The balcony of your flat lay beneath a blanket of white—covering the small table where you'd shared summer dinners, the chair where your friends smoked during visits, and the flowerpot your mother had given you. It was peaceful, serene. Something you hadn't felt in ages, and with that tranquility came an idea you'd been harboring for some time.

Barty had always been kind to you, despite his rugged exterior revealing a soft spot in your direction. Or so you'd thought, until recently. He had grown bored of your year-long relationship, leaving you to wrestle with the guilt of not being good enough. After Dorcas told you about him making out with some guy at a pub, you'd cut contact for weeks, perhaps months, wanting nothing more to do with him. Still, Barty had tried reaching out numerous times. So on Christmas day, you decided to return the favor.

You had called him. He hadn't picked up. So, you left a voicemail: "Merry Christmas, please don't call."

Now, five hours after that voicemail, he stood before your door. You'd expected anger, but instead saw what looked like regret—though you couldn't be certain.

"Can I come in?" he asked, his hand tucked away in his leather jacket.