst parts of the world right now.”

“Sounds kind of dirty.” Harry said, leaning in with a grin, ignoring her attempt to turn his thoughts around, “Don’t want to think of Santa spitting anything.”

Marianne flushed at his comment, “Oh, so you’re freaky, too? Who thinks of Santa doing salacious acts?”

“You’re telling me Santa isn’t getting it on up there?” Harry quipped, “You’re telling me there’s other things to do in the North Pole than having salacious affairs with his wife?”

Marianne’s eyes widened in mock horror, and she nearly choked on her mulled wine. “I—what? Oh my god, Harry, stop.” She quickly wiped her mouth, though her face was flushed with both laughter and embarrassment. “I did not sign up for this version of Santa Claus. I’m just trying to have a holiday conversation here, and you’ve turned it into... whatever this is.”

Harry leaned back with an exaggerated look of innocence, grinning ear to ear. “What? You’re telling me you never wondered why Santa is so jolly all the time? Living in the coldest place on Earth... how do you think they stay warm?”

Marianne rolled her eyes, her expression a perfect blend of disbelief and amusement by his conversation. She hadn’t found this kind of conversation all night. “I don’t even know where to begin with that. First, no one needs to know about Santa's... extracurricular activities. And second, you're really going to make me picture Santa in some very inappropriate situations, aren’t you?”

Marianne reached into the kitchen, grabbing an open bottle of red wine before pouring more into each of their cups.

“Hey, I’m just trying to broaden your holiday perspective on the why,” Harry teased, nudging her shoulder. “Maybe you’ve been too focused on mulled wine and Christmas carols and not enough on the real holiday truth of it all.”

Marianne let out an exaggerated sigh, pretending to be exasperated, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement. “Yeah, because Santa's private life is exactly what we need to be focusing on. Forget world peace. Forget the spirit of giving. Let's talk about Santa's salacious affairs with Mrs. Claus, maybe that’s what will save our Christmas joy.”

“I’m just saying,” Harry shrugged with a playful grin, “some things need to be looked at a bit more closely.”

“Well, maybe it’s you that needs to be unpacked,” Marianne quipped, she raised an eyebrow. “Honestly, I think this may have some underlying tones for you. I saw you walk away from the mistletoe, but,” She bit her lip, “Maybe you’re ignoring some aspects of your life.”

Harry looked into his cup, pursing his lips to the side before he felt a chuckle leave him.

“All I’m saying is ff I’m not here, who will remind you that everything isn’t as wholesome as it seems?”

“True,” she said, taking a longer, deliberate sip of her drink, clearly still flustered but enjoying the chaos of the conversation. “But next time, could we please talk about something that doesn’t involve Santa Claus' imaginary affairs, or the world’s most depressing Christmas carol?”

“You’re just mad I’m ruining this precariously false magic of Christmas for you,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head. “But, fine. Next topic: What’s your big Christmas wish this year? Aside from not having to think about Santa’s... extracurriculars.”

Marianne gave him a long, pointed look. “It’s for world peace and... if you make sure the wine stays full.”

“Well,” Harry grinned, taking the bottle that she had just sat down back on the table. He tilted it up pouring in a bit more to her cup, “that’s a wish I can definitely make come true.”

Her eyes narrowed for a split second as she studied him. “I mean, you’re tolerable. For now.” She took another sip of her wine, then leaned back against the wall, clearly enjoying the playful back-and-forth. “But honestly, I don’t know how you manage to be such a Scrooge with the Christmas spirit in the air.”

“I’m just realistic,” Harry replied, winking. “You can’t expect people to act like happy little elves when they’re being force-fed Last Christmas and peppermint lattes all month long. It’s exhausting.”

Marianne shook her head with a smile, clearly enjoying the banter between her and Harry now. “Maybe you just need to let loose a little. Have some fun. I don’t know... maybe kiss someone under the mistletoe or something.”

“Did the wine go straight to your head, then?” Harry’s grin widened as he met her gaze. “Is that an offer?”

Marianne shrugged nonchalantly, feigning indifference. “Only if you stop conspiring about Santa and his possible sexual affairs with Mrs. Claus. I must paint the holidays in a positive light for you, it seems.”

“Bold move,” Harry said with a half-laugh. “But I think I might need some help doing that, however, with your painting skills, I don’t know how well that will work.”

In a confident pass, Harry took a large step backwards, letting himself standing under the doorway that the obnoxiously large mistletoe had been hanging. Leaning against the doorframe, he took another large sip of the maroon wine before raising his brows at her.

Marianne soon felt a rush of adrenaline; her eyes landing on his green ones that had somehow been completely thought upon until they met in that moment. Taking a step or two, Marianne moves closer to him, letting her hand move to the nape of his neck. Taking the initiative, she let the distance between them close—her lips landing on his quicker than he had expected.

When they kissed, it was impulsive but electric, the kind of spark Harry hadn’t felt in a long time. His breath hitched as their lips met, the warmth of her touch grounding him in a way that startled him. Marianne’s fingers brushed against the nape of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine, while his free hand instinctively settled on her waist, pulling her closer. Their hips touched, brushing against each other.

For a moment, the room around them blurred—the music, the chatter, the festive chaos fading into an unimportant hum.

Harry’s mind raced, caught between the raw intensity of the moment and a nagging disbelief that this was actually happening. Marianne tasted faintly of mulled wine, her kiss both confident and exploratory, as if testing the boundaries of this unexpected connection. The steady rhythm of his breathing had grounded her in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested together, both catching their breath even when neither had exerted any energy whatsoever. Something about it was breathtaking.

Harry chuckled softly, his voice low and a little unsteady. “Well, that was... unexpected.”

Marianne let her hand drop, a bit confused by his statement, “You knew it was coming, right?”

Harry blinked, swallowing as he shook his head then, “Oh—yeah. I wasn’t talking about… that.”

Marianne blinked a couple of times as if trying to process what just happened, seeing his eyes sparkle by the help of the twinkling lights that hung around the living space filled with people. But, in some odd way, she had found herself drawn to the one person who sat in the corner on his own.

“So, there you go,” Marianne took a step back, letting the space between them became vacant again, “Just making sure you are given the first-hand experience for your Christmas writing piece.”

Harry raised his eyebrows, a smug grin creeping across his face. “I’m just here for learning the traditions.” He looked in his cup, wondering how it was empty again. But the dizziness of his head had started to make more sense, he thought.

She tilted her head, clearly not buying it, but there was a flicker of humor in her eyes. “You know, I don’t think you’re as smooth as you think you are.”

“Hey, I’m just going with the flow,” Harry said, shrugging dramatically. “Can’t help it if I’m naturally charming. You were the one telling me I should take part in the mistletoe of it all.”

She narrowed her eyes, a hint of mischief in her smile. “Oh, I see how it is. You think this is your grand holiday conquest? I’m just one of many victims of your holiday charm?”

“Victims is a crazy word to describe yourself in this moment, Rudolph,” Harry’s thumb nudged the redness of her nose, knowing it was a fresh blush from the wine—possibly the kiss they partook in, “Now I’m the villain in your Christmas story? I was just trying to make your night a little more interesting.”

“Well, mission accomplished,” Marianne replied, her lips still slightly parted, her expression a mix of disbelief and amusement at the way that he had certainly waltzed into her life. “But I’m going to need a little more than a holiday kiss to think you’re anything other than trouble. A quiet, Grinch sitting in the back of the Hallmark movie of a party. How do I get myself involved with your type?”

“Trouble?” Harry chuckled, leaning against the doorframe casually, still watching her with that confident smile. “I’m nothing but a good time, Marianne. Don’t act like you’re not enjoying yourself.”

