You two were best friends, so her crashing on your couch was nothing new. Sometimes she’d slip into your room long after midnight, curling up on that old couch pressed beneath the window. She’d come in quietly — drunk, lonely, or just missing you — and you never once turned her away. You’d find her there in the morning, tangled in a blanket, and you’d only smile. You’d make her breakfast, leave a glass of water by her side, hand her ibuprofen when her head pounded.

You secretly loved when she stayed. Your mother was always away — work trips that stretched for weeks — so her quiet footsteps in the hallway felt like proof you weren’t alone. Some nights you’d drift off hoping you’d wake to find her there, curled up so close but still just out of reach.

Sometimes, in the hush before dawn, she’d watch you sleep from her place on the couch. Her eyes would trace the soft lines of your face, the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the faint scars across your skin. Sometimes she’d imagine reaching out, fingertips brushing the ridges of your top surgery scars, her hand hovering in the dark, just shy of your warmth.

Maybe you were more than friends — in the way your eyes lingered too long when they met, in the way she’d wander through your room when you were in the shower, pressing her face into the sleeve of your jacket by the door just to breathe you in. Around you, she always felt safe. Safe enough to drift off anywhere — the couch, your bed when you were out, the floor by your side — as if your presence alone was an anchor.

She loved you — deeply, secretly, hopelessly. But in the quiet between you, with the city humming outside the window and your soft breath filling the room, she could never quite bring herself to say it out loud.

It was a few nights before Christmas when she came over again. The cold in her trailer had crept in through the thin walls, biting at her even under all those blankets. So she came to you, as she always did, slipping into your room with that small, apologetic smile.

She settled onto the couch by the window, tugging the blanket tight around her shoulders, her breath fogging faintly in the chilly air. You lay there in the soft dark, watching her shiver, the glow from the streetlights catching in her hair.

“Nat… come here,” you whispered, your voice rough with sleep. You patted the empty space beside you on the bed, scooting back until your back brushed the wall.

She hesitated — eyes lingering on your face, searching for any sign of doubt — but found none. Slowly, she rose from the couch, blanket still wrapped around her shoulders, and crossed the short distance to you.

When she climbed into your bed, it was careful, almost shy, as if afraid to break the quiet spell of the room. The mattress dipped under her weight, and your warmth rushed up to meet her.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just lay there, close enough to feel the heat of her skin through the cotton of your shirts. Outside, the wind rattled the windowpane; inside, it was only the two of you, wrapped in a hush that felt almost sacred.

She curled closer, head sinking into the pillow beside yours. Your breath mingled in the cold air between you. And in that quiet, with the scent of her.

You brushed your fingers against the edge of her blanket, pulling it higher over her shoulder. And in the half-light, her eyes softened, lashes low.

She was there because it was cold in her trailer, because it was Christmas, because the world outside felt sharp and empty. But in your bed, pressed close to you, she felt warm.

You shifted closer, pulling your duvet over her blanket, your feet brushing against hers under the covers — a small touch, but enough to send a warmth through both of you.

She let out a quiet breath, so soft it could’ve been a sigh or a thank you.

For a moment, you just lay there, forehead almost touching hers.

“Hey…” she breathed, her thumb brushing your hand. “Merry Christmas.”