Not in the way it used to be—movie nights, yelling over video games, Nick screaming about something dumb Matt said. That kind of loud felt alive.
This loud felt… hollow.
You sat on the edge of your bed, phone face down beside you, staring at nothing in particular. The ceiling had a crack shaped like a lightning bolt—you’d noticed it years ago, back when things didn’t feel like they were slowly falling apart.
Downstairs, you could hear Chris laughing. Nick chimed in, dramatic as always. Matt said something quieter, but it still made them laugh harder.
They sounded normal.
That was the worst part.
Because you weren’t.
You pulled your hoodie sleeves over your hands, tucking your fingers away like if you hid enough of yourself, maybe everything else would disappear too.
I’ve been having a hard time adjusting…
You didn’t even remember when things started slipping. It wasn’t one big moment—it was a hundred tiny ones. Missed calls. Ignored texts. “I’m just tired” turning into “I don’t want to be here.”
A soft knock broke through your thoughts.
“Hey,” Matt’s voice. Gentle. Careful. “Can I come in?”
You hesitated.
Not because you didn’t want him there—but because you didn’t know how to be okay in front of him.
Still, you forced out, “Yeah.”
The door creaked open, and he stepped in slowly, like you might shatter if he moved too fast.
He looked at you for a second too long.
You hated that look.
“What?” you muttered.
“Nothing,” he said quickly, sitting down on the floor across from you instead of the bed. Like he didn’t want to crowd you. “You’ve just… been up here a lot.”
You shrugged. “So?”
“So…” He picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. “We miss you.”
We.
That word hit harder than it should’ve.
“I’m literally here,” you said, a little sharper than you meant to.
Matt nodded, but didn’t argue.
“That’s not what I meant.”
Silence stretched between you. Heavy. Familiar.
You wanted to explain it—to tell him that your brain felt like it was constantly running and completely stuck at the same time. That even getting out of bed felt like climbing something impossible.
But the words wouldn’t come out right.
They never did.
“I’m trying,” you said instead, barely above a whisper.
Matt looked up immediately.
And for a second, you wished you hadn’t said it—because now it was real. Now someone else knew.
“I know,” he said.
You blinked. “You don’t—”
“I do.” His voice was still soft, but steadier now. “Maybe not exactly how you feel. But I know you’re trying.”
Your throat tightened.
Because that was the whole thing, wasn’t it?
You were trying.
And it still didn’t feel like enough.
Downstairs, Nick yelled something about ordering food. Chris shouted back. The world kept moving.
But up here, in your room, everything felt paused.
Matt leaned back against the wall, not pushing, not fixing—just staying.
And for the first time all day, the silence didn’t feel quite as heavy.
Summary: Zoe meets Matt through Madison at a party, and they instantly click, sharing a soft connection.
The first time Zoe met Matt, it wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
Madison had dragged her to a small get-together at a friend’s place in L.A., promising it would be “lowkey” and “not overwhelming.” Zoe should’ve known better. The house was warm, music echoing through dim hallways, voices layered over bass.
“Just relax,” Madison whispered, squeezing her hand. “You’ll like him.”
“Like who?” Zoe asked.
Madison didn’t answer. She was already waving someone over.
Matt crossed the room like he hadn’t even noticed the noise. Dark curls slightly messy, hoodie sleeves pushed up, eyes scanning—until they landed on her.
And for a second, everything actually quieted.
Zoe would later swear the world slowed down. The lights blurred. The music dulled. It felt exactly like the lyric she’d replayed in her head a hundred times before:
“This night is sparkling”
And it was. Not because of the party. Not because of the city lights through the window.
Because he was looking at her like she was the only thing in the room.
“Zoe,” Madison said, nudging her forward. “This is Matt.”
He smiled—soft, not the camera-ready grin she’d seen online. Real. Nervous, even.
“Hi,” he said, like he’d forgotten every other word in existence.
