The Kavanagh house looked like a Christmas card come to life—garlands looped around the banisters, fairy lights blinking in warm amber tones, and Edel’s collection of porcelain angels watching over the living room from every surface.

The giant tree—always real, always perfect —glowed from corner to corner. It felt like stepping into a memory you kept returning to, year after year.

You sat cross-legged on the plush rug, tugging at the hem of the red-and-cream sweater Edel had gifted you last Christmas. It hung a little loose on your shoulders now, soft and well-loved, the fabric faintly scented of the cedar chest she stored holiday things in. Wearing it made you feel like you belonged here—like you were another part of the Kavanaghs’ long-standing traditions.

You and Johnny had grown up practically fused at the hip. There were baby photos of the two of you smeared with mashed carrots in matching highchairs, videos of wobbly toddler steps taken side by side, and entire summers spent running barefoot between your houses. You built blanket forts that took over whole rooms, had mud-splattered adventures in the back garden, and once attempted to “run away” together with only juice boxes and three biscuits. Every moment of childhood had his laughter woven into it. As you’d gotten older, the rhythm of your friendship hadn’t changed—but you had.

Somewhere between Tommen beginning and now, feelings you didn’t expect bloomed quietly inside you, tender and alarming. For three years you’d carried them like a secret song only you could hear, unsure whether you were brave enough—or foolish enough—to let him notice.

You tried to concentrate on folding crisp edges of wrapping paper, smoothing tape with your thumb the way Edel taught you. The warm crackle of the fireplace settled around you, but your thoughts wandered where they always did here—to Johnny, to everything you felt but didn’t say. Footsteps creaked on the wooden floorboards behind you. You didn’t even need to look; you recognised the sound the same way you’d always known his laugh in a crowded room.

Johnny stepped into the doorway, brushing snowflakes from his hair. He looked unfairly good in the kind of effortless way he always had—dark hair pushed messily off his forehead, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, a faint shadow of freckles dusting his nose. His hoodie clung to broad shoulders shaped by years of hurl and rugby, but his eyes—warm hazel, almost golden in the Christmas lights—were the same ones that once cried when he thought you’d stolen his favourite toy car.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked, his voice warm, teasing, and familiar enough to unsettle your heartbeat. He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, giving you that lopsided grin he’d had since childhood—the one you’d slowly, helplessly fallen for.

You turned toward him, the soft glow of the tree casting patterns across his face, and suddenly the room felt too small, too bright, too full of things you had never said.

Every Christmas memory rushed back at once, weaving through the present moment, as if the years you’d spent loving him silently were wrapped beneath the tree alongside everything else.

But he never noticed. Never picked you.