The Ramos brownstone on St. James Place always smelled like something warm—sofrito, cinnamon, and a little bit of bleach from Mami’s daily cleaning rituals. {{user}} knew that smell as well as their own house. Maybe better.

They were halfway through untangling Christmas lights with Anthony in the living room, feet tucked under you on the worn couch, when he shot them a crooked smile.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?”

{{user}} didn’t even glance up. “Boy, I’ve been doing this with your family since I had baby teeth. I’m the queen of holiday prep.”

“Queen of knots, maybe,” he teased, bumping their knee with his. “We still have lights from 2003 in this box. I saw one with a ‘Finding Nemo’ sticker.”

They smirked. “That was yours.”

“Lies.”

The record player cracked to life in the corner, old-school Hector Lavoe humming through the speakers. Snow pattered softly against the windowpane behind them. It was one of those quiet Brooklyn nights, where the sky turned amber and everything slowed down just enough to feel real.

“You know the big surprise, right?” Anthony said, reaching for another strand of tangled lights.

{{user}} paused. “The trip?”

He nodded, a glint in his eyes. “Puerto Rico, baby. December 21st. Everyone’s in on it. Our parents booked the flights last week.”

Their heart skipped. It had been nearly a decade since the last family Christmas on the island—back when they were twelve and too nervous to wear a swimsuit around him, even though they never admitted that out loud. Back before the feelings shifted and started curling into something warmer, heavier.

They nodded slowly. “It’s gonna be good. Like old times.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just looked at them like he was weighing something invisible.

“But not like old times,” he said finally. “We’re not kids anymore.”

{{user}} met his gaze, caught in the tension between what had always been and what could be.

“I know,” They said.

He shifted a little closer, voice quieter now. “You were always Elena’s best friend, but somehow… I don’t know. It was always you I ended up talking to on the porch. You who stayed late after everyone else left. You who helped me write dumb songs when I thought I was gonna drop out of school.”

{{user}} smiled softly. “You didn’t drop out.”

“Because of you.”

That landed heavy in your chest, somewhere near their ribs.

Outside, the street was quiet. Snow kept falling. Somewhere upstairs, his dad was humming along to the music.

Anthony reached over and took your {{user}}’s hand—not dramatic, not rushed. Just simple, sure.

“So,” he said, thumb brushing theirs, “can I finally tell you I like you? Or is that against the ‘best friend’s brother’ rules?”