“Hi,” she managed back.
There was this awkward, fragile pause. The kind that could either crumble or turn into something.
It turned into something.
They ended up on the balcony, away from the crowd. The air was cooler, quieter. Zoe leaned against the railing, heart pounding way harder than it should for someone she’d known for all of ten minutes.
“You don’t really like these things, do you?” Matt asked gently.
She laughed. “Is it that obvious?”
“A little,” he said. “You keep looking like you’re planning your escape route.”
“I was,” she admitted.
He smiled again. “Don’t. I’m glad you stayed.”
That did something to her chest.
They talked about stupid things at first—favorite movies, the worst fan encounters, Madison’s chaotic driving. But then it shifted. It always does, when two people click like that.
He told her about the pressure of being watched all the time. She told him about feeling invisible in rooms like this. He listened. Really listened.
And when he looked at her, it wasn’t distracted. It wasn’t performative. It was careful.
Like he was memorizing her.
By the time someone slid the balcony door open and yelled that they were starting some drinking game inside, Zoe felt dizzy in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol.
Inside, the music was louder now. People were dancing. Laughing. Matt stayed close to her—not touching, just… near. Like he didn’t want to lose her in the crowd.
At one point, Madison grabbed Zoe’s arm and pulled her aside.
“So?” she demanded, eyes sparkling.
Zoe tried to play it cool. Failed miserably. “He’s—” She stopped, pressing her lips together. “He’s different.”
Madison’s smile faltered just slightly.
“What?” Zoe asked, stomach tightening.
Madison hesitated. “I mean… yeah. He is. Just don’t overthink it, okay?”
Overthink what?
Zoe’s chest filled with something uneasy.
When she found Matt again, he was laughing at something someone else said. A girl stood a little too close to him. Her hand brushed his arm like it had done it before.
Zoe told herself it didn’t matter.
She’d known him for maybe two hours.
Still, something sharp pressed under her ribs.
Matt caught her staring. His smile softened when he saw her. He excused himself immediately and walked over.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she lied.
His brows pulled together. “Did I do something?”
“No. I just—” She almost laughed at herself. “This is stupid. I don’t even know you.”
“Then get to know me,” he said quietly.
Her heart stuttered.
But the girl from earlier was watching. Waiting.
Zoe swallowed. “Are you… seeing someone?”
The question hung between them, fragile and terrifying.
Matt hesitated.
It was barely a second. But it was enough.
“Not—” he started. “It’s complicated.”
Of course it was.
Zoe nodded like she understood. Like it didn’t feel like the floor had shifted under her feet.
Complicated meant history. Complicated meant unfinished. Complicated meant she would be the one who got hurt.
Music swelled again, and for a moment she thought she might cry, which was ridiculous. She didn’t cry over boys she’d just met.
But this wasn’t just some random guy.
This was the kind of connection people wrote songs about.
And all she could hear in her head was:
“Please don’t be in love with someone else”
Matt stepped closer. “Zoe.”
She looked up at him. His eyes were searching, almost panicked.
“I’m not,” he said quickly. “I’m not in love with anyone.”
“But?”
He exhaled slowly. “There’s just… history. And people assume things. And sometimes it’s easier to not correct them.”
Her throat tightened. “So what am I supposed to be?”
He didn’t answer right away.
That scared her more than anything.
She took a step back, needing space before she embarrassed herself.
“I don’t want to be another complicated thing,” she said softly. “I don’t want to feel stupid for thinking this—” She gestured between them. “—was something.”
“It is something,” he said immediately. Too fast. Too sure.
His hand brushed hers, tentative. Electricity shot up her arm.
“I’ve never felt this before,” he admitted, voice barely audible over the music. “Not like this. You walked in and I just—” He shook his head, frustrated. “I don’t even know how to explain it.”
Her pulse was loud in her ears.
“Then explain it,” she whispered.
He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth from his skin.
