"You know, I don't think you've ever visited me for anything less than business on this side of the bridge."
You lean against the doorway of your brownstone, a teasing smile on your face.
Ben Stone shrugs his shoulders before ascending the steps, meeting you on the second stair from the top, his tall frame blocking the street.
"There's a Wednesday in your office that would beg to differ, my dear."
There's a moment of soft laughter between the two of you while you step aside to let him in.
"How's Pamela and Peter?"
"She's at a sleepover that will consist of noisemakers and staying up far too late, I'm sure. Peter's convinced he can stay up to see the ball drop with his aunt."
It strikes you just how much he seems to fit. His signature waistcoat hanging up behind the door, the way he stands in your living room waiting for you to join him and his blue sweater and jeans combo that rivals your own. He looks so tall in your living room, even next to the big tree, but he looks like he's supposed to be there (because he is).
Ben's hand slides around your wrist as you walk past, gently tugging you into him.
"Now," he begins, that little drawl of his peeking out in a low tone, "as much as I love our Tuesday mornings, there is room for dinner on my calendar next year."
"That sounds lovely," you answer, eyeing the ticking clock.
The sudden cheer from your neighbors caught you off guard, but you settle in as Ben's finger slide under your chin, lifting just enough to meet your lips.
"Happy New Year."
