The wind off the river was a bitter, personal insult. It sliced through the cheap fabric of Jeffrey’s hoodie and felt like it was scraping grit right against his bones. December in this city wasn’t just cold; it was wet. He hunched deeper into himself, jamming his numb fingers into his pockets. He hated gloves. Hated the feeling of being trapped.
Every storefront was a visual assault of manic holiday cheer. Twinkling lights blinked in a desperate, seizure-inducing rhythm. He hated it. Hated the forced smiles, the cheesy music leaking from every doorway, the whole goddamn performance of ‘togetherness.’
He ducked into ‘The Cafe on Portage,’ the door releasing a gust of air that smelled like fresh baking and dark roast coffee. The warmth was so sudden it was almost painful. He pulled his hood down, his dark hair damp with melted snowflakes. The line was, of course, a mile long.
Jeffrey pulled out his phone, scrolling through nothing, the phone's light a shield against the low hum of chatter. He was trying to decide if he had the energy for the peppermint mocha or if he should just go for good old-fashioned black coffee—liquid apathy—when a voice spoke, low and way too close to his ear.
"Jeffrey? Chem 102, right?"
He flinched. A full-body jerk he couldn't suppress, followed by a hot flush of shame. He hated being snuck up on. Especially by him. Ben.
Ben, who sat two rows ahead in lecture and always asked the questions Jeffrey was too afraid to. Ben, who had this air of unbothered calm, like he was operating on a different frequency from the rest of them. He was leaning against the counter, a heavy textbook tucked under one arm. His hair was a mess of thick, dark waves, the kind that probably looked just as good wet, and he was wearing a heavy, cream-colored fisherman’s sweater that made him look solid. Warm. Like a human furnace.
Jeffrey’s heart gave a stupid, painful kick against his ribs. "Uh, yeah. Hey." He stared hard at a crack in the tile floor.
"Didn't figure you for a holiday coffee rush kind of guy," Ben said. His voice was smooth, with a low rumble to it that seemed to vibrate right through the floor. "Figured you'd be holed up in the library staring at microfiche."
A smile was playing on Ben's lips. It wasn't mean, but it was observant as hell. Jeffrey felt pinned by it. "Just… needed a break from the mandatory holiday bullshit," he mumbled, the words clipped.
He finally risked a look. Ben’s eyes were a deep, dark brown, and they were fixed on him with an unnerving intensity. He wasn't just looking; he was *watching*. Jeffrey felt the heat in his cheeks crank up another notch.
"Mandatory holiday bullshit," Ben repeated, and a low chuckle escaped him. "Yeah, I get that. My aunt sent a fruitcake denser than a black hole. My mom's trying to get me to practice piano carols."
Jeffrey snorted, a harsh, humorless sound. "My ideal Christmas is a locked door, a shitty 70s sci-fi marathon, and zero human contact."
"Sounds peaceful," Ben said, but he leaned in a fraction, and the air between them suddenly felt charged, thick. Jeffrey could smell the cold still clinging to his sweater, mixed with something clean, like soap. "But lonely."
The observation landed like a punch to the gut. Before Jeff could formulate a defense, the barista called out, "Latte for Ben!"
Ben pushed off the counter but didn't leave. He just stood there, his dark eyes still holding Jeff's. That steady, unwavering look made Jeffrey’s lungs feel tight. It was the way he looked at him, like Jeffrey was something interesting, something worth figuring out. Or worse, something fragile.
"My family's Christmas dinner is a total shitshow," Ben said, his voice dropping again, conspiratorial. "Loud, chaotic, and my dad always gets drunk and tries to argue. You'd love it. You should come."
Jeffrey just blinked. "What?"
"Christmas dinner. My place. Next Saturday," Ben clarified, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Consider it a field study. You can document the bizarre rituals of the suburbanite tribe for your sci-fi movies."
The sheer audacity of it left Jeffrey speechless. He wanted to say no. The word was right there, on the tip of his tongue. He didn’t *do* other people’s families. He barely did his own. His Christmases were minefields of quiet disappointment. The tension of his dad’s disapproval since he’d come out, the pained look in his mom’s eyes as she tried to bridge a gap that was miles wide. It was easier to just be alone.
But then he looked at Ben, who was just waiting, calm and solid, a small, knowing quirk to his lips. And a deeply inconvenient part of Jeffrey, a stupid, hopeful part he thought he’d stamped out years ago, wanted to say yes. Wanted to know what that warmth felt like from the inside.
"I… don't know, man," Jeffrey stammered, feeling his face burn. God, he was being so stupid.
"Just think about it," Ben said. He reached out and tapped his knuckles lightly on Jeffrey’s arm, over the thin fabric of his hoodie. The touch was nothing, but it went straight to Jeffrey's core. "No pressure. But you deserve a good one. For real."
And then he was gone, grabbing his coffee, a casual wave over his shoulder leaving Jeffrey in the middle of the line, his own order totally forgotten, the air thick with the smell of a challenge.
***
The next few days were a masterclass in avoidance. Jeffrey told himself he had a plan. A good plan. Anime marathon. A suicidal attempt at baking macarons. It was safe.
But Ben’s words were like a virus in his brain. *You deserve a good one.* What the fuck did that even mean?
His phone buzzed on the library desk, making him jump. Unknown number.
*Hey, it's Ben. Address for Saturday, just in case. No pressure.*
And below it, an address. He hadn’t asked for it. He hadn’t said he was coming. The quiet, steady confidence of it was infuriating. And… something else. Something that made his stomach clench. He didn't reply.
