Page 39 of Midnight and Mistletoe

We walk slowly, the snow flurries catching the colored lights and turning them into small floating jewels. My breath fogs in front of my face. Finn’s does too. The whole street is quiet except for the muffled sound of somebody’s television from inside one of the houses, and the faint hum of about a thousand strands of Christmas lights all running at once.

When I glance at Finn, he’s watching me watch the houses. There’s a look on his face I don’t know what to do with.

I want to hold his hand. I want to stop him in the middle of the street and kiss him under the icicle lights. I want to take a photo of him standing in front of the animated snowflake projection.

I want to know if he comes here every year to look at the lights. Does he come alone or with his best friend? I want to know if this is one of his favorite streets in Winterberry, if he’s just showing it to me because he thought I’d like it, or both.

I don’t ask any of it. Instead, I put my hands deeper into my coat pockets, and I walk beside him.

We do a slow lap of the street while Finn tells me what he knows about the people on the street, some of it I’m sure can’t be true, like the inflatables that flew away in a storm a few years ago and the lights that caused the whole street to go dark.

I listen to all of it, breathing in Finn’s excitement and the cold November air.

By the time we loop back to the corner where we entered, my nose is numb, and I can’t feel my toes. Finn’s cheeks are bright red under his hat. He looks impossibly young, his green eyes shining bright and almost teary from the cold.

We walk back to the apartment in comfortable silence. The snow is coming down harder now. The streetlights are haloed. We don’t pass a single person.

Upstairs, in the apartment, I close the door behind us, and before I even take my coat off, I turn to him, catch his face in both my cold hands, and kiss him.

He makes a small sound of surprise before he melts into it.

I pull back just enough to look into his eyes.

“Thank you,” I say.

“For what?”

“For the walk.”

“You looked like you needed it.”

“I did.”

“Do you feel better?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Griffin.”

“Mm?”

“I want to go outshine that street with you and blow a few fuses. In the bedroom. Right now.”

He laughs against my mouth.

“Blow a fuse?”

“You heard me.”

“That’s a very specific way of saying you want to have sex, Foster.”

He kisses me again, his hands going straight to my hair. My hat drops on the floor somewhere and the scarf follows. Our coats hit the couch in a tangled heap. He’s already walking us backward toward his room.

Right before we reach the bedroom, he stops.

“What’s up?” I ask.