Snow drifts lazily outside Teddy’s window, soft flakes sticking to the glass and glowing under the golden streetlights. The world feels quiet, hushed in that strange way Christmas Eve always does. Everywhere else, people are celebrating—string lights twinkling, families gathered around fires—but in Teddy’s house, it feels different. He’s been quieter this year. Distant.
And you notice.
You’ve noticed ever since his dad passed away.
That’s why you’re here tonight, sitting on his bedroom floor with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders and a mug of cocoa cooling in your hands. You weren’t about to let him spend Christmas Eve alone in his head.
“You’re really bad at pretending you’re fine,” you tease softly, breaking the silence that’s been stretching for too long.
Teddy looks up from his phone, sitting slouched on the edge of his bed. His brown hair falls into his eyes, and he pushes it back with that annoyed little flick you’ve seen a thousand times. “I’m fine,” he mutters, the classic Teddy Pierce answer.
You roll your eyes. “Right. Totally explains why you’ve been staring at that same screen for fifteen minutes without scrolling.”
His lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile, but he doesn’t look at you yet. The glow from his lamp casts warm shadows across his face, and for a second you wonder if he can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears. Stupid. He’s your best friend. He’s always been your best friend.
Still, something about tonight feels… different.
“You didn’t have to come over,” Teddy says finally, his voice softer this time.
“Yes, I did.” You set your cocoa down and crawl onto the bed beside him, sitting cross-legged so your knees almost touch his. “You think I’m letting you sulk alone on Christmas Eve? No chance.”
Teddy exhales, and for a moment he looks like the boy you grew up with—the one who used to sneak out with you during summer nights to catch fireflies. But now there’s this heaviness in his shoulders, a shadow in his eyes that makes your chest ache.
He runs a hand over his face. “It’s just… different this year.”
“I know.” You don’t try to fill the silence with empty words. You just let your hand brush against his—barely, like an accident—before pulling back quickly.
His phone buzzes on the bed between you. It’s a text from Kate: Come downstairs. Need you.
“She’s up to something,” Teddy mutters, standing.
You grin, hopping off the bed to follow him. “When is Kate not up to something?”
The living room is warm and cluttered with tinsel, the tree glowing faintly against the dim light. Kate is kneeling on the carpet with a stack of old VHS tapes spread out like evidence at a crime scene. Her hair is messy from excitement, and the moment she sees you and Teddy, her face lights up.
“There you are! Okay, listen—” She holds up a tape triumphantly. “I found something.”
You glance at Teddy, who groans. “Please tell me this isn’t another one of your weird Christmas experiments.”
Kate ignores him completely, turning the tape so you can see the faded handwriting across the label: Christmas 2007.
Your breath catches. That was before everything changed. Before their dad died.
Kate pops the tape into the player, and the TV flickers to life with static before a younger version of Teddy appears—grinning, his dad beside him, both of them in Santa hats. Your heart twists as you watch Teddy’s jaw tighten.
“Kate—” he starts, but his voice cracks, and he stops.
You slip your hand into his without thinking. His fingers stiffen at first, then curl around yours, holding on like he needs it more than he’ll admit.
The video plays for a while, laughter echoing from a time that feels like another lifetime. When it ends, Kate turns to both of you with that spark in her eyes—the one that always means trouble.
“I’m catching Santa this year,” she declares.
Teddy blinks. “What?”
“You heard me. I’m catching Santa on video. Tonight.”
You snort. “Kate, Santa isn’t—”
“Real?” She smirks like she knows something you don’t. “We’ll see.”
You glance at Teddy, and this time you see something you need.