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‘And you’re sure you weren’t summoned here against your will?’
I keep joking about the calendar and its magical powers, even though Charlie obviously doesn’t believe a word of it. It’s the only way I can make sense of him thinking of me while he’s out enjoying himself. And I definitely can’t tell him I wished for a Christmas miracle and actually got one.
‘Nick. I got a cab here because I missed you and I wanted to spend the night in bed with you.’
He snakes his arm around my waist, pulls me in, and kisses me on the nose.
‘Okay,’ I admit defeat. I’m sure he did come here because he wanted to, but I still have a hard time believing it.
‘The calendar isn’t haunted. Janet isn’t a witch, and I came here out of choice. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ I nod, pull him close to me, and plant a kiss on the top of his head. I nuzzle my face into his curls for good measure, breathing him in.
‘I’m glad you came back,’ I whisper in acceptance, and he settles his head on my chest.
‘So… what’s on our agenda today?’ he asks, stirring our tea.
Is it weird that Charlie taking the lead and making our drinks makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside?
Probably.
But he fits here—and he’s starting to flit around the house like it’s his too.
‘I was thinking… a day of festivities. Hot chocolates, baking cookies, maybe a Hallmark movie or two?’
The moment the words leave my mouth, I realise how cheesy I sound. My cheeks heat, embarrassment creeping in.
I open my mouth to take it all back in a rushed panic, but Charlie answers before I get the chance.
‘Enough time for snuggles too?’ he asks, handing me my mug.
‘Of course,’ I say, smiling coyly as I look down, suddenly shy.
‘Sounds perfect.’
We’re cuddling on the sofa, leisurely sipping our drinks, limbs tangled. The TV is rattling off some nonsense neither of us is remotely interested in. We scroll on our phones, Charlie’s fingers idly tapping my thigh in some rhythm I haven’t quite got the hang of yet.
‘I was thinking…’ he says, without even looking at me.
Which, in my strange mind, is peak domesticity.
‘Should we open the calendar this morning? That way we can fit it in through the day.’
‘Yeah, okay.’ It does make sense. I’m reluctant to open it—to let the calendar end. It’s been such an anchor for us both, and I’m struggling to envision what our day-to-day will look like without it.
He turns to me, smiling as he holds my gaze.
‘Kay. I’ll answer some work emails, then we’ll see what voodoo awaits us behind door twelve.’
‘Can’t wait,’ I say—and hope, in my heart of hearts, that it sounded convincing.
Charlie finishes up some work on his laptop, sitting between my legs on the sofa while I try to keep myself occupied.
But I can’t. My hands feel magnetised to him, not happy unless I can feel him beneath my fingertips.
I’ve absentmindedly been playing with his thigh; now my hands are in his hair, teasing at his curls. They slip down, caressing his neck.
I just love touching him, having him here, close to me.
‘You’re distracting me,’ he says playfully, but I immediately still. I’m always too much.
‘Sorry,’ I say, pulling my hands away.
‘I didn’t mean stop,’ he says, reaching behind to grab my hand. ‘I’m distracted because it’s nice, and I’m enjoying it.’
I love how direct he is—how he knows what he likes and isn’t afraid to say it.
He leans his head back and I kiss him on the cheek as a thank you for the reassurance. Before I know it, he’s tapping away on his keyboard again, and I’m rubbing the lobe of his ear between my thumb and fingertip, enjoying the velvety softness there.
This is blissful.
‘You look like you’re about to cry,’ Charlie says dryly.
‘Am not,’ I say, although I sound far too defensive. ‘It’s just the last one, and it’s been fun, and I’m sad it’s ending.’
‘That’s cute. Now open the door,’ he says excitedly, and I love our dynamic. He’s the impulsive menace to my sensitive, fragile demeanour, and I think it works.
I open it carefully. Not because I’m precious about it—but because he’s practically jumping up and down waiting, and it’s funny to watch him get frustrated.
He’s not the only one who can be a menace.
And just as I predicted, he grabs the massive box from me and opens the door himself. I just sit there, watching him, smiling—because even when he’s acting feral, he’s cute.
‘Place your trust in one another, and let instinct take the lead,’ he says. Then, as per, he’s flicking through the cards, and I can’t help feeling extra sentimental.
