SUMMARY: You and Joe ended things just before summer began… you were okay. You said it enough times that it almost felt true. Until you ran into him again — unexpectedly, unfairly — in the same bookshop where it all once started. Christmas lights were already up… and suddenly, being okay didn’t feel so certain anymore.
a/n: i was just listening to sabrina's christmas album and this whole plotline wouldn't stop going round and round in my head... so i needed to write it. Not a lot of context needed. Love writing Joe being a bit messy you all know that already.
requests are open | masterlist
What were the odds?
Maybe higher than you’d ever wanted to admit to yourself.
Because yeah, London was a big city. Endless, loud, always moving. But apparently not big enough when it came to running into your ex at the exact same bookshop where everything had started three springs ago.
How fucking cliché.
The place was dressed for Christmas now — warm lights strung between shelves, a small tree near the counter, paper stars taped to the windows. Somewhere, low and tinny, a carol played through old speakers, almost apologetic about it.
Life had this annoying habit of proving that reality could outdo fiction whenever it felt like being cruel. So yeah. There he was.
Standing a few aisles down, flipping through a book like his heart wasn’t about to rip straight through his chest. Looking unfairly good — enough that yours clenched, sharp and immediate, like it had been waiting for this moment to ambush you.
You’d spent the last month convincing yourself you were over him. That you were fine. That you’d accepted his decision and moved on like a functional adult. All of it collapsed the second you caught sight of him.
Black jeans, just like always. A long grey coat. That checked scarf — earthy tones, warm, familiar. Something you’d seen a hundred times, something your hands knew better than your brain ever had.
Six months meant nothing, apparently.
You didn’t move. Your body stayed rooted between the fiction and poetry sections, hands tightening around a book you hadn’t actually been reading. Outside, someone laughed. A bell chimed as the door opened, letting in cold air and the smell of cinnamon from somewhere down the street.
Your mind didn’t ask permission before drifting.
You saw him in your kitchen, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration like he was doing something serious instead of cooking dinner after you’d come home exhausted. Christmas lights had been half up already, tangled, unfinished.
I’ve got you, he’d said that night, handing you a glass of wine.
Your chest tightened.
Then the weight of him in the middle of the night. The way he always found you in his sleep, arm slipping around your waist, nose pressed into your hair. The heat of him grounding you. Safe, perfectly safe.
And then — the doorway… His coat on. Keys in hand.
I can’t do this right now. Not I don't love you.
I’m overwhelmed. I need space. I don’t know how to be what you need.
The words still lived somewhere deep. You felt them echo now, between shelves stacked with stories that all seemed easier than yours.
You swallowed.
For a second, you thought about walking over. Saying hi. Letting the season do some of the work for you. Christmas made people softer, braver. Or maybe just more reckless.
Your feet didn’t move. Because you already knew how it would go. The look in his eyes. The sound of his voice. The way everything would crack open again under the warm lights and the quiet music.
So you stayed where you were. You let the moment stretch. Let it hurt. Because sparing yourself the ache felt like the only smart choice you could make.
-
He noticed you before you noticed him.
You were standing near the front table, half-hidden behind a stack of holiday editions, the glow of fairy lights catching in your hair. Real. Solid. Not a ghost.
He didn’t move. He waited. To see if you’d look up. If you’d find him across the aisle. If you’d walk over like the space between you hadn’t once been a whole life.
The bookshop felt too warm all of a sudden. The smell of paper and pine and something sweet in the air. Someone flipped pages nearby. A child tugged on their mother’s coat, pointing at a snow globe by the register.
And then the memories came.
Your laugh when he leaned too hard into being a dork, just to get that sound out of you. The way you’d roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself.
Your softness after his longest shoots — quiet nights, your hands on his chest, reminding him to breathe.
The tone in your voice when you scolded him for forgetting to separate colors from whites, standing in front of the washing machine like this mattered. It had. Everything with you had.
Leaving hadn’t been easy. It had been the hardest decision he’d made in years.
He’d felt like he was drowning. Work, expectations, the constant sense of failing someone he loved. And at some point, staying had started to feel like lying.
So he’d walked away. Not because he wanted to. Because he hadn’t known how else to keep going. Watching you now, under soft lights and fake snow taped to the windows, he wondered if he’d been wrong.
You still hadn’t noticed him and part of him hoped you wouldn’t. Because Christmas or not, he wasn’t sure he could walk away twice.
And then… you moved.
At first, it was barely anything. Just a shift of weight. A book sliding back into place. Your body angling toward the door.
And something in him snapped.
Not loudly or dramatically. Just a sudden, very clear certainty that if you walked out now, he would let you go. Again. And that thought felt unbearable in a way he wasn’t prepared for.
He started toward you, then stopped. Too slow. Too late. You were already stepping around a couple near the front, coat half on, attention elsewhere.
His heart kicked hard against his ribs.
This wasn’t how he did things. He thought. He hesitated. He chose the reasonable option and lived with the consequences. He didn’t draw attention. He didn’t make scenes.
But he also didn’t think he could watch you disappear.
“Hey—” Too soft it got lost to the music and the murmurs.
You were closer to the door now. The bell above it swayed slightly as someone else came in, letting in a gust of cold air.
“Hey,” he tried again, louder this time. Still not enough.
And then he said your name.
Not shouted. But clear. Unmistakable. Loud enough that the woman by the counter looked up, that a couple of heads turned… Loud enough that the whole bookshop seemed to hold its breath for half a second.
Your name didn’t sound careful when it left his mouth. It sounded desperate. Honest. Like he hadn’t meant to say it that way but couldn’t stop himself.
The moment it was out there, his stomach dropped. This was it. No thinking.. no rehearsing. Just feeling.
-
You froze.
For half a second, you weren’t even sure you’d heard it right. Your name, cutting through the soft music and the murmur of voices. Too clear to be a coincidence.
You turned instantly.
He was standing there, a few metres back, shoulders tense, eyes locked on you like he’d just jumped without checking if there was ground underneath.
