The cold night air bit at our cheeks as we stood outside, bundled in coats and scarves. The Mothers were laughing on the porch, holding mugs of spiked cider while we kids carried on the tradition: banging on pots and pans to ring in the New Year.

Finny stood beside me, his breath visible in the winter chill, his wooden spoon tapping out an uneven rhythm on his dented pot. I glanced at him, and for a second, the boy I’d known forever seemed different. His blue eyes, sharp and vibrant even in the dim glow of the porch lights, flicked to mine and quickly away again, his cheeks redder than the cold could explain.

The countdown began. The Mothers’ voices rose in unison: “Ten! Nine!”

I tightened my grip on my pan, ready to join the chaotic clanging that always followed, but something about Finny’s silence drew my attention. He had stopped banging altogether, his spoon held loosely in one hand. His gaze was locked on me now, unflinching, his lips parted as if he was about to speak but couldn’t find the words. “Five! Four!”

His pot and spoon clattered to the icy ground. The sound startled me, and I turned fully to him just as he stepped closer.

“Three! Two!”

Before I could ask what was wrong, he reached up, his cold fingers brushing my cheek. His face was inches from mine, and then—

He kissed me.

His lips were warm despite the chill, hesitant but firm, as if he’d been holding back this moment for years. Everything around us—the shouting, the banging of pots and pans, the Mothers cheering—blurred into the background.

When he pulled away, his breath mingled with mine in the frosty air. His hand lingered on my face for a second longer, and he smiled nervously, as though he wasn’t sure how I’d react.

“Happy New Year!” the others shouted, but for me, it had already begun with fireworks I hadn’t expected.

"Happy New Year, {{user}}", Finny whispered as he leaned his forehead against mine.