“It feels like if you walk out that door tonight,” he said, “I’m going to spend weeks wishing I’d said more. Done more. Asked for your number sooner.”
Her breath caught.
“Then ask,” she said.
For a split second, neither of them moved.
Then he smiled slow, relieved, almost disbelieving.
“Can I see you again, Zoe?”
The way he said her name felt like a promise.
The party noise faded again. The complications, the girl, the assumptions—they were still there. Still messy. Still real.
But so was this.
Zoe nodded.
And when their fingers finally intertwined, it didn’t feel complicated.
The kitchen looked like a war zone.
Flour everywhere. Mixing bowls stacked in ways that defied logic. A suspiciously burned tray sitting on the counter like evidence of a crime.
And in the middle of it all — Chris, holding a wooden spoon like a weapon.
“Okay,” Zoe said, hands on her hips, surveying the mess. “Be honest — what happened here?”
Chris looked up, eyes wide, face smudged with flour. “I was following the recipe!”
“Following the recipe doesn’t explain why the mixer’s in the sink,” she said, trying not to laugh.
“It attacked me first,” he said defensively, pointing the spoon at her like he was making a serious accusation.
Zoe snorted. “It attacked you?”
“Yes!” he insisted. “I was adding the eggs and it— it just exploded!”
That was it — Zoe doubled over laughing, her voice echoing through the kitchen. Chris tried to look offended, but his grin betrayed him.
“You think this is funny?” he asked, stepping closer.
“Very,” she giggled, wiping a tear from her eye. “You’re like the world’s most dramatic baker.”
“Oh yeah?” he said, eyebrow raised. “You think you can do better?”
Zoe smirked. “Absolutely.”
Challenge accepted.
Within minutes, they were both in aprons. She showed him how to actually measure flour without dumping half the bag in, and he mocked her “serious baker face” every chance he got.
It was going well — until it wasn’t.
“Did you— did you just put salt instead of sugar?” she asked slowly.
Chris froze, staring at the bowl. “...maybe?”
Zoe blinked. “You maybe ruined the dough?”
He winced. “It’s… character flavor?”
She groaned, laughing despite herself. “You’re unbelievable.”
Chris grinned. “Unbelievably cute, though.”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight her smile. “You’re lucky you are, or I’d make you eat those.”
“Oh, I’ll eat them,” he said confidently, grabbing a spoonful of dough before she could stop him. He froze mid-bite, grimacing. “Okay, that was definitely salt.”
Zoe burst out laughing, clutching the counter for balance. “I told you!”
He made a face but started laughing too, leaning against her. “Fine. You win. I’ll stick to decorating cookies instead of baking them.”
Ten minutes later, they were sitting at the counter with mugs of hot cocoa and a plate of slightly burned, oddly shaped cookies — half of which looked more like blobs than trees.
Zoe picked one up and smiled. “You know,” she said, “for a total disaster, this is kinda perfect.”
Chris shrugged, bumping her shoulder lightly. “I told you — I work best in chaos.”
She grinned. “You mean we work best in chaos.”
He smiled, brushing a bit of flour from her cheek. “Yeah,” he said softly. “You make the messes worth it.”
And as they clinked cookies together like a toast, laughing again, Zoe realized she didn’t really care that the kitchen was a wreck — because the best part of the day was right in front of her.
Snow was falling hard outside, wind pressing against the windows, but inside, the world felt still. The fire crackled quietly, throwing soft orange light across the cabin’s wooden walls.
Zoe sat curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over her legs, a mug of cocoa warming her hands. Chris was sprawled out beside her, one arm resting along the back of the couch, the other holding his phone as he scrolled through playlists.
“You’re seriously still trying to find the perfect Christmas song?” she asked, smiling over her mug.
He glanced up at her, smirking. “Yeah. It’s a big responsibility. The vibe has to be right.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’ve skipped, like, ten songs already.”
“Because none of them were fireplace-worthy,” he said, gesturing toward the flames.