It was… strange. Almost funny. This wasn’t him. Not the careful version you knew. Not the man who measured his words, who left because staying felt impossible.
And yet — your chest fluttered.
Because if he’d done that, if he’d said your name out loud in a room full of people, then it had to mean something. It had to.
You hesitated, then took the last few steps toward the door. The bell above it chimed softly as you stopped beneath it, cold air brushing your ankles. You didn’t leave. You just… waited.
When he reached you, it was too fast. Like he’d forgotten the space between you could still hurt. He came to a stop at your side, breath uneven, eyes searching your face like he’d lost his thoughts somewhere between the shelves.
You smiled. Small. A little sheepish. Unsure of what to feel.
“Hi,” you said.
He blinked, like he’d forgotten the script entirely.
“Hi,” he echoed.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The bookshop went on around you — pages turning, someone coughing, the counter bell ringing — and yet it felt like you were standing in a pocket of silence, exposed and slightly ridiculous.
You both just stood there. Right in the doorway. Half in, half out. People squeezed past, coats brushing your arm, the bell chiming every few seconds like it was politely trying to move you along.
“So…,” you said, then stopped. The word went nowhere.
He nodded, like that had been a full sentence. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t know you still came here,” he said finally, glancing around the shop, as if that was safer than looking at you.
“I don’t. Not really,” you replied. “I just— I was nearby.”
“Right.” He shifted his weight. “Makes sense.”
It didn’t. You both knew it didn’t.
A couple waited behind you, clearly wondering if you planned on living there now. You stepped a little closer to the door, then hesitated, still not leaving.
He noticed. Of course he did.
“It’s… busy,” he said, gesturing vaguely, like he’d just discovered the concept of doors. “We’re kind of— in the way.”
You huffed a small, surprised laugh. “Yeah. We are.”
The silence then felt different, less sharp.
“I, uh,” he started, then stopped, like he’d scared himself. He cleared his throat. “Do you— are you in a rush?”
You shook your head, slower this time. “No. I was just… going home.”
He nodded. Thought for half a second too long.
“There’s that place you loved just a few blocks away,” he said. Casual. Almost careless. “The one with the cold brew you always complain is too strong but still finish.”
Your chest did that stupid thing again.
“You remember that?” you asked, before you could stop yourself.
He smiled. Small and a little crooked.
“Yeah. I remember.”
The bell chimed behind you. Another impatient shuffle.
“I have time,” he added quickly, then softened it. “If you do.”
You hesitated. Long enough to feel the risk of it, to imagine how easy it would be to say no and walk away with your heart intact.
But you didn’t.
“Okay,” you said, quieter. “Coffee sounds… okay.”
Relief crossed his face before he could hide it.
“Yeah?” he asked, like he needed confirmation.
“Yeah.”
So you stepped outside together, the cold air rushing in, the bookshop door finally closing behind you.
You walked side by side, close enough to feel him there, not close enough to touch.
The street was louder than the bookshop had been. Christmas everywhere now — lights strung overhead, shop windows glowing gold, people moving in pairs and groups, arms linked, scarves tangled, laughter spilling out onto the pavement. Someone bumped into you and apologized too brightly. Somewhere, a busker played something cheerful and slightly out of tune.
It felt wrong to be this quiet in the middle of it.
“So,” he said after a moment, clearing his throat. “You… still live nearby?”
“Yeah,” you replied. “Same place.”
He nodded. “Right. Nice area.”
You almost laughed. Almost.
A few steps passed in silence. Your breath fogged in front of you, disappearing just as fast.
“And you?” you asked. “How 's work?”
He huffed softly. “Crazy. As always”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
He shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, shoulders tense. “It’s been busy. You know how these things are.”
“I do, yes.” you said, even though it didn’t mean anything.
A group of people crossed in front of you, arms full of shopping bags, talking over each other. You slowed instinctively. He slowed too, matching your pace without looking at you.
Something in your chest shifted.
The pavement narrowed. For a second, you had to walk closer. Your sleeve brushed his coat. The contact was brief, accidental — and still, your body reacted like it had been waiting for permission.
You didn’t look at him. Neither did he.
“Cold,” you said, because you had to say something.
He let out a small breath of a laugh. “Yeah. Definitely.”
Another stretch of quiet. Not awkward exactly. Just full.
You passed a café window fogged up from the inside, people crowded around small tables, hands wrapped around mugs. The smell of coffee and something sweet followed you for a few steps before fading.
“You always hated this time of year,” he said suddenly, then froze. “I mean — the crowds.”
You glanced at him. He was watching the street, not you.
“I still do,” you said. “But I like the lights.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”
You walked on, the café just ahead now.
Neither of you mentioned the six months or why this felt heavier than it should. And yet, with every step, it became harder to imagine turning around.
You’d barely made it halfway the way when you noticed it. He slowed, fished something out of his coat pocket, then stopped under the excuse of checking his phone. The little metallic glint gave him away.
“You still smoke?” you asked, before you could think better of it.
He looked up, caught. Then grimaced. “I don’t—” He sighed. “It’s a vaper.”
You snorted. “That’s worse.”
“It’s not worse,” he protested, immediately defensive. “It’s progress.”
“Progress would be quitting,” you said, shaking your head. “This is just… flavored regret.”
He laughed. Actually laughed. The sound startled both of you.
“Wow,” he said. “You haven’t changed at all.”
“You say that like it’s an insult.”
“It’s not.” He hesitated, then added, softer, “It’s nice… familiar.”
The word settled between you.
You walked on, the street opening up, lights blinking overhead. Someone was dragging a Christmas tree down the pavement, needles trailing behind them like evidence.
“Do you remember last Christmas,” you said suddenly, surprising yourself, “when you almost burned my kitchen down?”
He groaned immediately. “I did not almost burn it down.”
“You set off the smoke alarm.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
The way you were looking at him was enough to make him laugh while rubbing a hand over his face.
“Okay, fine.. But in my defense, chocolate lava cakes are deceptively dangerous.”
“You had one job,” you said. “And we almost had to call emergency services.”