What if we never had this calendar? Because I would have never been brave enough to put myself out there and ask him to see me again.
Then, again, as per, I have no idea what the prompt means. See, this is what I mean—structure. Predictability. The calendar provides it all.
I’m clearly daydreaming, because when I blink, he’s standing in front of me, looking up at me with those crystal-blue eyes.
‘Do you know what the prompt means, Nick?’ he asks, his voice soft and sultry.
‘Um, no. Not a clue,’ I purse my lips.
‘So… it wants us to give ourselves over to one another.’
I frown, my eyebrows furrowing.
‘Um,’ he chews on his words, like he’s trying to explain something in simpler terms. And it’s not patronising—it’s just another reminder of how thoughtful and careful he is. Because that’s him, always thinking of me… and my heart patters a little bit faster at that thought.
‘Okay. So, I want to be yours.’ My heart definitely picks up at that. ‘For the day. I want to hand myself over to you. I trust you, and I want you to have me, in whatever capacity you want me.’
Oh.
‘What—like, as in… sexually?’
‘Yes. You can choose when and how. However many times you like. And I’ll give myself to you, not because I have to, but because I want to. Because I want you to want me.’
He doesn’t have to worry about me wanting him. Ever. I think that would be the least of our issues, actually.
I spend too much time pondering, and all I manage to mutter—like an absolute dipstick in this unexpectedly heartfelt moment—is, ‘Mine?’
But I needn’t worry, because quicker than ever, Charlie replies.
‘Yours.’
‘Char-lie,’ I huff. ‘You need to take this seriously.’
‘Oh. I am taking this seriously. I have my apron on and everything,’ he says, planting his hands on his hips in the middle of the kitchen.
We’re baking cookies, and he’s being ridiculous.
‘I have a floured handprint on my bum cheek. I really don’t think that’s taking it seriously.’ I’m trying to be firm—maybe even a little authoritative—but I’m failing miserably.
‘I’m so sorry, Nick,’ he says, all cute and earnest, before adding, ‘Let me get it off for you.’
Then he lunges and starts patting my bum aggressively.
‘I’m sure you’ve got it all by now,’ I say, rolling my eyes. Fooling no one, especially not Charlie.
He just laughs and keeps patting and stroking my bum with the odd squeeze, which obviously causes a stir in my groin that I need to ignore in the name of Christmas cookies.
‘Nope,’ he says, face near my backside, apparently inspecting. ‘Loads left. Sorry.’
Then he’s rubbing me down again.
I’m not going to complain this time.
Cookies finally out of the oven, we stand with our arms wrapped around each other’s backs, looking at our creations like proud parents.
‘They actually look amazing,’ Charlie says, surprised.
‘They do.’
‘This has been fun,’ he exclaims, his arm tightening around my side.
‘It really has.’ I kiss the top of his head, then start melting some chocolate to drizzle over a few of the cookies.
Once they’re decorated and setting, I pick Charlie up by the waist and plonk him on the kitchen counter.
He takes this as a prime opportunity to dip his finger into the bowl of leftover chocolate. He circles it around, then brings it closer to my face.
We still, and he stares at me—in challenge or invitation, I’m not sure—but the air shifts from playful to charged all of a sudden.
I don’t hesitate. Eyes locked on his, I lean in and take his finger into my mouth.
‘Fuck,’ he says under his breath as I swirl my tongue, savouring the sweetness of chocolate.
He wraps his legs around me, pulling me closer, and I could melt at the thought that I’m lucky enough to experience this.
I know I could take it further, lean in to the calendar prompt, but the truth be told I don't want to. I’m happy doing this.
Charlie’s nibbled on some warm cookies, but not much else. When I’ve asked him what he wants to eat, he shrugs me off.
It’s lunchtime now; he’s had coffee for breakfast and not much else. I don’t want to pressure him or be a feeder, but I do want him to eat something proper before dinnertime.
‘Hey, Char,’ I say nervously. I’m not sure if it’s my place to broach the subject or not, but at the very least it shows him I’m attentive and that I care.
‘You, um… haven’t eaten much today.’
‘Oh,’ he says, turning around to face me.
We’re sprawled out on the couch, a Christmas movie playing, but like with all Hallmark movies… we all know exactly what’s going to happen.
