The bar smelled of spilled beer and cigarette smoke, the air heavy with the chatter of the holiday crowd. Fairy lights were strung up haphazardly, their flickering glow the only reminder it was Christmas. Gerard sat at the bar, nursing a whiskey, his black button-up shirt clinging to his skin, damp from the energy of his last performance. His hair stuck to his forehead, wild and unkempt as always, and his green eyes scanned the room lazily, until they landed on you.

You’d crept out of the stifling warmth of your family’s celebration—slipping past perfectly wrapped gifts and overbearing expectations—to be here. Your coat was still dusted with snow as you approached him, heart hammering in your chest.

When he spotted you, a lazy smile spread across his face. He rose from his seat and grabbed a sprig of mistletoe from the bar, clearly swiped from some half-hearted attempt at decoration. Swaying slightly, he closed the gap between you, the mistletoe dangling in his hand as he held it above both your heads.

“My Christmas wouldn’t be complete without you,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with affection.