“They were still good,” he argued. “You ate two.”
“You emotionally manipulated me into eating them.”
“See?” He smiled at you then, real and unguarded. “Teamwork.”
Your chest tightened. Not painfully, just… quietly.
For a few steps, neither of you spoke. The café was closer now, its windows glowing, but it didn’t feel like a finish line anymore.
“I can’t believe you remembered that,” he said.
You shrugged. “Hard to forget almost dying.”
He shook his head, still smiling. “You were so mad at me.”
“I was terrified,” you corrected. “And you were standing there, covered in chocolate, acting like it was a personal attack.”
“Because it was,” he said. “That oven had it out for me.”
You laughed — softer this time. Less surprised.
And for a moment, walking beside him under the lights, it almost felt easy. Like the six months were something thin you could step over, not a wall you’d crashed into.
Almost.
-
The café was warm in that slightly suffocating way, fogged windows and coats piled on chair backs. Christmas pressed in from every corner: a crooked garland over the counter, a tinny version of a carol playing too softly to be festive, too loudly to ignore. The place smelled like coffee and sugar and damp wool.
You ordered without thinking. Cold brew. He didn’t comment. Just nodded, like that was a little part about you he still kept.
You ended up at a small table near the window. Too close. Knees almost touching. You noticed but you didn’t move them.
“So,” he said, wrapping his hands around his cup like he needed the heat. “Are you still doing that thing where you pretend you’re going to bed early and then stay up reading until two?”
You blinked. “You used to hate that.”
“I hated that you complained about being tired the next day,” he corrected. “The reading part was… kind of hot.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself. The sound surprised you. It sounded normal… too normal.
He smiled at that, slow and easy, like it was a reflex his body remembered even if his head hadn’t caught up yet.
You talked about work. About mutual friends you’d both half-lost touch with. About a show you’d started watching and never finished because it reminded you too much of him — you didn’t say that part. He told a story about a nightmare shoot day, exaggerated just enough to make you roll your eyes.
“You always do that,” you said. “I’m sure it wasn’t that dramatic.”
“It absolutely was.”
“You spilled coffee on yourself and blamed the universe.”
He shrugged. “The universe had it coming.”
You shook your head, smiling into your cup. Your chest felt light.
At some point, he leaned back in his chair, relaxed. Comfortable. Like he hadn’t once stood in your doorway and broken your heart with careful words and good intentions.
And that’s when it hit you.
How easy this was.
How your body wasn’t braced for impact. How your laugh came without effort. How his presence didn’t feel like a stranger’s — it felt like slipping into an old sweater you’d never thrown away.
A quiet resentment stirred beneath the warmth.
Because if it was this simple — if you could sit here, six months later, talking about nothing, feeling okay — then what had all that pain been for?
You looked at him then. He was smiling as he spoke, big brown eyes bright, animated, alive in a way you hadn’t seen toward the end.
And suddenly, the memory rose uninvited: him telling you this was for the best. For both of you. Like he was doing you a favor. Like love hadn’t been enough because he hadn’t known how to stay.
You wrapped your hands tighter around your cup.
“Are you okay?” he asked, noticing the shift. Of course he fucking noticed.
“Yeah,” you said quickly. Automatically. “Just hot.”
A lie. A small one. Just because it was easier than the truth.
He nodded, accepting it the same way he used to accept your bad moods — without pushing. Without asking for more. And somehow, that hurt too.
Outside, people hurried past under the lights, arms full, lives intact. Inside, you sat across from the man who had left you and somehow still knew exactly how you took your coffee.
It was dangerously normal.
-
You didn’t realize how late it was until the café started thinning out.
Cups were cleared. Chairs scraped softly against the floor. Outside, the light had shifted into that deep, early darkness December does so well. You’d stopped checking the time somewhere between laughing about the chocolate cake and arguing about whether Die Hard counted as a Christmas movie.
“It’s… late,” you said eventually, glancing at your phone like it had betrayed you.
“Yeah,” he agreed. He didn’t move to stand. Neither did you.
“So,” he said, casual again, almost too casual. “Have you… decorated yet?”
The question caught you off guard.
You hesitated, just enough to be honest. “Not really.”
He frowned slightly. “Really?”
You shrugged. “I took the box out of the cupboard. That’s about it.”
He smiled, soft but knowing. “You love decorating.”
“I love decorating with help,” you corrected. “Turns out doing it alone feels a bit… sad.”
The word slipped out before you could soften it.
He didn’t joke this time. Just nodded slowly, like he understood more than he was letting on.
“I didn’t decorate either,” he admitted. “Didn’t even buy a tree.”
You looked at him. “You always bought the tree.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “Didn’t feel right.”
Something warm and dangerous settled between you.
You stood first, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I should probably head home.”
“Yeah,” he said, standing too quickly. “I can—” He stopped himself. Restarted. “I can walk you, if that’s okay.”
You nodded. “Yeah. That’s okay.”
Your place was only a few blocks away. Close enough that the silence felt… heavier now. Something between familiar and domestic.
-
When you unlocked the door, the hallway light flickered on, revealing exactly what you’d left unfinished — a box half-pulled out from the closet, a strand of lights tangled on top like they’d given up waiting.
His gaze followed yours.
“You didn’t even get the tree out,” he said gently.
You exhaled. “I know.”
For a moment, neither of you moved. You could still say goodnight. Still choose this version of the evening.
Instead, he nodded toward the box. “Do you… want help?”
It wasn’t dramatic… It was just him, standing in your hallway, offering a hand.
You hesitated, even felt the risk but you stepped aside anyway.
“Okay,” you said. “But you’re untangling the lights. That was always your job.”
He smiled — small and real. “Fair.”
And just like that, coats came off. Shoes were kicked aside. The box was dragged into the living room.
You told yourself it was harmless. Just decorations, muscle memory. But as he knelt on the floor, lights spilling over his hands like they remembered him too, you realized this was worse than talking. It felt like home.
You sat on the floor too, cross-legged, pulling things out of the box one by one. Ornaments wrapped in old tissue paper. A star with one bent point. The cheap wooden reindeer you’d bought on impulse and never really liked but always put out anyway.
