The Frozen Window Pane

By Jamie F. Bell

James, isolated by a harsh winter and harsher family truths, finds an unexpected connection with Ash, whose warmth challenges his guarded heart about the true meaning of Christmas.

The streetlights outside the The Cafe on Portage were giving up. They sputtered against the thick, falling snow, casting a sick, orange pulse that only seemed to make the darkness deeper, hungrier. James had been watching one particular light for the last ten minutes, counting the seconds between its flickers, willing it to finally die. It hadn't. A stubborn little bastard.

He dragged a fingertip through the greasy condensation on the window. The cold of the glass was a sharp, clean shock that shot straight to the bone in his finger, a welcome distraction. The trail he left was a perfect, clear slash through the fog, a tiny window into the swirling white outside. Then the film crept back in, erasing it. He felt like that most days. A temporary mark, easily wiped away.

The coffee in his mug was horrendous. He’d been nursing it for over an hour, and now it was just lukewarm, bitter sludge. It tasted like someone had scraped burnt toast into a cup of dirty water. He took a sip anyway. The acrid taste was another small, grounding punishment. Something real.

The bell over the door gave a thin, brittle jingle that cut through the low hum of the coolers.

James flinched so hard he sloshed the terrible coffee over his fingers. He yanked his hand from the window like he’d been caught breaking it, his head snapping up with a painful crick in his neck.

And there was Ash.

He stood just inside the doorway, a dark shape against the frantic snow, stamping his boots on the worn-out mat. He wasn’t just handsome; that word was too simple, too clean. Ash’s face looked like it had been carved out of something hard and permanent—a sharp jaw, a straight nose that had maybe been broken once. A mess of sandy brown hair, plastered to his forehead now from the snowmelt, dripped onto the collar of his worn peacoat. And that scar. A faint, silvery line that cut right through his left eyebrow, a tiny flaw that James’s eyes always snagged on, a detail that made the intensity of his gaze seem earned.

Ash’s head lifted, and his eyes scanned the nearly empty diner. They passed over the tired-looking waitress, the empty booths, and then they landed on James.

And stopped.

James’s breath snagged in his throat. It was an involuntary betrayal by his own body. The air in the diner suddenly felt too thick to breathe. Ash’s expression didn't change, not really. It was his usual mask of quiet neutrality. But his eyes—dark and so focused they felt like a physical touch—locked onto James and didn't let go. It was a look that vacuumed the sound out of the room. The humming of the coolers, the hiss of an ancient radiator, the ticking of the clock on the wall—it all vanished. For that one, stretched-out second, there was only that look. It made James feel pinned to the cracked red vinyl of the booth. Seen. And completely, fucking terrified.

Ash started moving toward him. Not fast. He never moved fast. He ambled, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his heavy boots leaving damp, melting prints on the dirty linoleum. Each step was deliberate, closing the distance James always tried to keep between himself and… everyone. He stopped at the edge of the table, bringing the cold with him.

“This seat taken?” His voice was low, a rough-edged rumble that seemed to vibrate in the quiet diner, sinking right into James’s bones.

It wasn’t really a question. It was a formality before the inevitable. Ash was going to sit down.

James felt his throat tighten into a knot. He managed a shrug, a jerky twitch of his shoulders that felt more like a spasm. He immediately dropped his gaze to the tabletop, fixing on a sticky, amber-colored patch left by a previous customer’s syrup. He could feel Ash’s presence, a solid wall of warmth and pressure that was already pushing back the diner’s persistent chill. He didn't want the warmth. He wanted the chill. The chill was familiar.

The vinyl of the booth opposite him groaned a long, mournful complaint as Ash slid in. The whole table shifted a millimeter. James felt the tiny jolt through his elbows. Ash unwound a heavy, grey wool scarf from his neck, dropping it next to him on the seat. The air changed. It wasn’t just the diner's smell of grease and coffee anymore. Now it smelled of cold night, and something else underneath—something clean and sharp, like woodsmoke. The scent filled James’s head, making him feel dizzy, off-balance.

Cathy, the waitress appeared with a laminated menu. “Hon, can I get you something?”

