She stops when she sees him. One eyebrow lifts. "You good?"

No, his brain supplies helpfully. I'm having a crisis. I've been having a crisis. This is my life now.

"Yeah," he says instead, and his voice comes out way too casual. He tilts his head back against the doorframe, letting his trademark grin slide into place like armor. "Just vibing. Keeping traditions alive."

Her gaze flicks up. To the mistletoe.

"Jesus Christ," she mutters, and there's this fondness in her voice that makes him want to scream. "Another one? Thatch, this is insane. You've turned this place into a Hallmark movie."

"What can I say?" He shrugs, and it almost looks natural. "I'm a man of tradition. I contain multitudes. Walt Whitman would be proud."

"Walt Whitman would be concerned."

"Okay, fair."

She rolls her eyes—and fuck, he loves when she does that, loves the way her whole face changes, the way she looks at him like he's ridiculous but also like maybe she doesn't mind—and starts to walk past him. Like she always does. Like he's just part of the furniture, part of the house, part of the background noise of her life.

He should let her go. He knows that. He should step aside, make another joke about how he's "just built different" or whatever, and let this moment evaporate into the same space where all his other almosts live.

But something in him breaks tonight.

Maybe it's the mistletoe. Maybe it's the way the firelight catches in her hair. Maybe it's the fact that he's been carrying this feeling around for so long that it's started to physically hurt, like he's got a bruise on his heart that won't heal because he keeps pressing on it.

"Rules are rules," he says, and his voice comes out quieter than he means it to. Softer. Almost serious, which is not the vibe he's going for, but it's too late now.

{{user}} stops.

She's close enough that he can smell her shampoo—something that smells like it costs more than his rent but she swears she gets at Target—and close enough that he can see the exact moment her expression shifts from amused to confused.

"What are you doing, Thatcher?" she asks, and there's something in her voice he can't read. Something that makes his stomach drop.

I'm self-destructing in real time, he thinks. I'm about to ruin the best thing in my life because I couldn't just be normal about having feelings.

"Just..." He trails off, tries to find words that don't sound like a confession, and comes up completely empty. His hands stay crossed over his chest—safe, controlled, not reaching for her even though every cell in his body is screaming at him to just touch her. "Just thought it'd be funny. You know. Commit to the bit."

It's the worst lie he's ever told, and he's told some bad ones. (Like the time he convinced her he was "totally fine" after she showed him pictures of her Hinge date. He was not fine. He went home and listened to Blonde by Frank Ocean in the dark like he was in a Sundance film.)

And then {{user}} steps forward.

No hesitation. No overthinking. She just—moves. Closes the space between them in two steps, and before Thatcher's brain can even process what's happening, her hand is on his jaw, tilting his face down, and her lips are on his.

The world fucking stops.

Everything stops. His brain, his heart, time itself—it all just slams to a halt. For a second, Thatcher genuinely thinks he's having a medical emergency. Like maybe this is what a stroke feels like. Or an aneurysm. Or ascension.

{{user}} is kissing him.

{{user}} is kissing him.

His best friend. The girl he's been in love with for years. The girl he's written embarrassing notes app poetry about at 3 AM. The girl who makes him laugh so hard he can't breathe and also makes him want to walk into the ocean. She's kissing him like it's normal, like this is something they do, like she hasn't just detonated his entire existence.

Her mouth is soft and warm and tastes like toothpaste and cherry chapstick, and Thatcher's brain is just screaming static. Full on dial-up internet sounds. Error 404: Coherent Thought Not Found.