“I’ll enjoy myself more when you stop making me think about Santa's love life,” she shot back quickly, her tone still playful at him. “You seriously ruined that whole festive fantasy for me, by the way.”

Harry grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself. “What can I say? I’m a truth-teller—it’s a gift. Someone has to keep you grounded in this reality.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile. “That’s what you think, huh? Well, I’ll admit, the night wouldn’t be nearly as interesting without you here. I had a conversation with someone who was a banker. Don’t know if I made great financial decisions this holiday season after that convo.”

Harry stepped forward again, not too close, just enough to keep the tension hanging between them. “I’m pretty sure that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all night,” He licked over his lips, which he noticed she had taken quite an interest in, “Being a tortured poet, or whatever you called me.”

The words sat between them when Marianne tucked her hair behind her ear, the parts that had fallen out of the messy bun. The moment stretched between them, the playful tension still hanging in the air like the faint scent of mulled wine.

Harry broke the silence first, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he glanced toward the door that he hadn’t walked in too long ago. “So… want to get out of here?”

Marianne blinked, caught off guard by the suggestion, but the idea wasn’t entirely unappealing—she was just a bit unsure that he had offered at all. She took a small step back, still holding onto her drink. “Really? Just like that?”

“Well, yeah,” Harry said, his grin widening as he stuck a hand in his pocket. “It’s the holiday season. The lights are up, the streets are empty, bit of snow on the ground... I don’t know. Seems like the kind of night you’re supposed to be doing something a little reckless.”

“Reckless, huh?” Marianne repeated, arching an eyebrow as she looked him over. “Is that the angle we’re going for now? I’m supposed to just follow some guy I barely know into the night and trust it’ll be… memorable?”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, a laugh escaping him. “Fair point. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. But, y’know… it could be fun. I mean, it’s not like we’re going to exchange deep secrets or anything.”

“Right,” she said, her voice slightly guarded but still curious at his intentions. “A walk could be good. In the cold. And no deep secrets—got it.”

Harry took a step closer, his eyes flicking to the door as if to give her the opening to say no if he was being a bit too forward. But he felt that he had been listening to and reading the signals correctly. “Well, if you’re not too afraid of a little adventure, I’d be happy to escort you around.”

She gave him a look, trying to read him, her lips quirking up at the corners despite herself. “I don’t know. A walk with a guy I just met. Seems a little… risky.”

“That’s the fun of it,” Harry said, his voice lowering slightly, his smile taking on an edge of uncertainty as if he was testing the waters himself. “Who needs safety when you’ve got the Christmas lights and a bit of mulled wine to keep us warm, right?”

“Mm, right,” Marianne murmured, her eyes flicking between his, the flicker of doubt still there but quickly overshadowed by something else entirely. “You’re really persistent, aren’t you?”

“It’s the innate journalist in me,” he answered with a soft chuckle. “But maybe I just really want to know where this night goes, and it’s something I have to investigate for myself.”

She paused, still unsure, but the weight of the moment—the chance to step outside her own box, to experience something unexpected—tempted her. “Okay, fine. But only for a little bit,” she warned, her voice light but serious, as though setting a boundary. “I’ll have to get my coat.”

“I’ll make no promises,” Harry replied, grinning. “But I’ll try my best.”

Marianne took a deep breath, then reached for her coat that had been hanging by the front door. When she had moved towards the door, he turned towards the open bottle of wine, taking it in his hands nonchalantly, hiding it against him before following her.

“Here, take this,” He handed the bottle to her, putting on his own coat, finding it within himself to tease her further, “Figure we don’t need a cup. Already shared lips, and all that.”

Marianne rolled her eyes, attempting to be disgusted by his charm but it was seemingly working against her.

“Alright. Let’s go, then. But I’m warning you—I’m not some easy Christmas miracle.”

Harry’s eyes sparkled as he held the door open for her. “You don’t have to be, but I’m already smiling in the face of a ten-foot tree filled with nutcrackers and elves, so you’re already doing something right.”

As they stepped outside into the crisp winter air, slipping away from the noise of the party, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that this walk—this simple, uncertain step into the night—was somehow an attempt at him moving outside of his sheltered, inhabitable box. But, then again, they barely knew each other. It could be awkward. It could be nothing. Yet, as the chilly air hit his skin, he found himself hoping for a little something.

Their conversation meandered from the absurdities of Christmas traditions to a shared love of books. With each few steps, Harry took a sip, passing the bottle to Marianne before she’d stop at a house and marvel at the lights that covered the snowy homes.

Marianne lit up as she described her favorite art books, her hands animated as she talked about the way colors and brushstrokes could evoke emotion. Harry, in turn, shared his fascination with biographies, his voice gaining energy as he recounted tales of writers and their chaotic lives.

“So, what’s the most pretentious book you’ve ever read?” Marianne asked, a teasing glint in her eye as she tucked her hands into the pockets of her long coat.

“Easy,” Harry replied, his breath frosty in the air. "Proust’s In Search of Lost Time. Took me two years to get through it, and I’m still not sure I understood half of it."

She laughed, tilting her head. "Two years? That’s dedication. I gave up on it after fifty pages. Life’s too short for that much existential pastry talk."

“Pastry talk?” Harry chuckled.

“You know, the whole madeleine thing? It’s like an entire chapter about a biscuit or tea cake or whatever the hell it was. Something about taking the time to look back.”

Harry smirked at the way that she described it, almost laughing at her memory. “Fair point. What about you? What’s the most overrated book on your shelf, then?”

"The Great Gatsby," she said without hesitation. "It’s just rich people being sad."

Harry gasped in mock offense. "That’s a classic! That actually has a good point to it.”

"Sure, if you like a story where everyone’s miserable and nobody learns anything and it doesn’t even have a happy ending—Daisy just succumbs to societal pressure, and Gatsby lets her get away. And Tom is a fucked-up man with residual trauma and blood on his hands."

Harry chuckled, raising an eyebrow as he glanced over at her, clearly intrigued by the passion in her voice over talking about the story. His own thoughts and curiosity raging inside of him as he continues to question and push her thoughts, “But I still think there's something about the way it captures the illusions we all chase, right? The idea that money can buy happiness—or at least the appearance of it. Gatsby just sits in that large house, waiting, and longing for something that money can’t buy him.”

Marianne snorted, kicking a small patch of snow off the sidewalk as they walked. "That’s exactly it. It’s like a big, glittery metaphor for capitalism. Everyone’s just pretending to be happy, but underneath, they’re all screwed up. Like… it’s not even about Gatsby wanting Daisy—it's about him wanting the dream she represents. The 'American Dream' that’s totally unattainable and hollow, if you ask me."

Harry gave a low whistle. "Okay, you're really passionate about this." He smirked, trying to tease her, but buying into to rile her up more, "Maybe you're right. Or maybe I just like reading about rich people doing dumb things. It's... comforting in its own way."

Marianne shot him a side-eye, amused by his statement. "You would. You’re probably one of those people who reads Gatsby with a glass of scotch in hand, pretending to understand the intricacies of wealth and how the story itself was stolen in the first place."

Harry took a swig of the bottle of wine, handing it over to her, kicking a bit of snow himself. "Okay, maybe not the scotch part, but... you can't say it isn't fascinating. The idea that these people are stuck in their own version of the dream, but none of them can see how messed up it is because they’re just blind to their own misery. Gatsby is kind of tragic, in that way."

Marianne raised an eyebrow, her breath misting in the cold air. "I’ll give you that," she said, turning to face him, a teasing smile on her lips. "Maybe you're not as much of a lost cause as I thought. Understanding tragedy in a way that Shakespeare would be proud of."