“Wow,” he said softly. “You kept everything.”
You shrugged. “Didn’t see a reason not to.”
That wasn’t the truth, but it was close enough.
He sighed as his hands untangled lights with the same concentration he used to give everything practical, tongue sticking out just a bit like an old habit. You watched his hands without meaning to. Familiar movements. Muscle memory you hadn’t erased.
The conversation shifted without either of you noticing. It wasn’t jokes anymore. It wasn’t safe small talk either. It hovered somewhere in between — careful, charged, like you were both aware that one wrong sentence could tip the night.
You stood to hang a strand of lights along the bookshelf, stretching up on your toes. He watched you for half a second too long before looking away.
“Do you want these here?” he asked.
“Yeah. That’s where we always—” You stopped yourself. “Where they usually go.”
He nodded. “Right.”
The silence then was thicker but then his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, frowned, then let out a quiet, surprised laugh.
“Huh.”
“What?” you asked, still holding the lights.
“I think my phone’s still connected to your Alexa.”
Your stomach dipped. “What?”
“Yeah,” he said, almost amused. “I haven’t been here in six months and it never disconnected.”
Of course it hadn’t. Before you could think too hard about it, he said, as if it was nothing:
“Alexa, play the Christmas playlist.”
For a second, nothing happened. Then—Last Christmas filled the room.
You groaned immediately. “You did that on purpose.”
“I absolutely did not,” he said, laughing. “It’s the first one every time. We never changed the order.”
“You said we should,” you reminded him. “You said it was emotionally manipulative.”
“And yet,” he said, shrugging, “here we are.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, and went back to the box. Tissue paper rustled. Ornaments clinked softly.
When Santa Tell Me started, he glanced at you. “You used to play this on repeat.”
“Because it’s fun.”
“It’s aggressive,” he corrected. “Festive, but aggressive.”
“You just don’t appreciate pop culture.”
He snorted. “I appreciate it. I just don’t trust it.”
You laughed, a real one, and he looked at you like he’d been waiting for that sound.
You handed him a strand of lights. “Here. Untangle, mister ‘I’m good with my hands.’”
“Oh, I remember this slander,” he said, sitting on the floor. “You said that once and never let it go.”
“It was accurate.”
When Let It Snow came on, the room felt quieter somehow. Softer. You stood on your toes to hang an ornament, and he stepped closer without comment, steadying the branch so it wouldn’t sway.
“You always do that,” you murmured.
“Do what?”
“Help without asking.”
He shrugged. “You never needed to.”
Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree followed, louder, brighter. He mock-danced in place, just enough to make you roll your eyes.
“Oh my god,” you said. “Please stop.”
“You loved this,” he teased.
“I loved you embarrassing yourself in private.”
“See? Compromise.”
You both laughed, breathless, the sound filling the room.
Then Snowman started. Your favorite. He noticed immediately. His movements slowed. His voice dropped when he spoke.
“This one,” he said. “You always went quiet during this one.”
You swallowed. “I like it.”
“I know,” he said gently. “I always thought it felt… fragile.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.
When Wonderful Christmastime came on, you were sitting on the couch, lights finally on, the tree glowing softly in the corner.
“This song is ridiculous,” you said.
“It’s iconic,” he replied.
“It’s nonsense.”
“It’s joyful nonsense.”
You leaned back, bumping his shoulder. “You say that about everything you like.”
He smiled. “Only the important things.”
Later, when you ordered food and ate cross-legged on the couch, the playlist kept looping. You talked about nothing. Work again. Wes' terrible dating life. Listed the reasons why The Holidays was probably the worst Christmas movie.
It was too damn easy, too familiar.
At one point, he reached over and wiped sauce off the corner of your mouth without thinking. His hand froze. Yours did too.
“Sorry,” he said quickly.
“It’s okay,” you replied, just as fast.
Neither of you moved away and the music played on. The lights hummed softly as if Christmas carried on without you while you both pretended this was normal. And somehow, pretending felt effortless.
Joe leaned back on his hands, eyes on the tree. The lights reflected in them, softening his face.
“This looks good,” he said. “You always did Christmas better than me.”
You smiled faintly. “Someone had to.”
He nodded, thoughtful. Too relaxed.
“I think,” he added, offhand, almost absentminded, “this is the first year it actually feels… quiet.”
The word landed wrong.
You turned to look at him. “Quiet?”
He didn’t notice. He kept going, unaware he’d stepped onto something fragile.
“Yeah. I mean—” he shrugged, searching for the thought, not the consequence. “Not bad quiet. Just… simpler. Less pressure.”
There it was: Simple. Less pressure. Your chest tightened, sudden and sharp.
You felt it before you understood it — the way your eyebrows pulled together, the small twitch at the corner of your mouth you could never quite control. Sadness rising fast, embarrassingly fast.
Joe saw it instantly. He stopped mid-breath.
“Oh,” he said quietly. “Hey— no, that’s not what I meant.”
But it was already too late. The room had shifted. You looked down at your hands. At the lights hanging on your shelf like something living.
“I think I need a minute,” you said.
Your voice was steady. That somehow made it worse. You walked out, too quickly, the motion almost abrupt.
“Wait. I didn’t—”
“I know,” you said, turning away before he could see your face properly. “I know you didn’t.”
That didn’t make it hurt less.
You walked toward the hallway and behind you, Joe stood frozen, panic blooming across his features.
He replayed the moment in his head, already knowing he couldn’t take it back. Already seeing it — the way your expression had changed, the way something closed off behind your eyes.
He followed you a few steps, then stopped, afraid of making it worse.
“I didn’t mean you,” he said helplessly, voice carrying down the hall. “I swear. I wasn’t talking about you.”
But you kept silent.
Joe ran a hand through his hair, heart pounding, surrounded by lights and music and the mess of something he’d broken without even touching it.
For the first time that night, the six months came rushing back in. And he had no idea how to stop everything from falling apart again.
