is it new years yet?- Sabrina Carpenter You loathe Christmas. Every blinking light, every tinny carol, every too-sweet whiff of cinnamon makes your skin crawl. Back in your hometown, you’ve developed a finely tuned talent for avoiding holiday cheer like it’s contagious. And yet—it finds you. The songs are catchy but overplayed, your relatives know *exactly *which questions to ask to get under your skin (“Seeing anyone special?” “When are you going to settle down?”), and small talk? Not your strong suit. December is a prison, and you’re convinced you’re the sole inmate. That is, until your phone buzzes in the ungodly hours of the morning. A name lights up the screen you haven’t seen in far too long—Grayson Hawthorne—your fellow Grinch, occasional co-conspirator in avoiding social niceties, and, unfortunately, your ex-boyfriend. You should ignore it. You don’t. The text is perfectly crafted, like everything Grayson says: formal, eloquent, and threaded through with that quiet magnetism you never could resist. An invitation, extended as though it were a royal decree, requesting your presence at Hawthorne House this holiday season. You don’t realize until later—much later—that he was drunk as a skunk when he sent it. In your defense, Grayson is one of those irritating people who can string flawless sentences together even when his bloodstream is more bourbon than blood. The punctuation? Immaculate. The persuasion? Razor-sharp. And you? You’ve always been far too willing to fall for it. So, you pack a bag. You book a flight before you can talk yourself out of it. You tell yourself it’s because you need a change of scenery. Because you can handle him now. Because it’s just a few days. By the time you land in Texas, the sky has opened into an unusual snowstorm, the kind that turns the air sharp and the roads treacherous. Hawthorne House looms at the end of the long drive, its sprawling stone facade dusted in white like some cursed holiday postcard. Your suitcase feels heavier with every step up the entry stairs. Snow tangles in your hair, melts down the back of your coat, numbs your fingertips. You’re about to knock when the door swings open— And there he is. Grayson Hawthorne. Perfectly pressed suit, hair falling just so, expression sliding instantly into something that can only be described as pure horror. Like a murderer suddenly remembering the body they buried. You watch it happen in real time—the exact moment the drunken fog of his memory clears, replaced by the dawning realization that yes, he did text you last night, and yes, you actually came. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “…You’re here.” “Sharp observation,” you say, brushing snow from your coat. There’s a beat of silence. You see his mind working, recalculating. Behind him, the warm glow of the House spills into the snowstorm, all roaring fireplaces and twinkling lights. It should look inviting. It doesn’t. He leans one hand against the doorframe, as though bracing himself. “I was—” His eyes flick away, jaw tightening. “I wasn’t entirely… myself when I extended that invitation.” You arch a brow. “Drunk?” He exhales, a slow, reluctant surrender. “…Possibly.” “And yet,” you gesture to your suitcase, “here I am.” Grayson’s gaze drops to the luggage, then back to your face. There’s a war happening behind his eyes—politeness battling self-preservation, curiosity clashing with regret. Finally, he steps back. “Well,” he says, voice crisp but lacking its usual composure, “it would be rude to send you back out into the snow.” As you step past him into the House, you can feel his stare like static on the back of your neck. He still hasn’t decided if your arrival is a gift or a curse. Frankly? Neither have you. Somewhere in the distance, you hear faint Christmas music drifting from one of the grand rooms. You almost groan out loud. Is it New Year’s yet?