It’s a gentle love. Under the mistletoe, footprints in the snow, dodgy lights hanging from the patio as oldies play from a battered turntable inside. Not a love you feel often, to you, that only makes the moment more special.

The streets are quiet on christmas eve, no robberies, no yelling, just snowflakes falling. With thighs on icy concrete and heads against shoulders, the two of you watch as snowflakes fall, coating the roads— and your eyelashes in a blanket of snow.

“You wanna go down?” He tilts his head to you, holding out his contoured hand and gesturing for you to follow him into the snow.

Freeridge glows with tacky christmas lights, the kind that look like they’ve been pulled from 90’s deadstock. Lights hang from Oscar’s porch too, dull bulbs you convinced him to string along the roof with nothing more than the promise for a kiss.

As you intertwine hands, for a stretch the only sound in the neighbourhood is snow crunching beneath your boots. His eyes search the streets instinctively, but when they finally settle they settle on you, “shit feels different with you.” He speaks like it’s casual, lighting his cigarette as if those words don’t reek of love and admission.

“Didn’t think i’d ever have a christmas like this again.”