He reached for his phone with shaking hands and muted it. The silence started pressing in on him immediately.
He dragged a hand down his face and let out a breath that sounded more like a laugh than it should have. His chest felt tight. The same way it had felt months ago, when he’d sat on the edge of his bed convincing himself he was doing the right thing.
Simpler. Less pressure. What the fuck had he been thinking?
This was the part he hated: the moment when someone he loved pulled away and he had no idea how to end the distance without hurting them again. Six months ago, this feeling had swallowed him whole.
Back then, he’d told himself leaving was kinder than staying half-present. That giving you space was better than failing you in slow motion. He’d wrapped his fear in logic and called it love.
And now here he was again — heart racing, fingers fidgeting with his ring, brain scrambling — watching something precious break because he’d spoken without thinking.
He sank onto the couch and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
Say something. Do something.
But Joe had never been good at fixing things in the moment. He overthought. He spiraled. He waited until it was too late and then hated himself for waiting.
He glanced at the tree. At the lights he’d untangled. The ornaments he’d placed like muscle memory had never left him. Proof of how easily he’d slipped back into a life he’d willingly walked out.
“This is exactly why you left,” he muttered to himself. “Because you ruin things.”
The thought hit him hard. Sharp and familiar. He stood abruptly, then stopped again, indecisive. He felt sixteen years old all of a sudden. Too many feelings and nowhere to put them.
He took a few steps toward the hallway, then hesitated.
He leaned his forehead against the wall, eyes closed, breathing uneven, heart pounding with the awful certainty that he was about to lose you again — not because he didn’t care, but because he cared and didn’t know how to show it without breaking something.
That’s exactly why he forced his brain to shut up and he moved instead. This time, for the first time in too many months, he didn’t plan thoughtfully. If he had, he would’ve talked himself out of it. Waited. Overthought. He would have let the silence drag on until it became permanent.
He walked down the hallway on instinct, heart in his throat, stopping just short of the doorway. The light from the kitchen spilled out, catching the edge of the counter, the sink. You stood there with your back to him, shoulders tight, hands braced against the surface like you were holding yourself together.
He swallowed.
“I didn’t mean that,” he said, too quickly and too loud. The words tripped over each other. “What I said. About it being quiet. I wasn’t— I didn’t mean you were pressure.”
You didn’t turn around. He pressed on, panic rising.
“You know I’m bad at— at saying things right. I always have been. And I know that’s not an excuse, I just—”
He stopped. Dragged a hand through his curls. His chest felt like it was caving in.
“When I said it felt simpler, I meant me,” he said, voice cracking despite his effort to keep it even. “I meant that without you I didn’t have to worry about disappointing anyone. About failing. And that’s not a good thing. That’s just… me being scared.”
Still, you didn’t move. The silence stretched and he laughed weakly.
“See? This is what I do. I come in and say the wrong thing and then try to explain it and just… make it worse.”
He leaned a hand against the doorframe, grounding himself.
“I left because I didn’t know how to stay without falling apart,” he said quietly. “And I thought if I did it cleanly, if I wrapped it up in something that sounded reasonable, it would hurt you less.” His voice dropped. “It didn’t.” He paused again. “I don’t know how to fix things in the moment,” he went on, softer now. “I freeze. Or I run. Or I talk until I mess it up beyond repair. And I’m doing it again, and I hate it.”
His eyes and his voice were begging at you to turn around and meet his gaze.
“I don’t want this to be another thing I walk away from because I’m afraid,” he said. “But I also don’t know how to make this okay without hurting you again.”
He let the words hang there, unfinished but messy and real.
“I’m sorry,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “I really am sorry.”
He waited then, heart pounding. Hands unsteady. Fully aware he might have just broken something fragile. And still — it was the most honest he’d been in months.
You stayed still for a moment longer. Your hands were resting on the counter, fingers spread, like if you moved them you might lose whatever fragile balance you’d found. His words were still hanging in the air behind you — a little clumsy but painfully sincere.
You took a breath and then you turned.
He was standing there like he didn’t trust the ground under his feet. Eyes too bright. Shoulders tense. Hope and dread tangled so tightly it was hard to tell them apart.
And something in you finally gave. Not all at once, or dramatically. Just… quietly.
Your eyes burned first. A sting you ignored out of habit. Then your vision blurred, and you blinked, confused, like this wasn’t supposed to be happening. One breath hitched. Then another.
Joe saw it immediately.
“Fuck—” he whispered, stepping forward without thinking. Then stopping himself. “Hey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” you said.
Your voice came out steady, which almost made it worse. Your face didn’t match it at all. A tear slipped down your cheek, slow and unhurried. Then another.
You didn’t wipe them away.
“I know you didn’t mean it,” you continued, swallowing. “That’s kind of the problem.”
He flinched like you’d hit something soft.
“I’m just… tired,” you said. The truth, finally. “I’m tired of understanding. Of translating. Of being the one who sees what you meant instead of what you did.”
Your eyebrows pulled together, that small crease between them you hated. The corner of your mouth twitched, betrayed you completely.
Joe’s chest tightened at the sight. He looked wrecked by it. Like he wanted to gather you up and didn’t trust himself to touch you at all.
“I loved you,” you said softly. “I didn’t need you to be perfect. I only needed you to stay.” The words didn’t accuse. They just… they were too honest. Tears kept falling but you laughed under your breath, embarrassed and broken all at once. “God. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.”
“I hate this,” he said quietly. “I hate that I just keep hurting you.”
You looked at him then, and there it was. Still there. The love, a bit bruised. Worn down but undeniable.
“I still love you,” you admitted, voice barely above a breath. “And that’s the part that hurts the most.”
Joe’s eyes filled instantly. He shook his head once, like he didn’t deserve the confession.
“I never stopped,” he said. “I just didn’t know how to do it without feeling like I would drown into it.”
You shook your head slightly, like you were embarrassed by your own reaction. “I didn’t—” Your voice broke. You stopped and tried again. “I didn’t want it to hit me like that.”