Marianne took her own swig of the bottle; the warmth of her fingers was thankful for the liquor flowing through her veins.

Harry grinned, his hands stuffed in his coat pockets as they walked through the snow, the soft crunch of their footsteps blending with the gentle fall of flakes around them; he grinned at the sight of them falling from the dark sky. "Do you think it’s a love story? Gatsby?”

Marianne shook her head, laughing softly. "It’s not a love story. It’s an existential crisis in a green light. A beautiful, well-written existential crisis."

"Now who’s the cynic?" Harry remarked, his tone warm despite the teasing. "You know, for someone who seems to always look on the bright side, you’re sure good at analyzing all these sad, tragic romantic stories."

She shrugged nonchalantly, her breath visible in the cold before she felt a ping in her chest that was going to lead them down a different road of conversation.

"Sometimes the most realistic thing about life is that it doesn't end the way we want it to. And that’s fine. People don’t always get happy endings. So, yeah, maybe I’m a cynic in that way, but I do try to think about happy endings. But I think the stories that end badly are the ones that have the most to say."

Harry’s eyes lingered on her, a little more serious than before. “Yeah, maybe. Or maybe we just don’t know how to recognize a good ending when it’s staring us in the face. So used to being cynical you forget there are happy parts sprinkled into the story.”

For a moment, the lightness of the conversation faltered, the cool air between them carrying a heavier silence. Then, as if breaking the spell, Harry smiled, nudging her with his elbow. “But hey, I’m still not convinced Gatsby was a waste of time. He had a plan—he had the right idea for how to be romantic, but it just didn’t turn out in his favor that time. At least it’s better than reading a book about some random guy pretending to be some tragic, tortured soul who ends up alone, right?”

Marianne shot him a smirk at his placed words. “You wouldn’t happen to be describing yourself, would you?”

Harry’s grin grew wider, shaking his head. "Well, I did just say I wasn't the tragic type—so... guess we’ll never know."

Marianne felt the laughter dance out of her, the sound light and genuine, and they both slipped back into an easy rhythm as the snowflakes danced around them, each of them lost in the moment but strangely at ease with one another despite how little they really knew about each other.

Their banter flowed easily, the conversation peppered with playful jabs and surprising insights. By the time the topic shifted to their favorite holiday stories, the space between them had shrunk. Harry found himself watching the way Marianne’s eyes sparkled when she laughed, while she noticed the way his face softened when he spoke about writing. The connection between them deepened, unspoken but undeniable, as the night carried on.

As the night wore on, their banter became more flirtatious, the space between them shrinking until they were leaning in closer than necessary, arms practically touching each time they would stop to linger and look at the lights of the house. The way that the wine worked was in their favor, letting them be loose with the spirit of the holidays wrapping around them—even if Harry hadn’t expected it.

When they were stopped for a moment, Marianne turned her head into a tilt as she stared at the house in front of them. There happened to be a slur in her words as she mumbled out, “I have a bad astigmatism, and don’t have my glasses on, so these lights are kind of wigging me out. Feels like I’m on one and I really don’t know how I feel about the stupid light up gnomes.”

Harry bit his lip as he started to laugh at her remarks, trying his best to keep it inside. But when she turned to look at him, she noticed that the dimples in his cheeks were trying extraordinarily hard not to bust out laughing—which in turn, made her start to laugh even harder.

Tears started to build up in her eyes as she found it harder to breathe then, pulling her sweater over her face. She used her hand to push at Harry slightly, “Stop laughing,” She said, finding her breath, pointing her finger at him.

But it didn’t stop—he didn’t stop. Instead, he found himself laughing harder. Marianne wiped at her eyes, feeling the coolness of her fingers before shaking her head.

Harry let out a snicker, still grinning from the laugh she’d triggered. "I’m sorry, but you’ve got to admit it’s hilarious. Gnomes, really? Someone got paid and spent their money on Christmas gnomes? Horrifying. Especially if you can’t see that well."

Marianne rolled her eyes, trying to fight off the smile that threatened to spread across her face. "You're awful. I’m out here having a moment with these damn lights, and you're over here cackling like some evil villain."

Harry raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin widening at her accusations. Unfortunately, his lips hurt from the amount of smiling he had done that evening, "I can't help it! You’re too easy to amuse. You’re all serious about gnomes, and then—" He stopped himself, letting out a breath of laughter. "Sorry. Can we pretend I’m a gentleman for, like, five more seconds? I liked that part of the night."

She bit back another laugh, wiping at her eyes. "You are ridiculous. You know that, right?"

"Hey, I’m just appreciating the moment." Harry stepped closer, trying to hold his composure. "Look, we’re out here in the snow, freezing our asses off. Gnomes are the least of our worries, except if you’re you."

Marianne tilted her head slightly, her eyes still glinting when she took another close look at him. "Yeah, maybe we should get out of here before it gets worse."

Harry’s expression was far too immodest to hide from her, suddenly looking at her with the same glitter in his eyes that he had shown he before stepping under the mistletoe. “And you were the one saying it was too risky to go on a walk. Now you’re taking me home? Sounds like a perfect excuse to find somewhere warm.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, the weight of his words starting to sink in as she felt herself warming from the inside out. “I mean, if you’re cold, I do have a warm place nearby,” she said, her tone garnered in a bit of a tease now, though a little less controlled than before.

Harry’s expression shifted, a teasing spark in his eyes as he tilted his head. “A warm place, huh? What, like Mrs. Claus, offering me a drink to get me in out of the snow?”

Marianne found herself laughing again, shaking her head. "You’re seriously comparing me to Mrs. Claus now? Maybe I’ll just have to start baking cookies to seal the deal."

"Honestly, though, that’s probably how she got Santa in bed." Harry smirked, crossing his arms as he gave her a sideways glance; he rolled his eyes in a bit of mocking manner, “I mean, you can’t just offer someone warmth without it leading somewhere.”

Marianne chuckled, shaking her head but giving him a sidelong glance to match his. “Oh, you think you're that irresistible, huh?”

“I mean… you’re the one inviting me to warm up at your place,” Harry stepped closer, his voice lowering, the flirtation more obvious now. “So, if the shoe fits.”

She felt a flutter of something unfamiliar at the way his gaze softened, but she shook it off, trying to keep the conversation light. "Alright, alright. If you’re really that desperate for warmth, my place is a couple blocks away." She shrugged, pretending to be casual, but the slight flush on her cheeks betrayed her as she fell into his touch a bit more; his hands moved to the sides of her arms before she turned to look at the gnomes once again.

Harry raised an eyebrow, his grin growing wider. "Well, you are offering warmth... can’t turn that down, can I?"

The air between them shifted. Marianne swallowed, her heart suddenly beating a little faster. “You sure about that? It’s not like I’m offering you a hot tub and a massage, you know. It’ll be more…” She thought for a moment, “More momentary than that.”

Harry chuckled, stepping even closer, “I’m sure. Besides, how bad can it be? Worst case, I end up on your couch with a drink and no gnomes. Preferably no Christmas lights. Not exactly the worst way to spend a night,” He shrugged, “But I guess I could also get behind us taking our clothes off and lying next to each other to conserve body heat—preferably you on top of me, if that is an option I can choose.”

She met his gaze, biting back a smile. "You’re intolerable."

They started walking again, the snow falling more steadily now, the night feeling warmer despite the chill. Neither of them spoke for a few moments, the tension thick but unspoken, a shared understanding between them as they made their way down the street, the promise of something more hanging in the air.