“Just coffee. Black please,” Ash said, without looking at her. His eyes were still on James.

James kept his own eyes locked on his mug, visually tracing the rim. He could feel Ash watching him, studying him. He hated it. He hated being a puzzle for someone to solve.

“You look like you’re planning a murder or about to have a breakdown,” Ash observed after the waitress left. His tone was flat, matter-of-fact. “Figured I should probably check in.”

James’s fingers tightened on his mug. “Maybe both.”

A low, quiet chuckle from across the table. “Yeah? Who’s first on the list?”

“The guy who made this coffee.”

Ash was quiet for a moment. James risked a glance up through his eyelashes. Ash was watching him, his head tilted slightly, that unnervingly direct gaze back in place. James’s stomach did a slow, sick flip, like an elevator car dropping too fast. He saw the way Ash’s throat moved when he swallowed. He hated that he noticed.

“You’ve been here a while,” Ash said. It wasn’t an accusation. Just a statement of fact.

James mumbled, “Dorm’s too loud.” It was a lie. His dorm was dead silent. Every door shut. That was the problem. The silence was louder than any party.

He felt the tell-tale heat crawling up the back of his neck, a hot, shameful flush of blood that was probably turning his ears bright red. He hated it. Hated how one person’s quiet attention could just dismantle him, peel back the layers he spent all his time and energy building. As if to make it worse, Ash shifted, and his knee brushed against James’s under the table.

It was nothing. A fraction of a second of contact, the hard seam of Ash's jeans against the worn-soft denim of his own.

That simple touch shot straight up James’s leg and exploded in his gut. His entire body went rigid. His heart gave a painful, violent kick against his ribs, then started hammering, a frantic, trapped bird. He jerked his leg back so fast he knocked it against the wall of the booth with a dull thud.

Ash didn't acknowledge it. He just leaned back, draping one arm over the top of the seat. The movement was casual, relaxed, but it was a tactical repositioning. It closed the space between them even more, claiming the territory of the booth.

“Christmas,” Ash said. The word dropped into the air between them like a stone into a still pond. “It’s… a whole thing, huh?”

James finally looked up. He couldn’t help it. Ash was looking past him, out the window at the snow, but James knew he wasn't seeing it. He was focused entirely on James. He could feel the weight of it, a physical pressure on his skin.

A dry, ugly laugh escaped James’s lips before he could stop it. “A ‘thing’? Yeah. That’s one word for it.” The bitterness in his own voice surprised him, sharp and sour. “It’s bullshit. The whole fucking thing.”

“Bullshit how?” Ash turned his head, his focus now absolute. James felt like an insect under a magnifying glass. He wanted to squirm. He wanted to run. He stayed perfectly still.

“It’s a… a performance,” James stammered, his fingers finding a loose thread on the cuff of his hoodie and starting to pull. “Everyone’s just playing a part. The happy family. The festive cheer. You have to hit your marks, say your lines. And if you don’t, or if you can’t… you’re the asshole who’s ruining Christmas.” The memory of last year—his father’s tight, disappointed silence, his mother’s frantic, high-pitched voice asking, ‘But why can’t you just bring a *friend* home?’—felt like a fresh bruise, tender and raw.

Ash’s hand, calloused and large, moved across the table. It didn’t touch him. Not yet. It just rested there, palm up, in the no-man's-land between their coffee mugs. An offering. An invitation. James’s skin tingled. He stared at Ash’s hand, at the long, capable fingers and the clean, short nails. He thought about how cold his own hands were.

“My family’s a fucking mess,” Ash said, his voice soft, pulling James’s gaze up. “My mom and my aunt get into a screaming match about the right way to stuff a turkey every single year. My cousin drinks too much cheap wine and weed. It’s loud. It’s chaotic. It’s definitely not perfect.” He paused, his eyes finding James’s again, holding them. “But it’s real. Nobody’s pretending.”

James swallowed against a dry throat. He imagined a loud, messy house full of people yelling and laughing and being… real. It felt like a scene from a foreign film. His own house was a museum of polite smiles and conversations that skimmed the surface like dragonflies on a pond, terrified to ever break the tension and sink.