When I really look at him, his face isn’t as radiant and smiley as usual.
I instinctively frown with concern, and then he shifts looking uncomfortable. Fuck. I try to school my face into something less serious. More light. More airy.
‘I’m just worried you haven’t eaten much, that’s all,’ I say, trying to stop my voice from wobbling.
‘It’s nothing to worry about, Nick,’ he says, smiling—but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He gives me his signature kiss on the nose, then goes to turn back around.
‘Honest,’ he adds, when I gently hold his face.
I’ve got a niggling feeling he isn’t being honest at all, so I persevere—because he gives me the courage to do so.
‘Char…’
‘You’re going to think I’m weird,’ he says, his breathing turning deep and intentional, like he has something heavy on his chest.
‘Never. What’s up?’
I rub my thumb across his jaw, where I’m still holding his face, and I feel him soften slightly under my fingertips.
‘I’m just… a bit worried. About Christmas,’ he sighs. ‘That’s all.’
‘That’s normal,’ I say, reassuring him, feeling slightly relieved.
‘Yeah,’ he agrees—but I have a feeling there’s more. So I hold my tongue, hoping he’ll continue.
And he does. He opens up, and my heart wants to burst.
‘I just find Christmas with my family really hard,’ he admits. ‘And worrying about it makes me anxious. When I’m anxious, it kind of kills my appetite.’
He drops his head, resting it on my chest. I rub his back, and he loosens further. His breathing begins to slow, steadying as he draws quiet breaths in through his nose.
‘I understand, Char. I, uh—’ I hesitate, then push on. ‘I actually spoke to my mum about cutting Christmas short this year.’
I revel in the warmth of Charlie beneath my palms, the weight of him on top of me. I love this so much—especially when he trusts me enough to be this vulnerable.
‘Really?’ He stays tucked against me, surprise lilting through his voice.
Swallowing down the knot of nerves, I push forward, asking a question I wouldn’t have dared to voice not long ago.
‘Yeah. I’m coming back here on Boxing Day. So… um. If you want to join me from then onwards—’
‘That’d be great,’ he says without hesitation, and the relief in his voice is something I’ll hold close. A small, quiet reminder—for later—that sometimes the bravest thing you can do is ask.
I’m sure we fell asleep at some point. Charlie nibbled on a few more cookies and then let me make him a ham sandwich, which he ate like a little chipmunk.
I’ll say it again. Adorable.
And should I be feeling proud of a grown man eating a sandwich? Probably not—but I was anyway, because it settled something in my chest.
Now we’re making out, our lips moving in slow, unhurried rhythms.
He’s lying flush against me. My hands exploring his body, but I don’t feel the need to take it any further—and neither does Charlie. I just enjoy this. Having him here. Getting to feel him, to take him in.
It’s all I could ever want.
‘Char,’ I pull away, dazed. My lips are moist, his hair mussed.
‘Yeah?’ he asks, almost strained, like he’s pained that we’re no longer kissing.
‘You know the calendar prompt…’ I hesitate halfway through, wondering if I should even be asking this, but I continue anyway. ‘Is it just… sexual things?’
‘Oh. Um, I suppose not. What did you have in mind?’ he asks softly, looking at me with the most understanding, comforting expression.
‘I was wondering if I could wash your hair.’
‘Really?’ he asks, his head tipping to the left in surprise.
I just nod, embarrassment lapping quietly at my insides.
‘I’d like that,’ he says confidently, before leaning in again and taking my lips—this time with more pressure, like he’s trying to fill my cup with care and reassurance.
We had our shower, and it was surreal. Just as intimate and soft as I’d expected. Charlie made little noises of pleasure, and I took my time, doing my absolute best to show him how much I care about him.
I think he understands touch is my love language; he softened into it. Just letting me take the lead. We kissed, we touched, we caressed. Our emotions and need for physical contact taking the lead over the need for anything sexual.
I know this relationship of ours is unconventional. But I’ve felt so strongly about him since the moment we first met, and he’s shown up for me at every twist and turn.
I want to be better—emotionally, I mean—and I will get there.
I waddle from the kitchen with two very over-the-top hot chocolates. This is our Christmas, so I think it’s fine to overindulge.
‘Oh my god, Nick.’ His eyes widen and his jaw drops when he sees me walk through the lounge door.