Saturday came, burying the city in a soft, silent layer of snow. His macaron attempt was a fucking disaster. They looked like sad, beige poker chips. The kitchen smelled of failure and as if something burned.
An hour later, he was on a bus, clutching a box of ridiculously expensive chocolates like it was a bomb. He felt like an idiot. What was he doing? This was insane. He was going to walk into a stranger's house, a stray invited in out of pity.
He got off in a quiet neighborhood, the houses glowing with warm light. Ben’s was a cheerful yellow, a real pine wreath on the door. He stood on the porch, his breath fogging in the cold, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He could still leave. Just turn around, and no one would ever know.
He pressed the bell before he could chicken out.
The door swung open instantly. It was Ben. He was in a dark green wool sweater that looked ridiculously soft and jeans that were worn in all the right places. His hair was a mess, and his eyes—those intense, dark eyes—widened for a split second. Then a real, unguarded smile broke across his face, and it completely changed him. It lit him up from the inside.
"You came," he said, and his voice was soft with something that sounded like genuine surprise. That surprise did something weird to Jeffrey's insides. A warm, tumbling sensation. Stupid.
"Uh, yeah," Jeffrey managed, thrusting the chocolates forward. "Here. Or whatever. Merry Christmas."
Ben took the box, his fingers brushing against Jeffrey’s. It was like getting shocked again. Jeffrey snatched his hand back. Ben’s smile didn't falter; it just got softer, more knowing.
"Come in, you're freezing," he said, pulling the door wide. "Welcome to the chaos."
The chaos hit him like a physical wave. A wall of heat, the roar of a dozen conversations, the smell of roasting garlic, pine and cinnamon. People were everywhere. A big, fluffy golden retriever with a red bow trotted over to sniff his jeans.
"Jeffrey, this is… everyone," Ben said, his voice close to Jeffrey's ear. And then Ben’s hand, warm and firm, settled on the small of his back. It wasn't a polite gesture. It was a claim. *You're with me.* The heat of it seeped through his hoodie and shirt, branding him. Jeff's breath hitched. "Don't worry," Ben murmured, his breath ghosting against Jeffrey's ear. "I'm your designated guide. Try not to look like a hostage. My mom worries."
A woman with Ben’s eyes and a flour-dusted apron—his mom—descended on them. "Ben! And you must be Jeffrey! Oh, it is so wonderful to meet you!" She pulled him into a hug that smelled like vanilla. Jeffrey went completely rigid. He didn't know what to do with his arms. It had been so long since anyone had hugged him like that, with such uncomplicated warmth. For a terrifying second, he wanted to melt into it.
The evening was a blur of noise and faces and food. He was introduced to a dozen relatives, all of whom seemed genuinely happy he was there. It was bizarre. He found himself squeezed in at the dinner table between Ben and a cousin who was showing him memes on his phone. He felt the familiar creep of being overwhelmed, the walls closing in.
Then, under the table, he felt a sudden warmth. He glanced down. Ben’s hand had found his, his fingers lacing through Jeffrey's cold, stiff ones. It was a firm, grounding pressure. A secret message in the middle of the joyful bedlam. *I'm here. You're okay.* Ben didn't look at him, just kept talking to his dad, but his thumb stroked slowly, deliberately, over Jeffrey's knuckles. A feeling of pure heat shot up Jeffrey’s arm and exploded in his chest.
Later, he escaped to a large bay window overlooking the snowy backyard. The party was a warm hum behind him.
"Hiding?"
Ben was there, holding two mugs. He offered one to Jeffrey. Hot chocolate.
"It's… a lot," Jeffrey admitted, wrapping his hands around the warm ceramic.
"Yeah," Ben said, leaning against the window frame next to him. Their shoulders brushed. The contact was a low, steady thrum against Jeffrey's entire side. He was hyper-aware of the space Ben took up, the solid warmth of him. "They mean well."
They stood in silence, watching the snow fall. It felt… easy. It shouldn't have been easy.
"My family… it's not like this," Jeffrey heard himself say, the words quiet and raw. "It's quiet. Like… waiting for a bomb to go off. Everyone's just so careful. Walking on glass."
Ben didn't say anything for a long moment. Jeffrey felt a prickle of regret. Too much. He’d said too much.
Then Ben turned to face him fully. His expression was serious, gentle. "I saw you in the coffee shop," he said, his voice low and steady. "You looked… completely alone. And I just thought… nobody should have to be that alone. Especially not at Christmas."
He reached out, his thumb brushing Jeffrey's cheek. The touch was feather-light, impossibly gentle, but it made Jeffrey’s entire nervous system light up. His breath caught, trapped in his throat. His whole world narrowed to the feeling of Ben's skin against his.
"This isn't pity," Ben continued, his eyes holding Jeffrey's, dark and deep and honest. "I wanted you here."
Jeffrey’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, wild thing. He felt completely stripped bare, seen in a way that was both terrifying and profoundly comforting. He wanted to lean into that touch. He wanted to close the last few inches between them and just… stay there.
"You didn't have to," Jeffrey whispered.
A slow, soft smile curved Ben’s lips. "Yeah," he said, his thumb still resting on Jeffrey’s cheek. "I did."
And in the warm glow of a thousand tiny Christmas lights, with the snow falling like a promise outside, Jeffrey felt something inside him crack open. A fragile, tentative hope, pushing its way through years of ice. It was overwhelming. It was terrifying. And for the first time in a very long time, it felt real.