She laughed. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe,” he said with a grin, “but you’re the one stuck with me.”
Zoe shook her head, but her smile didn’t fade. “Lucky me.”
He caught that — the quiet affection in her voice and his grin softened into something gentler. Without saying anything, he set his phone aside and shifted a little closer, the blanket brushing both of them now.
For a few moments, neither spoke. The fire popped softly, and the shadows danced across the room.
Chris tilted his head, his voice low. “Y’know… this might be my favorite part of winter.”
“The fire?” she asked.
He shook his head. “You. Sitting here. Like this.”
Zoe looked over, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity in his tone. “You’re being soft tonight,” she teased, her voice barely above a whisper.
He smirked faintly. “Don’t get used to it.”
She leaned against him anyway, her head resting on his shoulder. “Too late.”
He chuckled softly, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her a little closer. The heat from the fireplace mixed with the warmth of his touch — comforting, familiar.
After a moment, Zoe murmured, “I like this side of you.”
“What side?”
“The calm one,” she said. “The one that doesn’t have to be the loudest person in the room.”
Chris laughed quietly. “You like me better when I shut up, huh?”
She smiled. “No. I like that I get to see both.”
That made him pause. His thumb brushed lightly along her arm, the gesture absent-minded but full of affection. “You always know how to make things sound real,” he said softly.
Zoe tilted her head up toward him, her eyes catching the flicker of the firelight. “Maybe because they are.”
He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at her — really looked at her — the glow of the flames reflecting in his eyes. Then he leaned in, his voice barely audible.
“C’mere.”
Their lips met in a kiss that was slow and warm, full of unspoken things — the kind of kiss that said I’m safe here without needing words.
When they pulled back, Zoe smiled softly. “See? Perfect Christmas song or not… this is a pretty good vibe.”
Chris laughed, brushing his nose against hers. “Yeah,” he whispered. “You’re kind of my favorite song anyway.”
The storm outside raged on, but neither of them noticed — not when the fire burned bright, and their quiet laughter filled the room, soft and steady as the flames.
It started as a simple mission: find the perfect ornament for their first Christmas tree together.
It should have been easy.
But nothing involving Matt Sturniolo and Grace ever went according to plan.
“Okay,” Grace said, clutching her coat tighter as they walked into the bustling holiday market. “We’re not leaving until we find the one.”
Matt grinned, eyes already darting around the stalls twinkling with fairy lights. “Define ‘the one.’”
“You’ll know it when you see it,” she said confidently.
“That’s not an answer,” he teased, bumping her shoulder.
“Maybe not,” she said, grinning. “But it’s true.”
They spent the next hour weaving through crowds, stopping at every booth
snowmen, stars, reindeer, even one shaped like a slice of pizza “That’s kind of us,” Matt argued, holding it up. “You love pizza.” “And you love chaos. Perfect combo,” she replied.
But still, nothing felt quite right.
“Maybe we’re too picky,” Grace said finally, sipping her hot chocolate. “It’s just an ornament.”
Matt looked at her, his voice soft. “Yeah, but it’s our first ornament.”
Something about the way he said it made her chest tighten — a quiet reminder that they were building something together, one small memory at a time.
They wandered a little farther, the market thinning out as snow began to fall softly around them. Then Matt suddenly stopped in front of a small booth tucked in the corner.
It wasn’t flashy — just a tiny table with hand-painted ornaments, each one unique.
“Hey,” he said, picking one up carefully.
Grace leaned closer. It was a simple glass globe, painted with a tiny cabin surrounded by trees — a golden moon above it, snow glittering like starlight.
Inside, a tiny wooden plaque read: Home isn’t a place. It’s who you’re with.
Grace’s smile softened. “Matt…”
He looked up at her, grinning. “Think we found it?”
She nodded. “Yeah. We did.”
