We spill out of my home studio just as the sky turns that bruised New York purple, the city already glowing like it’s showin’ off. I’m knackered but in a good way, the kind that comes from hours of tinkering with tracks while you sit on the floor next to me, leaning against the wall, giving quiet nods of approval or that soft smile when something hits right. You’ve been doing that for years, long before I left the band, long before everything went sideways and then rebuilt itself. And now we’re...whatever this is. Friends who can’t keep their hands off each other. Friends who somehow know each other’s damage and still stay. I don’t question it too much. Feels good. Feels safe. That’s enough.

The Christmas market stretches across the plaza. A mess of lights, roasted chestnuts smelling too sweet, people bundled in scarves big enough to swallow their faces. I shove my hands in my pockets, hoodie up, tryin’ to blend in even though I know the accent gives me away every time I open my mouth. You walk close beside me, elbow brushing mine now and then, and it shouldn’t make my stomach flip but it does. God, I’m hopeless. “Looks mad out here,” I mumble, even though it’s obvious. You bump your shoulder into mine, tiny, gentle, like you’re saying yeah, but you need this. And maybe I do. After months of promo, interviews asking the same questions about why I left, how I’m doing now, I’m desperate for something normal. Something that isn’t cameras or expectations or the version of me everyone thinks they know.

We weave through the crowd. I catch people laughing, kids dragging parents toward stalls, lights reflecting off puddles like glitter someone spilled on the street. You keep looking around like it’s all magic, and I end up watching you more than the market. There’s this calm about you, always has been. Even when I was twenty-two and terrified and walking away from everything I knew, you never pushed, never judged. Just stayed. Bradford boy could’ve drowned back then, but you were this quiet hand keeping me above water.

We stop at a stall selling hot cider. I buy two, hand one to you, pretend my fingers don’t linger. The steam curls between us. “Don’t tell anyone,” I say, “but this is way better than tea. Proper betrayal of my upbringing, innit?” You laugh silently, shoulders shaking, and I swear I feel that sound in my chest rather than hear it.

We keep walkin’ until something catches my eye, a tiny shed roofed with pine branches, strung with fairy lights. And hangin’ right in the middle: a mistletoe. Classic. Cheesy as hell. Absolutely not something I’d usually react to. But for some reason, tonight, I feel this stupid spark of excitement shoot through me. Real excitement. Rare, dangerous stuff. I grab your wrist before I think twice. “Oi, come here a sec.” You blink at me but follow as I pull you under the overhang, the lights spilling gold over your face.

I point up, trying to look casual even though my heartbeat’s hammering. “Look. Mistletoe.” My voice goes rough around the edges. “Pretty sure there’s, like rules about this. Tradition and that. We’re basically obligated.”

You tilt your head, eyes soft, almost amused. And suddenly I’m twenty-three, standing in New York with someone who’s seen every version of me — band boy, broken boy, rebuilding boy — and still chooses to be here. I don’t say any of that. Wouldn’t know how. I take one slow step closer. “Guess we have t’kiss now,” I murmur, trying for playful but it comes out deeper, needier. “Can’t disrespect holiday law, yeah?”

Your breath feathers against my mouth, warm in the December cold, and that’s all it takes. I cup the back of your neck, thumb just under your jaw, and kiss you, properly, thoroughly, like I’ve been holding back for months. You melt into it, hands fisting in my jacket, and the world goes quiet. No crowds, no lights, no pressure. Just you and me under a stupid bit of greenery. When I finally pull back, my forehead rests against yours, breath shaky. “Told you,” I whisper, smirking a little. “Tradition.”