“Must be nice,” James said, the words coming out small and tight, stolen by the lump in his throat.

“It is,” Ash said, no judgment in his voice. Just simple agreement. “But that’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” James whispered.

“The point is you make your own. The warmth. The… whatever. It’s not about the tree or the bullshit music. It’s about finding a person. Or people. And just… being with them. Making a space where you don’t have to pretend.”

Ash’s hand, the one that had been waiting patiently on the table, moved. It covered James’s.

The contact wasn't a spark. It was a circuit closing.

James gasped, a tiny, hitched sound. His first instinct was to pull away, to retreat back into his cold, safe shell. But he couldn’t. His muscles wouldn’t obey. Ash’s hand was heavy, solid, and impossibly warm. His fingers were rough against the back of James’s skin, a grounding, undeniable friction.

He didn't pull away. He didn't move at all. He just sat there, frozen, his heart pounding a frantic, painful rhythm against his ribs.

Ash’s thumb began to trace a slow, lazy circle on the back of his hand. The simple, repetitive motion was hypnotic. Overwhelming. Each slow drag of skin on skin seemed to erase a line of tension in James’s body, smoothing out the frantic energy inside him.

“It’s all just… fake,” James breathed, the confession torn out of him by the unexpected tenderness of the gesture. “The lights are just there so you forget how dark it is. The whole thing is a lie to make people feel less alone for a couple of weeks.” He hated the tremor in his voice, the raw, pathetic vulnerability of it.

“Or maybe,” Ash murmured, his voice a low thrum that James felt all the way down his spine, “it’s a way to fight the dark. A way to prove it can’t win.” His fingers shifted, sliding between James’s, his palm pressing firmly against his. An undeniable, deliberate intertwining. A claiming.

James’s breath hitched again. A fresh wave of heat washed over him, prickling at his skin, flushing his face. He felt exposed. Stripped bare. But under the terror was something else. Something he hadn’t felt in so long he’d forgotten its name. Safety.

He stared at their joined hands. Ash’s fingers were laced through his, a perfect, solid fit. He slowly, hesitantly, lifted his gaze to Ash’s face.

A small, ghost of a smile was playing on Ash’s lips. It wasn’t a happy smile, exactly. It was something quieter, more knowing. It reached his eyes, making the corners crinkle. He was just watching James, waiting. So fucking patient.

“What if,” Ash said, his voice barely above a whisper, leaning in just enough that James could feel the warmth of his breath ghost across his cheek. “We just ditch the bullshit?”

James’s mind went blank. “What?”

“The performance. The script. All of it.” Ash’s grip tightened, a silent reassurance. “What if you just… came with me?”

The offer hung in the air, simple and massive. Come with me. Not to a party. Not to meet a family. Just… with him. Away from this. Into the warmth. The implication was a terrifying, dizzying drop.

James looked from Ash’s searching eyes, down to his lips, and back again. The pull was a physical force, a gravitational field he had no defense against. Everything in him, every self-protective instinct he’d spent years sharpening into a weapon, was screaming. *Let go. Get up. Run out into the cold, familiar loneliness of the night. It’s safer.*

But he didn't.

His own fingers, almost of their own accord, curled slightly, tightening their grip on Ash’s hand. It was a tiny movement. A fragile response. A surrender.

But it was an answer.

Ash saw it. Of course, he saw everything. A slow, genuine smile finally broke across his face, and it transformed him. It was like the sun coming out after a week of gray, unrelenting rain.

“Okay,” Ash breathed out, the word full of relief and something that sounded suspiciously like triumph. He squeezed James’s hand one last time, a brief, possessive pressure. “Okay. Finish your shitty coffee. We’re leaving.”

The diner lights hummed. The snow swirled outside the window, a frantic, silent dance. But inside their small booth, the world had shrunk to the space of a tabletop, to the overwhelming, terrifying, and desperately needed warmth of Ash’s hand holding his. And for the first time in a long time, James felt a flicker of something that wasn’t dread when he thought about the next few hours. It was fragile, and it was terrifying, but it wasn't loneliness. And right now, that was everything.