When they arrived at Marianne’s home, she walked up the small steps before reaching for her keys in the jacket pocket. They were both covered in a bit of snow, as it had started to fall more than before. The streets were starting to line with it; Harry stood with her under the awning to hide from the weather.

Her hands slipped the key into the lock before opening the door, the warmth of the house meeting Harry as he walked in behind her.

“Shit, it’s cold,” She cursed, kicking off her shoes and hanging up her jacket. “You can—I mean, just throw your stuff down there.”

Harry nodded a few times, kicking his own shoes off and placing his coat on the hook next to hers. The moment now started to feel a bit more real as he turned to notice her home around it. It was the definition of warmth and comfort; the space smelled like gingerbread, his eyes homing in on the garland wrapped around the staircase railing.

“Would you like something to drink? Hot Toddy maybe?” She offered, shuffling her way towards the kitchen, throwing away the empty wine bottle she had been carrying, “I can also do just tea if you think the alcohol limit has been breached.”

Harry put his hands in his pockets, moving his way into the kitchen to follow her. “Uh—whatever you’re having is fine with me.”

Marianne licked over her lips, tucking her hair behind her ear before she set the kettle on the stove and turned on some hot water.

“I—you know what, actually,” Harry made a remark as they stood in the kitchen. His eyes turned to her as he watched her lean against the counter, her arms were crossed over her chest as she watched him approach her with a look on his face that melted the frigidness of her hands.

Instead of speaking again, his hands reached to grab at her face, pulling her into him with a swift motion. The fluttering of her stomach nearly making her drop to her knees as he tilted her head back, letting his lips roam around hers.

Marianne felt herself moan into the kiss, her hands reaching to hold onto his wrists that held onto her so delicately, but with a needed force that had practically picked her up off her feet.

Pulling away for a moment, Marianne caught her breath; the kiss was unsuspected but entirely encouraged. “Okay, so— uh, let’s—”

“We—I think—” He pieced together, nodding, letting his nose rub against hers.

“Sofa—that’s fine.” She hummed, letting her eyes dim at the feeling of his hands wrapping around her waist. In an instant, his hands picked her up, placing her on his hips as she let her legs hold against him tightly.

The soft feeling of his black jumper under her hands was welcomed as he took them into the living room, placing her down on the sofa—she fell quite a bit from his hips, but laughed at the feeling when her back hit the cushion.

Harry’s eyes stayed on hers but flashed up to the window before he scattered a chuckle, “Window’s fully open.” He murmured, walking over before closing the curtains dramatically quickly. “Your neighbors almost saw you get fully rattled.”

Marianne placed her hand over her eyes in a flush of embarrassment by his words, shaking her head at the way that he spoke. Her feet hung off the edge of the sofa arm where he had left her, “You’re just so charming.”

Harry pulled the jumper off over his head, revealing the white t-shirt he had underneath, his eyes a bit dazed in the heat before he returned to his called upon place. Practically crawling, he found his way above her, the giggle coming from her made him smile. Her legs opened to allow him space for him on the sofa before her hands ran down the cotton of his t-shirt.

Marianne pulled herself up, letting her head rest against the accent pillow closer to the other armrest. Harry braced himself with one hand on the armrest, the other slipping around her waist, pulling her closer. His grin softened as his eyes scanned her face, lingering on the flush in her cheeks and the way her lips parted slightly now, caught somewhere between teasing and expectation.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice low, “for someone who just called me charming in an entirely mocking way, you’re making it really hard to believe you’re not into it.”

Marianne raised an eyebrow, her hand still resting against his chest, fingers curling slightly in the soft cotton of his shirt. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself too much. This is about getting warm, remember?”

Harry let out a soft laugh, leaning in closer, his breath brushing against her ear. His nose making it nudge against her throat as he felt her sink into the feeling; her eyes shut at the way that his tongue softly lapped at her jaw. “Is that so? Because from where I’m sitting—or, well, crawling—it feels like you’ve got me wrapped around your finger. Maybe vice versa.”

Her lips twitched into a smirk, but she didn’t move away. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just easy to manipulate.”

His laughter faded into something softer, lifting his head as his gaze dropped to her lips. “Dangerous words, Marianne. You keep talking like that, and I might have to prove you wrong. Play hard to get and all that.”

She met his gaze, her pulse quickening as the air between them thickened. “Big talk for someone who was just crawling.”

“Actions speak louder than words,” He whispered, his mouth finally brushing against hers, tentative at first, as though testing her reaction. “I have a feeling that you could get me to crawl anywhere right now.”

Marianne didn’t hesitate. Her hand slid up to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. It was slow but deliberate, a mixture of heat and resistance, the kind of kiss that felt like it could spiral out of control if either of them let it.

When they finally broke apart, her forehead rested against his as they both caught their breath. Marianne let out a shaky laugh, her fingers still tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Well… this escalated quickly. I thought my night was just going to be mulled wine and ginger biscuits.”

Harry’s grin returned, lazy and utterly pleased with himself. “What can I say? I told you that holiday shit was overrated.”

Marianne rolled her eyes but didn’t move away from him.

Harry tilted his head, his fingers lightly tracing circles on her waist as he felt he needed to draw her attention back a little. “Maybe we’re both a little to blame. You’ve got this whole… 'irresistible' thing going on.”

She laughed, the sound more genuine now, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “You realize we’re strangers, right?”

Harry nodded, his grin softening into something more sincere. “We know each other’s stance on Gatsby, and you’re calling us strangers? At the very least, Marianne. At the very least.”

When he pulled back, she let out a soft sigh, the weight of the moment settling over them. “Well,” she said after a pause, her voice lighter but with a subtle edge of mischief, “if you’re feeling so confident, maybe we should find another way to get warm. A heater would work splendidly in your place.”

Harry laughed, his voice low and rich as he leaned closer. “Oh, is that what we’re calling it now? A heater?”

She smirked, nudging him with her knee. Instead of reacting, Marianne took her fingers at the bottom of his t-shirt, letting it wrap in her fingers before pulling it up. The reveling underneath made her mouth dry at first; she didn’t want to give him too much attention, or it would only make his confidence stronger.

As their lips met again, Harry’s hands cupped Marianne’s face gently, his thumbs brushing along her cheekbones as though he were committing every detail of her to memory. The warmth between them intensified, their breaths mingling as the kiss deepened, slow and deliberate. Marianne’s fingers found their way into his hair, tugging softly, and he exhaled a low, contented sound against her lips.

The room around them seemed to fade into the background—only the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree casting a soft, warm glow in the dimness. Harry shifted, his hands sliding down to her waist as he pulled her closer, their movements unhurried but full of intent. Marianne let out a soft laugh, her head tilting back as she felt his lips trail along her jawline and down her neck, each kiss sending a flutter through her.

“Harry,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, a mixture of hesitation and invitation. Her hands moved to rest against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her palms.

He paused for a moment, pulling back to meet her gaze. His eyes searched hers, a question lingering in their depth. She smiled softly, her hand brushing along his jaw, answering him without words as she leaned in to kiss him again. The way she melted into him left no room for doubt.

Harry stood, pulling her with him, their bodies fitting together effortlessly. His hands lingered at her waist, steadying her as they moved toward the sofa, her laughter soft against his shoulder as they stumbled slightly. He eased her down onto the cushions, the glow of the Christmas lights illuminating the warmth in her expression as she looked up at him.

Their movements slowed, deliberate yet electric, each touch and kiss building the connection between them. Neither rushed nor hesitant, they navigated the space between them with care, the world outside falling away entirely. It wasn’t just the warmth of the firelight or the blanket that had been tossed aside earlier; it was them, discovering something in each other that felt both new and undeniably right.