But the tears slipped free anyway. Joe took a step toward you, then stopped himself, unsure. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides.
“I’m just… so tired,” you said softly, wiping at your cheek, failing to stop the next tear. “I was okay, Joe. I worked really hard to be okay.”
He nodded, eyes glossy now. “I know.”
“And then you’re here,” you went on, voice unsteady but honest, “standing in my living room, putting lights on my tree like you never left. Like I didn’t spend months trying to put myself back together.”
“I still love you,” you said, the words falling out bare and unprotected. “I hate that I do sometimes. But I do. And when you say things like that— when it sounds like your life got easier without me— it just…” You gestured helplessly between you. “It makes everything feel small. Disposable.”
Joe’s face crumpled.
“No,” he said immediately. “God, no.”
He crossed the space between you then, slow, careful, like approaching something fragile but he didn’t touch you. Just stood close enough that you could feel his warmth.
“My life didn’t get easier,” he said, voice thick. “It just got emptier. And I convinced myself that was the same thing.”
You looked at him through tears, eyes searching his face despite you were afraid of what you might find in his eyes.
“I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you,” he continued. “I left because I didn’t know how to carry my fear without making it your problem. And instead of learning… I ran.”
Your shoulders sagged a little.
“I never wanted to be the thing you escaped from,” you whispered.
“You weren’t,” he said. “You were… the only thing I was too scared to lose.”
The silence that settled between you then wasn’t sharp but soft… aching.
Joe lifted a hand slowly, giving you time to stop him. When you didn’t, he brushed his thumb under your eye, wiping away a tear with a touch so gentle it almost made you start crying all over again.
You leaned into it without thinking.
And there it was: just two tired people, standing in a half-lit kitchen, crying quietly because love hadn’t gone anywhere, it had just been patiently waiting.
His thumb was still warm beneath your eye when you spoke. Your voice was still a bit shaky.
“I’m scared that this… this is just nostalgia” you said and his brow furrowed. “That we’re standing here because Christmas does this to people. Because the music is soft and the lights make everything gentler. Or because we know each other’s habits and it just feels safe to… I don't know, fall back into it.”
Joe stiffened, not pulling away, but alert. Like he knew better than to rush this part and you pushed on before he could interrupt.
“And then January comes. And life comes back. And you get overwhelmed again.” Joe flinched to that last beat. “I’m scared,” you continued, voice still low but steadier now, “that I let myself believe this means something — and I end up right back where I was. On the floor. Trying to convince myself I’ll survive you leaving twice.”
That landed, you could see it on his face. Joe closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, they were wet.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “Yeah.”
You looked up at him, surprised. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said again. “That’s… that’s my fear too. That I reach for you because it feels like oxygen, and then I panic when I realize how much I need it.” He exhaled shakily. “I’m scared I don’t know how to stay yet,” he admitted. “Not perfectly but… consistently.”
The word lingered between you. You nodded slowly.
“I don’t need perfect, Joe… I had never asked for that”
“I know,” he said. “But I need to learn how to not disappear when things get heavy. And I don’t know if I’ve proven that yet.” He paused for a second and the, softer, he added, “But I don’t want to run tonight.”
“Then don’t.” you replied.
Joe didn’t hesitate this time… he just wrapped his arms around you — not tight, not claiming. Just there and you let your forehead rest against his chest.
His heartbeat was fast and uneven.
“It’s okay,” you whispered, half to him, half to yourself.
And he softened. Not because the fear vanished, but because, for the first time, he had been able to speak his heart out and the world didn't feel like it shrinked or as if he was weak. It felt right, almost as relief.
Then you lifted your head because your neck hurt from holding it that way and somehow standing there was starting to feel unreal. Joe’s chin dipped at the same time, like he was about to say something he hadn’t figured out yet.
You were suddenly too close. Close enough that you could feel his breath change, that stepping back would’ve been obvious.
So when your lips touched — it wasn’t even a kiss. Just a soft and brief contact. And everything in you reacted before you could decide if it was a good idea.
Your stomach dropped. Your chest tightened. That sharp, familiar pull hit all at once, unwelcome and undeniable.
You didn’t pull away. Joe didn’t either.
And that’s when the second kiss happened. Without discussion, without intention — it felt more like a reflex than a choice. As if muscle memory was taking over.
He exhaled against your mouth, startled, like he hadn’t meant to go that far. Your lips pressed together again anyway, firmer this time, uneven. Joe’s hand found your side automatically, then stilled, fingers splayed like he’d just realized what he was doing.
You broke apart abruptly. Both of you breathing too fast. You stayed there, a breath apart, the air between you thick and unsettled.
Neither of you moved right away. Like you were both waiting for the other to name it. Or stop it. Joe was the first to speak. His voice was low and careful.
“Hey,” he said. “We don’t— we don’t have to.”
You nodded, swallowing. “I know… but I want to,” you said quietly but honestly.
His jaw tightened, like that confession hit him somewhere deep. He let out a breath through his nose, almost a laugh, almost a curse.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. Me too.”
“Are you okay?” he asked. “Like… really.”
You met his eyes.
“I am,” you said. “I wouldn’t say yes if I wasn’t.”
That did it.
His hand came back to your side, slow this time, deliberate. He waited — a fraction of a second — until you leaned into it. Only then did his fingers curl slightly, grounding, warm.
The next kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careful either. It landed somewhere in between — steadier, deeper, inevitable. You felt it spread through you immediately, that low, familiar heat, the kind that makes thinking feel optional.
You broke it gently, forehead resting against his.
“This is a bad idea,” you murmured.
Joe huffed a breathy laugh. “Probably.”
You kissed him again anyway.
His hands slid up your back, hesitant at first, then firmer when you pressed closer. Yours gripped his sweater, knuckles brushing his chest, like you needed to be sure he was real.
The room felt smaller now. Warmer. Joe pulled back slightly, breath uneven.
“If we keep going…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
You nodded. “I know.” Another beat. Then, softer — “I want to.”
He kissed you again then, slower, surer, and this time when his hand slipped to the small of your back, you didn’t hesitate — you stepped closer, closing the last of the space between you.
