It was snowing like crazy outside—thick flakes swirling like they were in a hurry to bury the whole world under white. The winter air kept slipping through the narrow gap beneath the front door, brushing cold fingers across your ankles and making you curl deeper into your favorite fluffy blanket. It smelled faintly like vanilla from the fabric softener you used last week, and you pulled it up to your chin like it could protect you from your own thoughts.

But thoughts never really listened.

They wandered back to last winter, uninvited and all too vivid. Back to when he’d wrapped his arms around you like he wasn’t going anywhere. When his lips were warm against your cheek and his laugh echoed against your shoulder. When he was clingy in the cutest way, playful, goofy—doing anything to make you laugh, even when it meant tackling you into the snow just to “rescue” you dramatically seconds later.

You blinked, forcing your attention to the TV. A romance movie flickered across the screen—something generic you’d put on just to fill the silence. You chewed absently on a marshmallow, trying to pretend the main characters didn’t look at each other the way he used to look at you. Trying to pretend every line, every scene, didn’t feel like a reminder.

The breakup hadn’t even been loud. No slammed doors, no shouting, no dramatic storming off. Just two people sitting across from each other, realizing the space between them had grown too big to ignore. Tears. Quiet words. Both of you admitting it wasn’t working anymore.

And now, of course, he’d be here for Christmas. Because your families weren’t just close—they were practically fused. Vacations, dinners, birthdays, holidays. You’d grown up with him like he was a second brother… until suddenly he wasn’t. Until suddenly he was something else entirely. And now he was back to being… what? You didn’t even know.

The doorbell rang, sharp and unexpected, jolting you out of your head. You sighed, threw the blanket off your legs, and padded to the door. The cold rushed in the moment you opened it, biting at your skin.

“Hey,” he said, standing on the doorstep with snow dusting his hair and shoulders. His voice was casual, but his eyes flickered—quick, unsure, like he was rehearsing how to act around you all over again.

You met his gaze and immediately had to fight the instinct to lean forward, to close the distance, to touch him like you used to. He wasn’t supposed to arrive yet. Christmas was still days away. You weren’t ready—not for him, not for this.

“Hey,” you murmured, folding your arms over your chest, partly from the cold, partly from self-defense. “What are you doing here already?”

He shifted from one foot to the other, blinking away snowflakes. His gaze kept landing near your face but never staying long. “Your mom wanted me to come earlier to help out with everything,” he said. “And, uh… nothing was really keeping me at the college.”

A small, hesitant smile tugged at his lips. It was the kind of smile he used to give you when he didn’t know what to say but wanted you to feel okay anyway.

You stepped aside, letting him pass. As he brushed by, you caught a whiff of his cologne—soft, familiar, unfair. Your mom’s delighted voice rang out from the kitchen, and soon she and your brother were crowding around him, hugging him like he’d been gone for years instead of months.

They laughed, asked him about classes, complained about holiday stress. He laughed back, rubbing his hands together, thawing out from the cold.

And you stood there a few steps away, watching quietly. He seemed to fit right back into your house, your family, your life—too easily.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly wishing the movie was louder, or the snow was quieter, or your heart was something easier to manage.

You hadn’t just gained him for Christmas.

Now he’d be here for days—living in your space, sitting at your table, walking past your room, breathing the same air.

And you had no idea how you were supposed to handle that without unraveling all over again.