As they drew closer, their hands found new places to hold to steady, and their breaths fell into sync. In the quiet of the room, surrounded by the soft hum of Christmas melodies and the faint scent of pine, their closeness became something unspoken, a silent understanding that this moment was theirs.

His hands moved to quickly remove her pants, threw her sweater off, his pants were off. The touch of their skin was electric as he practically panted into her kiss, noses nudging one another as he moved to touch along the edges of her panties.

Marianne bit on her lip as his fingers moved against her, she pressed herself against him. Harry moved the edge of her panties away, letting his fingers brush against her without the barrier between them. She gasped the feeling, knowing that she had been practically dripping for him without direct touch. The teasing, the night they’d had had been building to this moment before she threw her head back in anticipation for what she needed most.

“Don’t wanna’ wait any longer,” She murmured, the wine felt like it had been sitting on her brain, making her decisions cursed, “No messing around.”

Harry nodded into her neck, kissing her softly before he took himself in his hand, pushing open at her entrance before he let his mouth drop open slightly. He had been ready from the moment that she wrapped her legs around his waist. His brows furrowed at the feeling; the way that she wanted to surrender to him so quickly. When he pushed in, they both gasped at the feeling.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry breathed out, his eyes shutting before he clenched his fist on the armrest, his shoulder holding him up. He knew if he opened his eyes, he’d look down to see Marianne looking up at him with the bright, chocolate brown eyes—the demeanor of two people just needing affection to the highest.

It had been quick, no frills. They had barely undressed; her sweater was off, the black lace of her bra pushed against her breasts, her underwear pushed to the side, the thrill of their need for someone—anyone—had gotten the best of them as Harry’s hips pushed her legs apart.

The warmth that enveloped him was almost overwhelming. Marianne let out a soft gasp, her fingers digging into his hips as she pulled him closer. The urgency of their encounter left no room for gentleness or finesse; it was raw and intimate and something that neither of them had expected going into that night, but only what could have possibly been the best outcome.

Harry's hips began to move, slowly at first, then with increasing fervor. The creaking of the sofa that held their bodyweight beneath them punctuated their ragged breaths and muffled moans. Marianne arched her back, pressing herself against him, seeking more contact, more friction from their compromising position that was entirely unsuited for what they both desired.

"Harry," she whispered, her voice thick with desire. "Look at me. Please."

He hesitated, knowing that meeting her gaze would make this real, would shatter the illusion that this was just a nameless, faceless encounter. But the pull was too strong. Harry opened his eyes, looking down to find Marianne's warm brown eyes locked onto his, filled with a mixture of vulnerability and passion that made his breath catch in his throat. In that moment, the world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them suspended in time with the only light of the lamp in the dark living room space.

Marianne's lips parted, her breathing shallow as she reached up to cup Harry's face with trembling hands. The tenderness of the gesture contrasted sharply with the urgency of their coupling, adding a layer of intimacy that neither had anticipated. She hadn’t expected to feel the way she had, only knowing him for so long but the feeling of their skin on skin had somehow felt right.

"I—" Harry started to say, but the words died on his lips as Marianne pulled him down for a kiss. It was deep and desperate, their tongues tangling as they sought to convey through touch what they couldn't through words.

The kiss seemed to ignite something within them both. Harry's thrusts became more purposeful, angling to hit the spot that made Marianne gasp and shudder beneath him. Her nails raked down his back, leaving red marks in their wake, a physical manifestation of the intensity building between them. The pain mingled with pleasure, driving Harry to push harder, deeper, chasing the release that hovered just out of reach.

Marianne broke the kiss, throwing her head back against the arm of the sofa. Her legs wrapped tightly around Harry's waist, heels digging into the small of his back as she met his thrusts with equal fervor. The room filled with the sound of skin against skin, punctuated by their shared gasps and moans.

"God, Marianne," Harry groaned, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He inhaled deeply with a groan following, drinking in the scent of her perfume mingled with sweat and arousal. It was intoxicating, clouding his senses and pushing him closer to the edge.

Marianne's hands tangled in Harry's hair, tugging gently as she felt the familiar tension building within her. Her body trembled beneath him, every nerve ending alight with sensation. She could feel herself teetering on the brink of that all too familiar feeling of want, desperate for release but wanting to prolong this moment for as long as possible.

"Harry, I'm close," she whispered breathlessly, her lips brushing against his ear. "Please, don't stop. Please. Fuck."

Her words spurred him on, his movements becoming more erratic as he chased his own climax. The couch creaked dangerously beneath them, but neither paid it any mind, too lost in the sensations coursing through their bodies.

Marianne's back arched sharply, a strangled cry escaping her lips as she finally tumbled over the edge. Her inner walls clenched around Harry, pulling him deeper as waves of pleasure washed over her like the ocean of her dreams. The sight and feel of her coming undone beneath him was too much for Harry to bear.

With a deep, guttural groan, he followed her over the precipice, his hips stuttering as he spilled himself inside her, the shaking of his body only stilled that her hands wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer for the relief he desperately needed.

For several long moments, they remained locked together, bodies trembling with aftershocks as they struggled to catch their breath. Her chest pushed upwards as she breathed; their lungs practically touching as Harry laid upon her, feeling light as a feather. The reality of what they had just done began to seep in as he stared at the nape of her neck for a few moments, replacing the mystical haze of lust with a mixture of confusion and lingering desire.

Harry slowly lifted his head from Marianne's neck, his eyes meeting hers once more even when he realized that he shouldn’t have. The vulnerability he saw there made his chest tighten. He opened his mouth to speak but found himself at a loss for words.

What could he possibly say to make sense of this unexpected turn of events?

Marianne's hands slid from his hair, trailing down his back before coming to rest on his shoulders. She bit her lip, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her features as she searched Harry's face for any sign of regret or disappointment that could have possibly been lingering in that moment. Finding none, that she could notice, she let out a shaky breath, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin.

"I... I don't know what to say," Marianne whispered, her voice barely audible. She swallowed hard, trying to find the right words. "This wasn't... I mean, I didn't expect..."

Harry nodded, understanding her unfinished thoughts. “Me neither," he admitted, his voice rough.

It was unspoken; but he concluded that he was still inside of her, blinking a few times in the heat of the moment. He shifted slightly, suddenly aware of their still-joined bodies and the awkwardness of their position. With a soft groan, he carefully disentangled himself from her, immediately missing the warmth of her embrace.

It was the odd feeling of wondering why he missed it then; he had only met her, but he knew that could have been the first and last time.

Marianne sat up, pulling her underwear back into place and readjusting her bra. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for her discarded sweater, pulling it over her head.

Harry watched her, feeling a strange mix of emotions as he tucked himself back into his pants and zipped up his jeans. The air between them felt heavy, charged with unspoken questions and lingering desire. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, trying to gather his thoughts before either of them was able to speak again.

Harry cleared his throat, licking over his lips as he sat next to her, fully dressed in her still in her underwear.

"I should probably..." he began, gesturing vaguely towards the front door.

Marianne looked up, her eyes wide and vulnerable. "Oh," she said softly, disappointment evident in her voice as she realized that he hadn’t wanted to stay. She glanced towards the window, where she could see the snowflakes lashing against the glass, driven by howling winds in the silence between them. "I-I mean, it’s really coming down out there."

Harry followed her gaze, noticing for the first time the storm raging outside. He'd been so caught up in the moment, in Marianne, that he hadn't even registered the sound of the wind or the snow that seemed to harbor on the glass.