They bought it, the vendor wrapping it gently in tissue paper. When they got back to the car, Matt turned the radio down and glanced at her.
“You know,” he said, “I wasn’t just saying that because it’s cute.”
Grace tilted her head. “Saying what?”
He smiled faintly. “That thing on the ornament. About home.”
Her heart fluttered. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said quietly, his fingers brushing hers. “You’re kind of it for me.”
Grace blinked, warmth blooming through her chest despite the cold outside. “You always know how to make me melt, don’t you?”
Matt laughed softly. “Only when I mean it.”
She leaned over and kissed him — soft and sweet, snow tapping lightly against the windshield like the world was applauding.
Later that night, they hung the ornament on their tree together. It wasn’t perfect — neither of them were — but as they stood there, hands intertwined, they both knew they’d found exactly what they were looking for.
Usually, Nick’s laugh echoed down the hallway, Chris’s music thumped faintly through the walls, and Matt’s voice carried from the kitchen as he teased everyone about not doing the dishes. But tonight, the only sound was the soft hum of the heater and the faint creak of footsteps—careful, cautious, like everyone was afraid to break something fragile.
Their little sister hadn’t left her room in hours.
Matt hovered outside her door, fingers brushing the faded paint. “Should I knock?” he whispered, glancing back at Nick and Chris.
Chris shook his head. “She didn’t answer me earlier.”
Nick chewed the inside of his cheek, worry carved into his expression. “We have to try again. She hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday.”
They all went quiet.
It had been three weeks since her best friend died. Three weeks since her world simply… stopped. The triplets had watched her fade like a dying lightbulb—still flickering, but weaker every day.
Nick knocked gently. “Sis? Can we come in?”
Silence.
Then a small, tired voice: “Yeah.”
Matt pushed the door open. Her room felt colder than the rest of the house. Blankets were piled around her like armor, and the soft instrumental of “Youth” by Daughter played from her speaker—her favorite song before everything shattered.
“You should eat something,” Chris said softly, approaching her bed. He wasn’t bossy, not now. His voice trembled like he didn’t want to scare her further. “Even a little.”
“I’m not hungry,” she murmured, eyes distant.
Nick sat on the floor beside her bed, knees to his chest. “We’re worried about you. Like… actually worried.”
She didn’t respond. Her gaze was fixed on the ceiling, unfocused, trapped in some memory they couldn’t reach.
Matt slowly handed her a water bottle. “You don’t have to talk about anything. Just… don’t disappear on us. Please.”
Her fingers brushed his, but she didn’t take it.
The music swelled, the lyrics soft and broken:
“And if you’re still breathing, you’re the lucky ones…”
Her breath hitched.
She curled in on herself, shoulders trembling—not loudly, not dramatically. Just the kind of quiet crying that punched the triplets in the chest because it was the sound of someone trying not to fall apart and failing.
Nick reached up and held her hand tightly. “We love you, okay? Nothing hurts too much for us to fix.”
But she only shook her head.
“Some things don’t get fixed,” she whispered.
The triplets looked at each other, helpless in a way they had never been before.
Chris wiped her cheek with his sleeve. “We’re not leaving you. Ever.”
She looked at them—really looked—and the exhaustion in her eyes was deeper than sleep could fix. It was grief that lived in the bones.
The song faded into the next verse:
“My youth is yours…”
She closed her eyes.
“I just want the pain to stop,” she whispered.
And that was the moment—small and quiet—that they realized what they were losing. Not all at once, but piece by piece, like sand slipping through their fingers.
Her room was colder than the night before.
Matt knocked. “Breakfast is ready—your favorite.”
No answer.
Chris tried next. “Come on, sis. We’ll eat with you.”
Still nothing.
Nick opened the door.
The room was still, the blankets rising and falling only slightly with her shallow breaths. She was alive, but faint—too faint. The triplets rushed to her side. Matt shook her gently while Chris called for help, voice breaking. Nick knelt beside her, holding her hand like it was the only thing tethering her to the world.
