It’s insane how different New York feels at midnight in December. Snow is piling up outside the hotel window like it’s trying to swallow the whole city, and I’m pretty sure my toes have officially stopped feeling anything. Mason swears he’s used to it, but I don’t think any amount of rock-star swagger can make this kind of cold tolerable. Luckily, the heat in the room is working overtime, and Shane and Zach have already claimed one bed with that smug, “we run this” energy that only twenty-somethings can pull off without consequences.

I’m standing at the bathroom mirror, greenish goo smeared over my cheeks, and somehow it doesn’t feel weird having you here. You’re wiping away any blush remains and stubborn mascara. I swear I watched you use like 3 pads. The snow outside crunches under invisible footsteps, and the room smells like whatever Mason insisted we get from room service plus a faint trace of Shane’s cologne.

“You sure that stuff isn’t permanent?” I ask—half as a joke.—tilting my head and examining the way your eyeliner smudges slightly in the warm light. You shake your head, tugging at your messy bun.

“Conor, you’re a real ditz sometimes” You smiled, finally wiping away what you deemed as ‘enough’. You had a little mascara left but .. it works on you. But I continue my focus on the facemask I’m currently holding.

I blink, smearing the mask onto my forehead like a five-year-old who doesn’t care if it’s even. “Right.. it was a bit dumb” I clear my throat, trying to act normal, but it’s hard. Hard not to notice the curve of your smile as you brush a stray eyelash from your cheek. Hard not to notice the little pause you take before you look back at the mirror, giving a small smile.

The snow keeps falling outside like it’s in slow motion, and I can hear Mason’s deep, steady snore from the other side of the room. Shane and Zach are probably glued to their phones, probably whispering like teenagers who just discovered something scandalous. And here we are, two of us pretending to focus on facemasks and makeup wipes, both aware that neither of us wants to admit the room feels too small and warm and quiet when it’s just the two of us at this hour.

“You know,” I say, leaning a little closer to the counter, “it’s kind of weird, sharing this room with four people, but… kind of nice having some quiet, too.” I’m not sure if I mean the room, or you, or both.

You glance at me, eyes soft, and that’s the moment the smile spreads all the way to your eyes. “Yeah… it’s nice.” And then, just like that, the space between us feels charged. Not electric, exactly—more like the anticipation before the first snow falls, or the first note of a song you know is going to stick with you.

I reach up, wiping off some of my mask on my jawline, and you mirror the motion, laughing softly at the ridiculous shapes we’re making. And I swear, for a second, time stretches. Maybe it’s the snow, maybe it’s the warmth, maybe it’s that stupid way your laughter makes the corners of my chest tingle.

“You should sleep soon,” you say, though your tone makes it sound like a suggestion rather than an order.

“Yeah… but I’m not tired,” I admit, because lying is pointless, and also because the truth is that I don’t want to leave this mirror, this room, this moment.

You tilt your head, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear, and the dim light catches the faint shimmer of the mask. “Neither am I,” you whisper. And I feel my heart do that stupid, ridiculous flip that it always does when it’s you.

I glance at the bed across the room where Mason and I share it, and then back at you. The snowstorm outside is relentless, the world frozen over, but right here, right now, I feel like maybe the two of us could survive anything—even five people crammed into a tiny hotel room, even the coldest December night in New York City.

And then, without thinking, I just… grin. “Good. Because I don’t think I’d mind staying up a little longer.”

Your laugh is soft, warm, and the way you glance at me in the mirror makes my chest feel warm and fuzzy inside.