"Yeah," he agreed, his voice hoarse. He hesitated, torn between the desire to flee from the intensity of what had just happened and the practical need to not walk back to his place in the weathering mix of snow and ice. "I suppose it wouldn't be safe to walk back home yet, then.”

Marianne nodded, a flicker of hope crossing her features. "You could... stay, if you want. Just— I don’t know, of course, whatever you want." she added quickly, not wanting to seem too eager or presumptuous that he would want to stay the night.

Harry considered her offer, his eyes roaming over her face. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, he found himself drawn to her, unable to ignore the connection that had sparked between them. "Yeah, okay," he said softly. "Thanks."

A small smile tugged at Marianne's lips as she stood up, smoothing down her sweater as she placed it over her; leaving her in her panties that had the pink lace over the waistband. "I'll get us some tea," she offered, padding towards the kitchen on bare feet. “You— uh, if you’d like to clean up, you can head upstairs to the bathroom. I can be up there in a moment.”

Harry watched her go, his eyes lingering on the sway of her hips as she disappeared into the kitchen. He let out a long breath, running his hands over his face as he tried to process everything that had just happened. The sudden intimacy, the intensity of their connection - it was all so unexpected.

With a soft groan, he pushed himself up from the couch and made his way upstairs. The bathroom was small but tidy, decorated in shades of pale blue and white. Harry caught sight of himself in the mirror above the sink and paused, taking in his disheveled appearance. His hair was a mess, his shirt wrinkled, and there was a faint red mark on his neck where Marianne had nipped at his skin.

As he washed his hands and splashed some cool water on his face, Harry's mind raced. What did this mean for them? Would things be awkward now?

Harry stared at himself for another moment longer, looking directly into the mirror before he pushed the hair off his face. When going to leave the small upstairs washroom, he found himself standing in the hallway near the stairs; tension in the room was palpable as Marianne returned, two steaming mugs of tea in her hands. Harry had settled to follow her into her bedroom, his hair still damp on the front from the quick wash in the bathroom.

Their eyes met, and a spark of electricity seemed to pass between them.

Marianne set the mugs down on the nightstands; first one side, and then the other, her hands shaking slightly. She hesitated for a moment before sitting next to Harry at the end of the bed, close enough that their thighs brushed. The contact sent a shiver through both.

"I..." Harry began, but words failed him. Instead of being able to finish his words, his face turned towards hers when he felt her reach out, cupping Harry’s face in her hand. He leaned into her touch, eyes fluttering shut as they faced one another now.

In an instant, the tentative atmosphere shattered. Their lips crashed together in a desperate kiss, all thoughts of tea forgotten, once again. Marianne climbed onto Harry's lap, straddling him while his hands moved to push her down onto his crotch; the feeling of her once again drove his eroticism to a new height.

“Wait,” Harry told her softly, holding onto her wrists to pause her action. His hands reached to hold onto her in an affection to let her know that he hadn’t wanted to push her away, but to give him a moment. “Marianne, uh,” He swallowed, but felt her hips push into his, causing a moan to escape his lips unintentionally, “Fuck. I—I forgot.”

Marianne chuckled a little bit, her tongue leaving a small lick on his upper lip as she teased him.

“Was it important?” She asked, her voice a bit hazy and erotic. “You’re not married, are you?”

With a heavy breath, Harry held her hips into place again, letting a grin take over before he shook his head. “No, no—uh, but,”

Marianne stopped at his word; a bit curious to his need to speak then. Her eyes searched his face. Harry’s sentence hung in the air, unfinished as Marianne tilted her head, her darkened eyes searching his face. Her breath was warm against his cheek, her lips still ghosting over his as if daring him to finish the thought. She moved her hips slightly, testing his resolve, and Harry’s grip on her tightened, his fingers pressing into her waist as though anchoring himself.

“But what?” Marianne prompted; her voice soft yet dripping with playful challenge. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his jawline now, teasing him further. “You’re not exactly making a convincing case for stopping.”

Harry let out a breathless laugh, his head tipping back against the air as his hands slid to her thighs, squeezing gently. “It’s not that I want to stop,” he murmured, his voice rough with the strain of holding back. “I just... I don’t usually—”

“You don’t usually what?” she interrupted, her lips trailing down to the corner of his mouth. “Get this lucky? Because trust me, I don’t usually climb into laps, either.”

That earned a laugh from him, one that was half-frustration, half-admiration. “You’re relentless.”

“And you’re stalling even thought we could already be halfway through round two by now,” she countered, her fingers brushing over the back of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. “So, unless you’re about to tell me that you’re some kind of undercover royal or a spy with a secret identity, I think we’re good here.”

Harry’s lips parted as if to say something, but instead, he caught her mouth in another kiss, silencing any further conversation. This time, there was no hesitation, no holding back. His hands roamed her sides, sliding beneath her sweater to find the bare skin of her lower back, and Marianne gasped softly against his lips. Her nails grazed the nape of his neck, drawing a low groan from him that reverberated between them.

Marianne leaned into him, pressing her chest against his as she tugged at the hem of his shirt. “Off,” she murmured, her voice edged with impatience. Harry obliged, breaking the kiss just long enough to yank the shirt over his head before pulling her back to him.

The warmth of her skin against his sent his pulse racing, and his hands found their way under her sweater again, mapping out the curve of her spine. Marianne shifted on his lap, her movements deliberate now, and Harry’s grip on her tightened instinctively.

“God, you’re trouble,” he muttered against her lips, his voice laced with both amusement and desire.

“You love it,” she shot back, her smile audible even with his eyes shut, even as she kissed him again.

Marianne pushed at his chest so he would lay on his back, letting the softness of the flannel blanket that laid across her neatly made bed touch his hot skin. As she crawled up his body, letting her lips flutter against his, he smiled again.

“You’re really going to make me go again? Christ, Marianne, you’re a bit of a minx.”

She paused for a moment; letting the tension sit with him. When he responded, making his lips yearn for hers, she had the answer that she desperately wanted from him.

“Seems like the want is mutual.” Her voice was a whisper, hot against his lips—his were parted, letting a moan fall through them.

Harry shook his head, “I’ll go all night.”

The tension between them crackled like static, the rest of the world falling away as their shared laughter melted into something deeper, something raw. The flicker of the Christmas lights reflected in their eyes as they lost themselves in each other, the cold night outside forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Marianne woke to the faint light of dawn streaming through her window. For a moment, she lay still, her mind piecing together the events of the night before. The complete covering of her body under the covers kept her warm, taking in a deep breath.

She turned her head, half-expecting to find Harry still beside her, but the bed was empty.

The night had been overwhelming in the most unexpected way; she rolled onto her back, looking up at the ceiling. Pushing her hair away from her face, her thoughts traveled to how the night had unraveled a stream of ribbon – her skin felt hot remembering the touches of his hands on her.

It had been a while since she had been that intimate with someone like that. One of the deepest regrets was knowing that she was waking up with him not there. It was always unspoken; waking up in the morning from the night before, padding out of the room with a mission to leave before you wake the other. She should have expected this, but in her mind, it had been more than just going home with someone.

She had felt that her and Harry had a connection of some sort. She wouldn’t even know how to get in contact with him if she wanted—she didn’t know his last name. She supposed that she could ask Franny at work for his contact information, but given that he wasn’t there the next morning, she figured that maybe he didn’t want to hear from her.

It had been a whirlwind. Making their way to the bed that night felt like a triumph in itself; she hadn’t expected their lingering touches to last, but almost every hour she would feel his hand creeping along her side, almost like he had been thinking in his sleep.

As Marianne sat up, she tried to not think too much of the night before but think more of the upcoming day instead. She stretched up, letting her arms dance above her head as her shoulders and neck felt tight.