She didn’t wake.
The hospital room was quiet, lit with sterile white light. Machines beeped softly, a fragile rhythm. The triplets sat around her bed, each holding onto her like she might slip away if they let go.
Doctors said she’d stopped eating for too long. Her body was weak. She had collapsed in her sleep.
“She’s stable,” they said.
“But she’s not improving.”
The triplets stayed for days—reading to her, playing her music, telling stories, begging her to come back.
But she never opened her eyes again.
Her heartbeat slowed.
The machines grew quieter.
The world dimmed.
And to the sound of “Youth” playing softly from Nick’s phone, she slipped away—peacefully, quietly, like a candle burning out in an empty room.
The triplets stood outside the hospital, the winter wind cold against their cheeks.
Chris wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “We tried.”
Matt shook his head. “It wasn’t enough.”
Nick stared at the sky, voice cracking. “She wasn’t broken. She was hurting. And we didn’t see how bad it was.”
They stood together, three brothers held up by each other, grieving the sister they loved more than anything.
Grace woke up slowly the kind of slow where you’re warm and cozy and the world feels incredibly still. The early morning sun was peeking through the curtains, casting soft golden stripes across the room.
And right next to her, half-buried in the blanket, was Matt.
He was still asleep completely knocked out with one arm draped lazily over her waist like he was claiming her even in his dreams. His curls were a mess, falling over his forehead, and his lips were slightly parted in the softest, sleepiest way.
Grace smiled to herself.
He looked peaceful. Soft. Warm.
Magic.
She shifted a little, brushing her fingers gently through one of his curls, and Matt made a small noise something between a sigh and a grumble.
Then he blinked awake.
Slowly.
Sleepily.
Beautifully.
His eyes focused on her, and the moment he realized she was watching him, he gave her the softest morning smile.
The kind that melted her immediately.
“Hi,” he whispered, voice raspy from sleep.
“Morning,” she whispered back.
Matt stretched slightly but never moved his arm from her waist.
“Why’re you awake so early?” he mumbled.
“Why are you awake?” she teased.
He closed his eyes again. “Because you’re staring at me.”
“I was not.”
“You were,” he insisted, eyes still closed. “And I liked it. Keep doing it.”
Grace laughed quietly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Mm. And tired.”
He buried his face in her shoulder, his breath warm on her skin.
“But also really, really happy you’re here.”
Her heart tugged in that soft, warm way he always caused.
“Matt,” she whispered gently, brushing her fingers across his cheek, “you look really cute in the morning.”
His eyes opened again, slow and sleepy.
“You look pretty,” he mumbled instantly like it was a reflex.
She felt heat rush to her cheeks. “You haven’t even looked at me yet.”
“I don’t need to,” he answered, pulling her closer. “You’re always pretty.”
She playfully pushed his shoulder. “Stop being so cheesy.”
“Never,” he said, nuzzling into her neck. “Mornings make me soft.”
Grace kissed the top of his head, and he instantly tightened his hold around her like he was afraid she’d slip away.
After a moment, he shifted, lifting his head just enough to look at her properly messy curls, squinty eyes, half-asleep smile.
“You know what?” he whispered.
“What?”
He leaned in barely a couple of inches and kissed her.
Slow.
Warm.
Lingering.
A perfect morning kiss.
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers.
“This,” he murmured, “is the kind of morning magic I want every day.”
Grace’s voice was soft when she answered.
“Me too.”
Matt smirked sleepily, eyes drifting shut again.
“Good. ’Cause I’m not letting you leave this bed for at least another hour.”
“Matt—”
“Nope.”
He tightened his arms around her with a lazy grin.
“Cuddle time. Non-negotiable.”
She laughed, giving in completely, tucking herself against his chest as the golden morning light wrapped around them.
And just like that wrapped up in warmth, kisses, and sleepy smiles the world felt a little more magical.