You didn’t move right away. You were still close, his hands warm at your waist, your fingers curled into his sweater like you needed the touch to ground yourself.
Joe cleared his throat softly. “We’re… really bad at taking things slow,” he said.
You huffed a quiet laugh. “You were the one who leaned in first”
“It was absolutely mutual," he corrected. “Perfect timing.”
That got a real smile out of you. Tired, but real. He smiled back, relieved, like the sound had loosened something in his chest. His thumb brushed a slow, absent circle against your side.
You leaned your forehead against his shoulder for a second, just breathing. He bent slightly to meet you there, chin resting in your hair.
“This feels… weirdly normal,” he murmured.
You tilted your head back to look at him. “That’s what scares me.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.”
Another beat. Then, lighter — almost teasing — “You still haven’t fixed that lamp, by the way.”
You pulled back a little. “You promised you would.”
“I promised to try.”
“Joe.”
He grinned. “See? Pressure.”
You laughed, shaking your head, and he watched you like the sound mattered more than anything else in the room.
When the laughter faded, the quiet settled again — not heavy, just expectant. He took your hand then. Not pulling, just holding.
“Come here,” he said. “Please.”
You followed him down the hallway slowly, fingers still intertwined. Every step felt deliberate. Chosen.
At your bedroom door, you stopped again. Old instinct… gravity. Joe noticed immediately.
You lingered in the doorway longer than intended, the weight of the moment pinning you there. Joe caught the change before you could voice it—the quickened rhythm of your breaths, the way your fingers clenched around his. The air thickened, heavy with unspoken need, shedding its careful edges.
He closed the distance, no questions this time. His body heat pressed against yours, solid and insistent.
“You’re thinking too much,” he murmured, voice low and rough.
“So are you,” you replied, your tone dropping to match the growing hunger.
A breathy laugh escaped him, but it cut short as you leaned in, your lips grazing his jaw, then trailing down his neck. Not quite a kiss—just a deliberate tease, your breath hot against his skin.
Joe swore softly, the sound raw. “Fuck, that’s not playing fair.”
You tilted your head up to meet his gaze. “No one said I had to.”
His hands settled on your hips, gripping tighter now, fingers digging in as if anchoring himself. The touch sent a jolt straight through you, pooling low in your belly.
“Okay,” he said, voice strained. “But tell me if it’s too much. Or if you change your mind.”
You shook your head, pulse racing. “It’s not enough. Not even close.”
That snapped something in him.
His mouth crashed onto yours, urgent and consuming, like he’d been starving for this. Not brutal, but desperate. Heat flared instantly between your thighs, sharp and insistent, you were already clenching with the first real ache of want.
Your hands roamed up his chest, fisting his shirt, yanking him flush against you. He moaned into the kiss, the vibration rumbling through his body into yours, making your nipples harden against the fabric of your top.
You pulled back only to gasp for air, lips swollen and tingling.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, forehead resting against yours, breaths coming fast. “You’re fucking killing me here.”
A sly smile curved your mouth, edged with challenge. “You made it through six months.”
“Barely,” he admitted, eyes dark with intent. Then, softer: “I don’t — I can’t stop. I need you.”
You swallowed hard, the raw honesty hitting like a spark. “Then don’t pull away. Not this time.”
“I won’t,” he promised, fierce and immediate.
His lips found yours once more, the kiss slower now but infinitely deeper. His hands mapped your back, sliding down to cup your ass, squeezing firmly as he pulled you tighter. You could feel the hard line of his cock pressing against your thigh through his jeans, thick and straining, and you rocked against it instinctively, drawing a low growl from him.
You arched into him, your breasts crushing against his chest, the friction making you whimper softly. His fingers kneaded your flesh, thumbs brushing the curve where hip met thigh, teasing closer to where you throbbed for him.
The room shrank around you, the air turning humid with shared heat. Every brush of skin felt electric, deliberate—his stubble scraping your neck as he nipped there, your nails scraping lightly down his arms.
When he finally eased back, his voice was gravelly, wrecked. “Bed. Now.”
It was not an order but a raw, aching need.
You nodded, heart pounding, body already humming with anticipation. No more teasing words. No more space between you.
He led you there, hands never leaving your body, backing you toward the bed until your legs hit the edge. You sank down together, him hovering over you, eyes locked as he peeled off your shirt, exposing your skin to the cool air.
His gaze raked over your bare breasts, hungry, before his mouth descended—lips closing around one nipple, sucking hard while his tongue flicked the peak.
You gasped, fingers threading into his hair, holding him there as pleasure shot straight to your core. He lavished attention on you, switching sides, teeth grazing just enough to sting, then soothing with wet, open-mouthed kisses.
His free hand trailed down your side, tracing the dip of your waist, the swell of your hip, before slipping between your thighs. He cupped you through your pants, pressing the heel of his palm against your mound, feeling the heat radiating from you.
“Already so damn hot, baby” he breathed against your skin, nipping at your collarbone as his fingers worked your button open.
He tugged your pants down slowly, deliberately, kissing a path along your stomach as more skin came into view. You lifted your hips to help, kicking the fabric away, leaving you in just your underwear.
Joe’s eyes darkened further at the sight of you in your underwear, his thumb tracing it lightly.
“Can I?” he asked, voice husky, before he hooked his fingers in the waistband.
You nodded and he slid them off, baring you completely.
“Please.”
He paused there, kneeling between your legs, his hands sliding up your thighs in slow, reverent strokes. The six months apart hung between you like a shadow, but his touch chased it away—gentle yet insistent, fingers tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, parting them wider.
“I love you,” he whispered, the words rough with emotion, eyes meeting yours as if to etch them into your soul. “Missed this. Missed you. Every fucking day.”
Your chest tightened, love swelling alongside the heat.
“I love you too, Joe. So much.”
You reached for him, cupping his face, pulling him down for a kiss that was tender at first, lips brushing softly, then deepening as tongues met in a slow dance.