When her feet hit the floor, it felt cold beneath her. She searched through her drawers, finding a long-sleeve cotton sweater that hung to her thighs. She threw her hair into a bun on the top of her head, before making her way to the stairs.

Padding into the living room from the staircase, she found him standing by the front door, his coat in hand. He looked up, startled, as she made her entrance.

Even in the morning, hair tousled with sleep, eyes a bit puffy from the early morning rise, he looked good. It looked like he may not have slept too well, which made her heart sink at the thought that she may have kept him awake.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, shaking his head. His coat dangled from his arm. “Didn’t mean to wake you. I was just heading out.”

“Couldn’t figure out the lock?” She teased, her voice still husky with sleep.

Harry chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “I—yeah.”

Marianne crossed her arms, leaning against the railing. “Guess you can’t get away that easy,” She took in a deep breath, “Or without saying goodbye first.”

Harry took in a breath, putting one hand in his pocket as he turned towards her then. “I—I mean, I didn’t want to just leave, but I- I didn’t—”

Marianne shook her head, “No, I get it. Hook-up etiquette is…”

“Weird.” Harry bit his lip, “I’m a bit out of practice, I guess.”

“Hooking up with a lot of broads, then?” Marianne’s tone was teasing, and she smirked when the flush returned to Harry’s cheeks.

They stood in a beat of silence before she cleared her throat, trying to make the most of the time that he had been standing there—maybe to break the awkwardness that had come into the room yet again.

“Well, if you’re here, you might as well help me with something. I have a hard time doing it by myself—physically.” She bit her lip, eyes widening at the way her words may have been perceived, “Oh! I mean—not that, uh,”

“I mean, I guess we can go again, then. I guess I was pretty good at it last night, wasn’t I?” He chuckled, interrupting her to make the joke, then shrugged. “But, yeah, I can help with whatever.”

“Decorating the tree,” She pointed to a box of ornaments and a slightly crooked artificial tree standing in the corner of the room. Harry followed her gaze, a skeptical eyebrow raised. “I can’t reach a lot of the top. It’s just easier with two people.”

“You’re really leaning into the Christmas spirit, huh?”

“When you live alone, you’ve got to make your own magic,” she replied, already pulling the tree upright. “Or are you going to stand there and criticize my technique?”

Harry sighed but set his coat aside on the edge of the sofa. He had taken note that she still hadn’t put on pants, her underwear now had small bows of ribbon patterned in red, “Alright, then. Let’s do this—uh, is there any way that this can involve coffee?”

Marianne lit up, “Oh—yeah, of course. Let me go make us some. Can you start to take items out of that box?”

On her way to the kitchen, she put on a pot of coffee, waiting for enough for the two of them. Harry had begun to look through some of the items that she had for decoration.

Marianne opened the second box when she returned, setting a cup of coffee next to Harry on the coffee table. When she looked in the box, she was suddenly met with the remembrance of last Christmas; the way that she hadn’t put the lights away alone but was going to have to bring them out alone if Harry hadn’t been here. As they worked, untangling fairy lights and hanging mismatched ornaments, their banter softened into a rhythm that felt almost natural, like they had done this a dozen times before.

"Do people actually enjoy untangling these?" Harry muttered, holding up a knot of fairy lights with a grimace.

"Maybe they see it as a metaphor for life," Marianne quipped, carefully hanging a glittery bauble coated in silver. "Unravel the mess, and you find the beauty."

Harry snorted at her cute remark, "That sounds like something out of a self-help book."

"Hey, some of us need a little optimism to get through the day and the holiday season," She shot back, though her tone was light. "Besides, it beats your Grinch-like grumbling."

"Touché," He admitted, smirking. "Alright, Cindy Lou, where do these go?" He held up a string of lights, their multicolored bulbs catching the morning light.

Marianne stepped closer, her fingers brushing against his as she guided the string toward the tree. "Around the middle, I think. It needs some sparkle in there."

As they worked together, the conversation drifted from playful teasing to quieter, more introspective topics. Marianne shared snippets of her life—how she’d recently picked up pottery to distract herself after the breakup that past spring, how her students had surprised her with handmade ornaments last Christmas, especially when Harry picked one up and examined it with a bit of curiosity.

"One of them made this," she said, holding up a slightly lopsided clay star painted in bright primary colors. "He told me it was supposed to be ‘abstract.’ Big word for a four-year-old."

Harry chuckled as he looked up at it, he placed a red bauble on the tree, "Abstract is a solid excuse for anything that doesn’t go as planned."

Marianne gave him a warm gaze, letting her eyes fall to the way that his sweater sleeves had been rolled up. She watched the way that he took a step back, letting his eyes fall over the way the that the lights cast a soft colorful light over the room then. It was still early, but it looked like he had been contemplating for a moment.

Harry hesitated before speaking, then confessed, "I think I’ve been stuck in my own mess for so long that I forgot how to step back and just... appreciate things."

Marianne looked at him, her expression softening. "Maybe untangling fairy lights wasn’t such a bad metaphor after all."

The morning light filtered through Marianne’s small space, highlighting the modest but cozy living room. The faint smell of coffee mingled with the scent of pine from the Christmas tree standing bare in the corner. Harry stood beside it, holding the string of tangled lights, his hair still slightly disheveled. Marianne sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a box of ornaments, her sweater slipping off one shoulder as she worked.

“Alright,” Marianne said, holding up a particularly gaudy ornament shaped like a snowman. “This one’s either going on the tree or in the trash. Thoughts?”

Harry tilted his head, inspecting it with mock seriousness. “Trash. Absolutely trash.”

She laughed, tossing it to the side. “Wow, you’re ruthless. Remind me not to let you near any sentimental ornaments. My niece made me that.”

He smirked, kneeling beside her and picking up a small, glittery star. “This one’s safe, though, right? It’s classic.”

“Classic,” she agreed, handing him a hook for it. “Go ahead, looks like the last one.”

Harry rolled his eyes but stood, carefully placing the star on one of the branches. He stepped back, pretending to admire his handiwork. “Perfect. The tree’s basically done now, right? The lights are placed right?”

“It looks great,” Marianne shrugged, letting her smirk take over with a quick tease, “Well, the parts I was involved in.”

He chuckled but didn’t respond, his smile faltering slightly as he stared at the tree. Harry took a seat on the sofa, letting his gaze over the tree settle. Marianne noticed the shift in his expression, the way his shoulders tensed just a bit. She crossed her arms over her chest, her voice softening. “Hey. You okay?”

Harry glanced at her quickly, hesitating as if he didn’t want to answer, before he shrugged. “Yeah, just… thinking.”

She moved over to take a seat next to him, brushing her hands on her sweater as she moved closer to him. “Thinking about what? I—I mean, I don’t know if you have something against Christmas, I figured it was just your sense of humor, but…”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not really my favorite time of year,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. There was a part of him that felt odd giving her any information like this, but he figured that she had more intimate memories of him, so this didn’t seem quite as big, “Never has been.”

Marianne frowned, folding her arms. “I think it can be difficult for a lot of people, for a lot of reasons.” She trailed off, watching him closely.

He let out a soft laugh, though it lacked his usual warmth. “Shouldn’t be.”

She didn’t press, just waited, and after a moment, he continued.

“It’s just… growing up, I didn’t really have a family to spend it with. My parents… they weren’t around much. And when they were, Christmas was more about them fighting or making a show for other people than it was about actually being together, just the three of us, you know? By the time I got older, it just felt pointless to even try to get everyone together. They were never happy memories. Everyone else was celebrating, and I was just… there.” He gestured vaguely, as if searching for the right words. “I guess it just became this reminder of what I didn’t have.”

