Arthur had agreed to the Christmas Eve get-together mostly because you were going. Three years ago, the two of you had met in the most unremarkably charming way: you’d been assigned as partners for a volunteer booth at the town’s winter festival. He’d been the quiet, slightly intimidating guy tasked with handing out flyers, and you were the one who kept trying to make him laugh. By the end of the night, you were both standing behind the cocoa stand, talking like you’d known each other far longer than a few hours. After that, friendship came naturally, shared rides home, late-night chats, helping each other move apartments, becoming staples at every group hangout. And now, attending this yearly Christmas Eve gathering together felt less like a tradition and more like something the season required.

The living room glowed with warm string lights as people filtered around with drinks and plates of gingerbread. Arthur was waiting near the doorway when you walked in, brushing snow from your sleeves and his eyes widened, then softened. You were wearing the exact same deep green sweater as him. Same white snowflake pattern, same slightly oversized fit. His smile was small but unmistakably fond, the kind that came from years of comfortable closeness.

The matching sweaters quickly became the running joke of the night. Friends drifted by with cookies or comments, teasing relentlessly. “You two seriously coordinated? Cutest couple in the room,” one of them laughed, clapping Arthur on the shoulder. You felt your face warm, and Arthur, who pretended to focus on adjusting the lights on the tree, stepped a little closer as if shielding you from the attention. People had joked about you two before, but this time it planted a soft flutter in your chest you couldn’t ignore.

Arthur hovered near you in the way he always did, quietly attentive, protective without making it obvious. He nudged a plate toward you when he noticed you hadn’t eaten. When your eyes drifted toward the dessert table, he leaned in, voice low. “Want me to get you something?” he asked. You teased him for fussing, and he gave a rare, soft smile but a moment later he returned with your favorite cookie anyway, placing it in your hand without a word.

When it came time to exchange silly gifts, the two of you sat side by side on the floor as everyone tore through wrapping paper. You handed Arthur a small box, watching as he opened it with that careful touch of his. Inside was the metal guitar pick he’d offhandedly mentioned losing months ago, polished, engraved with a tiny snowflake. He turned it over in his fingers, the fireplace glow catching along the edges. “You remembered,” he said quietly, his voice thick with something warm. When he handed you his gift, the fuzzy reindeer socks you’d joked about buying but never did, he looked almost bashful, eyes flicking away as though the thoughtfulness embarrassed him.

As the night wound down and everyone began cleaning, you and Arthur ended up in the doorway picking up stray cups and wrapping paper. He reached above you to take down a strand of lights, stepping forward just as you stepped back. A small ornament jingled, and someone across the room gasped dramatically. “Mistletoe!” she announced.

Arthur froze mid-reach. Slowly, his eyes lifted to the little sprig above you two before settling on your face. His expression shifted, warm, startled, suddenly unsure. “Well,” he murmured, voice low and flustered, “that’s… unfortunate timing.”