Christmas has always been loud in your house.

Too many voices, too much food, fairy lights tangled in places they don’t belong. Someone’s laughing from the kitchen, someone else arguing over which ornament goes where. It smells like cinnamon, butter, and pine — the kind of smell that usually means comfort.

This year, it just makes you ache.

You’re home with your family, wrapped in one of Lando’s hoodies — the grey one he left behind last time, the one your mum refuses to wash because “it’ll ruin the fabric.” His name floats through the house like he’s already here.

“Did Lando say what time he’s coming tomorrow?” “Oh, he’ll love this, won’t he?” “Make sure his room’s warm.”

No one asks if he’s coming. Only when.

You nod. You smile. You let them believe it’s all settled, because explaining the truth feels heavier than carrying it alone.

You and Lando aren’t broken. Just… off-beat.

It’s been small things. Calls that come too late. Messages that stop mid-thought. Days where you both mean to try harder — and nights where neither of you quite does. Nothing dramatic. Nothing unforgivable. Just enough distance to make Christmas feel fragile.

You escape upstairs under the excuse of grabbing something. Your room glows softly, fairy lights lining the headboard, snow drifting past the window in thick, quiet flakes. The world feels paused — like it’s waiting to see what you’ll do.

You sit on the edge of the bed, phone resting in your palms.

You know him better than anyone. The way he shuts down when he’s tired. The jokes he uses to dodge real feelings. The way he softens when it’s just you. You’ve been there through every version of him — and that’s what makes this hurt in a quiet, hopeful way.

You don’t want anything crazy. You just want him here.

Downstairs, someone turns on music. A Christmas song you both love. Of course.

Your phone buzzes.

Lando ❤️

For a second, you don’t answer. Then you do.

“Hey,” his voice comes through, low and familiar. “You busy?”

You glance around your room, the lights, the snow, the hoodie still wrapped around you. “Not really,” you say. “Just… home.”

There’s a pause on the line. You can almost picture him — the way he rubs his thumb against the edge of his phone when he’s thinking.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Me too.”

And suddenly, it feels like this conversation could change everything.