Marianne’s heart twisted at the vulnerability in his voice. She reached out, her hand resting lightly on his arm. “Harry, I’m sorry. That sounds… really lonely.”

He shrugged again, his gaze fixed on the tree. “It was what it was. But there just didn’t seem to be any reason to make any memories surrounding it. I just ignored this time of year.” He glanced at her, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“It—but this is nice. I like this,” He chewed on his bottom lip before he stared at the way that her hand settled on his forearm, his fingers brushing hers for a moment. “Thanks, Marianne.”

“For what?”

“For… I don’t know. Letting me be here, I guess. For not making this weird.”

She smiled, her expression soft as she took in a deep breath, “Everyone deserves to have one happy Christmas memory, at least,” She swallowed, looking back at the tree then, “I hope this is one of those.”

He nodded, swallowing hard as he looked back at the tree. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat, “Very much so.”

For a moment, silence settled between them, not awkward but contemplative. Harry felt a quiet shift within himself, a glimmer of something he couldn’t quite name but wasn’t ready to dismiss. Marianne’s sarcastic edge gave way to quiet vulnerability, while Harry’s usual cynicism melted into genuine curiosity about her. She told him about her students, and her decision to spend Christmas embracing her independence this year.

Harry glanced at her; her face illuminated by the soft glow of the fairy lights. For a moment, he felt the tension of his deadline and his usual holiday cynicism slip away, replaced by an unfamiliar warmth that tugged at the edges of his guarded heart. The glow of the fairy lights and Marianne’s quiet presence seemed to momentarily bridge the gap between his disillusionment and the simple joys he had long dismissed.

The multicolored lights blinked haphazardly, casting a kaleidoscope of hues across the room. A patchwork of ornaments dangled from the branches—some glittering with polished perfection, others endearingly imperfect like Marianne’s lopsided clay star. Tinsel shimmered unevenly, catching the soft glow of the fairy lights. Harry tilted his head, his critical eye scanning the mismatched decorations. It was far from magazine-perfect, but something about its imperfections made it feel... genuine.

"It’s a little chaotic," he murmured.

Marianne smiled, nudging him gently. "Kind of like us, don’t you think?" He glanced at her, the warmth in her eyes mirroring the soft glow of the tree, and felt his usual cynicism begin to wane.

"I think it’s perfect," he admitted quietly. It was far from perfect—the lights blinked unevenly, and the ornaments clashed—but it felt oddly right.

Harry let his gaze linger on Marianne, taking in the way the soft light caught the curve of her smile and the slight furrow of her brow, as if she were deep in thought. He wondered what was going through her mind, whether her thoughts mirrored the strange mix of contentment and uncertainty that churned within him.

Marianne, for her part, noticed the way Harry’s fingers tapped rhythmically against the side of his mug, betraying a nervous energy he seemed intent on hiding. It was a moment suspended in time, the world outside the small flat fading into irrelevance as they sat side by side, each silently grappling with the fragile, burgeoning connection between them.

Marianne glanced at him, her resolve to keep things casual wavering.

It was then that Harry decided he should be getting home. Marianne agreed, nodding a few times before Harry lifted from the sofa. She had followed him to the door, his coat in his hands before they stood in front of the door again.

“I had a great time,” He finally said, “With you.”

Marianne let out a breath, crossing her arms over her chest as she felt the cold from behind the door already. She pulled her top lip in her mouth before she cleared her throat, contemplating whether she wanted to say anything else. She noticed that he had been baiting her to speak, tilting his head.

“What are you doing tonight?” She asked tentatively, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry looked at her, his usual cynicism replaced by something warmer, softer. “No plans.”

Marianne bit on her bottom lip, taking every part of her independence away as she stared at him with a longing glance that caught his attention

“Would you like to go,” She shrugged, “On like, a real date?”

Harry pushed his hair off of his forehead, trying his best to hide the smile that caught on his face. It somehow wouldn’t go away. “I—yeah. I would, actually.”

Letting out a breath of relief, Marianne rested her hand on the back of her neck. “Great. Great—yeah.” She grabbed a piece of mail that sat next to the door, using a pen to write down her phone number. She stood to hand it to him, “Text me when you get home, and we’ll set something up.”

As a gesture, Harry took the half of the envelope she wrote, to write his own number—just in case they were to lose touch. Harry took the empty envelope she wrote on, folding it and putting it in his pocket before he leaned in kiss her. It was a soft kiss this time, one that melted for a moment before he pulled back and let his eyes fall over her. The breath was held in his lungs before he nodded a few times.

“Will do,” He told her, reaching for the front door, “Bye, Marianne.”

“Bye.” She stated softly, watching as he pulled the door behind him, a last fleeting glance.

Marianne stood by the door for a moment after Harry left, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air. She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, running her fingers through her hair. The reality of the night settled over her like the falling snow outside—quick, fleeting, and somehow magical.

She wandered back to the couch, sitting down and pulling the throw blanket over her lap. The Christmas lights on her tree twinkled softly, casting a warm glow around the room. She sipped the last of her coffee, the faint hum of the music station still playing faintly in the background.

For a moment, she thought about texting him first but decided against it.

“Let him make the move,” she whispered to herself, smiling at the memory of his crooked grin, the warmth in his eyes when he looked at her.

Across town, Harry walked briskly, his hands buried in his coat pockets, the envelope she’d written on folded neatly inside one of them. The snow crunched under his shoes, the cold biting at his cheeks, but he didn’t care. His mind replayed the way her lips felt against his, the sound of her laugh, the spark in her eyes when she teased him. He felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time—lightness, as though the weight of the world had been lifted.

When he reached his flat, Harry sat on the edge of his bed, pulling out the envelope at the quickest moment he could. Her handwriting was rushed but endearing, the kind of messy scrawl that hinted at a bit of chaos, a bit of charm. He smiled as he unlocked his phone and began typing.

Harry: Made it home in one piece.

Harry: Free all day. Don’t want to sound too desperate, but I’d love to have dinner tonight.

He hesitated for a moment before sending another text.

Harry: Would love to do more Christmas light viewing, too.

He stared at the screen for a second longer than he needed to before hitting send. Tossing the envelope on his nightstand, he leaned back against his pillows, his mind drifting back to the warmth of her apartment and the way she’d looked at him like he wasn’t just passing through.

Back at Marianne’s place, her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She picked it up, her smile growing wider as she read his message. With a grin, she replied:

Marianne: Glad you didn’t freeze. Dinner and a walk would be great.

Harry’s reply came almost instantly.

Harry: Pick you up at 7?

Marianne laughed softly to herself, leaning back into the couch as she typed her response.

Marianne: I’ll be the one in the ugly Christmas sweater.

Harry bit his lip, shaking his head.

Harry: I’ll be the one in black.

As Harry set his phone down on the nightstand, a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. The faint glow of the sun trying to peak from behind the grey clouds outside his window cast long shadows across the room, but his thoughts were nowhere near the cold night or the city beyond. Instead, they lingered on Marianne—her laugh, the sparkle in her eyes, the way she’d somehow made him feel less like a cynic and more like someone who might just believe in the magic of the season again.

He stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling with a contented sigh.

Christmas had always been something he tolerated rather than celebrated, a time of year that often felt more like a reminder of what was missing. But now, as he thought about seeing her again in just a few short hours, the easy way they fit into each other's company, he couldn’t help but chuckle softly to himself.

For the first time in a long time, Christmas didn’t feel like a burden. It felt like a beginning.