He settled over you, his weight a comforting press, cock still hard and trapped in his jeans against your bare skin. You tugged at his shirt, helping him strip it off, your hands exploring the familiar ridges of his chest, the moles, the muscles earned over time. He kicked off his pants next, boxers following, until he was as naked as you, his erection curving up toward his stomach.
Instead of rushing, he lay beside you, pulling you into his arms, bodies aligning side by side. His mouth found your neck, kissing softly, then firmer, sucking marks that would linger as reminders. You turned into him, leg hooking over his hip, your wetness brushing him as you shifted.
“Slow,” he murmured against your ear, hand sliding down to grip your ass, guiding you closer without entering. “I want to feel every second of this. Like it’s the first time all over again.”
It felt that way—the ache of absence making every touch new, profound. You nodded, kissing his shoulder, tasting the salt of his skin. His fingers dipped between your legs, stroking you gently, circling your clit with feather-light pressure that built the need gradually, tenderly. You moaned softly, rocking into his hand, your own palm wrapping around him, stroking from base to tip in unhurried pulls.
He groaned, burying his face in your hair, hips thrusting lightly into your fist. “God, your touch... it’s everything.”
Minutes stretched like this, hands exploring, mouths kissing—lazy trails across collarbones, down ribs, over hips. He sucked on your nipples again, slower now, tongue swirling as if memorizing the taste, while you traced patterns on his back, nails grazing just enough to send shivers down his spine.
When the need grew too insistent, he rolled you onto your back, positioning himself carefully. His cock nudged your entrance, sliding through your wetness once, twice, teasing without pressure.
“You ready for me?” he asked, voice thick, forehead pressed to yours.
“Yes,” you breathed, arms wrapping around his neck. “I want you, Joe. I’ve never stopped.”
He did. Pushing in inch by inch, eyes locked on yours, watching your face as you stretched around him. The fullness was perfect, a burn that faded into warmth, your walls hugging him tight. He bottomed out with a shared sigh, stilling to let you adjust, his hand stroking your hair, thumb brushing your cheek.
“Fuck, you feel amazing” he whispered as he started to move.
Long, deep thrusts that were measured, each one pulling almost out before gliding back in, grinding against your clit at the end. The rhythm was heated, bodies slick with sweat, but laced with tenderness: his lips on yours between thrusts, soft words of love murmured into your skin,
“You feel perfect... so good around me... love how you take me.”
You met his pace, hips lifting to draw him deeper, the friction sparking pleasure that built steadily, not crashing but rising like a tide. Your hands roamed his back, feeling muscles flex with each roll of his hips, while he kissed your jaw, your throat, nipping gently. The slap of skin was quieter, more intimate, accompanied by your gasps and his low moans.
He shifted, hooking your leg higher over his hip, changing the angle to hit deeper, brushing that spot inside that made your toes curl.
“Right there?” he asked, voice strained but attentive, adjusting based on your nod and moan.
“Joe... I’m close,” you panted, fingers digging into his shoulders as pleasure coiled tighter.
“Come for me,” he urged softly, hand slipping between you to rub your clit in slow circles, matching his thrusts. “Please”
It washed over you then, orgasm blooming warm and intense, waves pulsing through your core as you clenched around his cock, crying out his name in a voice raw with feeling. He followed moments later, thrusts faltering as he spilled inside you, filling you while he groaned your name like a prayer, body trembling against yours.
He didn’t pull away after, staying buried deep, rolling to the side and drawing you into his chest. Your legs tangled, breaths syncing as the aftershocks faded. His fingers traced lazy circles on your back, lips pressing to your forehead.
“I love you,” he said again, quieter now, the words settling like a promise.
You smiled against his skin, heart full. “I love you too.”
He pressed you closer, lips grazing your temple, where he pressed a small and soft kiss. You lay there staring at the ceiling, close enough that every deeper breath brushed the other.
Joe broke the silence in a voice far too casual to be believable.
“So,” he said, gesturing vaguely upward like the ceiling might explain things, “this was not in my plan for today.”
You let out a small, tired laugh. “I was just going to buy a book.”
“And look at us now,” he added. “Overachievers.”
You turned your head to look at him. He was wearing that half-smile he always used when he was nervous and pretending he wasn’t.
“Are you okay?” you asked.
He nodded, then corrected himself. “Yes. No. I mean— yeah, I think so. Just… weird.”
“Weird good or weird bad?”
“Weird good,” he said quickly. “Definitely weird good.” He was quiet for a second, fidgeting with his ring. “So… what are we now?”
You shrugged. “Two people who got derailed by Christmas.”
He smiled. “Right. Curse the festive spirit.”
You nudged his arm lightly.
“For now,” you said, choosing your words carefully, “I just need you not to disappear tomorrow.”
He looked at you properly then. Not dramatically, just… open.
“I won’t,” he said. “I won’t promise you I’ll do this perfectly, but I won’t vanish.”
He tugged the duvet around both of you, a little clumsy, but warm. Then he stared at the ceiling for a beat, like he was trying to find the right words.
“Can I… stay?” he asked.
Simple. No pressure.
You turned to him. His face was soft in the low light. “Yeah,” you said after a beat. “I’d like that.”
His smile was instant — wide, boyish, completely unable to hide itself. You shifted closer automatically, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
“And… maybe coffee tomorrow?” he added after a moment.
“Coffee?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow. And the day after. And… you know, the next one too.”
You laughed quietly, resting your head back against him. “That… actually sounds nice.”
“Honestly,” he murmured, pressing you a little closer, “couldn’t imagine a better way to spend Christmas.”
You didn’t say anything else. Didn’t need to. You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of him, the soft flicker of the living room lights, and for now… that was enough.
Maybe, just maybe, it would be enough tomorrow too.
it's so fascinating to watch people try to come up with some Big Brained theories about the st finale to make themselves feel better but at its core i think you guys just need to accept that the duffers are highly incompetent writers and have been this entire time
turnnoffyourmind
jacobvanloon
vaporwave
theartofmadeline
tangentwithtanner
dededos
kianamaiart
baratheonpilled