‘What?’ I feign innocence as he just watches, clearly in awe. I place both drinks on the side and then flop down next to him on the sofa, feeling exceptionally pleased with myself.
‘They’re ridiculous. Like they’re from a movie or something,’ he chuckles.
‘Ridiculous but delicious,’ I say, dramatically licking my lips.
We drink the hot chocolates, and I take great joy in licking the cream moustache off Charlie’s lip. God, we’re sickeningly sweet—and I love it.
Then he tells me to sit and stay, because he’s got something for me.
While I’m waiting, I look over at my Christmas tree. It’s never looked so good. Blankets are messily strewn over the sofa, a few unfinished drinks sit on the coffee table—and for once, my house looks lived in.
Like there’s love and happiness between the walls, rather than a lost soul just surviving. Pushing people away.
When Charlie comes back, he stands in front of me in one of my old school rugby jerseys, which he seems to have claimed as his own when we got out of the shower. It hits sexily at his thigh, drapes over his shoulders, and he just looks so fucking good.
Sexier than any of the men in the changing rooms have ever looked, anyway.
I stifle a giggle of thanks that Charlie was never playing rugby with me at school. All those teenage hormones mixed with my incessant need to touch him at all times would have been a recipe for disaster.
Then I look at him, and he’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, flushed. He looks nervous.
‘You okay?’ I ask, looking up at him. He steps forward, and I rest my cheek against his stomach as he cradles my head in his hands.
‘I got you something,’ he says, pressing against my head so I can’t quite look up and meet his eyes.
Then he dangles something in front of me.
I take it in—every bit of its purple goodness. It’s a felt aubergine wearing a Christmas scarf and earmuffs.
A tree decoration.
I giggle, because it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen—besides Charlie, of course.
He releases his grip on my head a little, and I look up at him.
‘Because you, um, didn’t have one this year,’ he says coyly. ‘It’s silly. Maybe I should just—’
He goes to tug it away, and I take it from him, holding it out in front of me, marvelling at its weird and wonderful beauty.
‘It’s an aubergine because of the calendar and all the—’ he cuts himself off and gives me a knowing glare.
‘I love it. Thank you,’ I say earnestly, holding his gaze.
And it’s like all the air is sucked from the room. I’m pulling Charlie into my lap like he’s my lifeline.
I’m overwhelmed with so many emotions, I need to have him. Now.
He doesn’t protest. He drops the tree decoration on the coffee table, and then he’s in my lap and we’re rocking, hands scrabbling for purchase.
Before long, we’re hard and gasping into each other’s mouths, and it’s hungry and frantic— like we’ve spent the entire day indulging in the most intense emotional foreplay.
We lie down on the sofa, side by side. I edge his T-shirt up, but we’re pressed so close together as we rid each other of our clothes.
It’s awkward—there are a few giggles—but the urgency doesn’t calm. It just ramps up.
When we’re naked, I’m not taking my time. I lap at Charlie’s skin, across the tight expanse of his throat and collarbone. He’s moaning already as our cocks brush against each other.
‘Nick,’ he gasps when I nibble at his nipple. He drags my head back up to meet his and breathes into my mouth, ‘I’m so glad I met you.’
‘Me too,’ I rasp, and he’s already reaching down. I follow his lead and we shuffle closer, taking each other in hand, panting between hungry kisses.
I melt into it the second he starts working me, slow at first. He smears the precome down along my length and suddenly we’re both moving quicker, more hurried, like we can’t quite get close enough.
‘This is p-perfect,’ I say. He nods, catching my bottom lip between his teeth.
My stomach is tight, my head already dizzy with how much I want this—with how good it feels.
‘You’re perfect, Charlie. So perfect.’
His hand tightens as he pulls me closer. The angle isn’t great, but we don’t care. We’re both moving as much as we can, like there’s no way to make it better than this anyway.
‘I love spending time with you,’ he says softly. ‘I’ve loved today, Nick. So much.’
Well, it seems that even in the throes of passion, it’s very us to end up having a horned up version of a soppy conversation.
‘Feels so good,’ he squeaks, eyes squeezed shut. It’s just us, lost in the feeling of it.
Overwashed with happiness, emotions swirling through my body and setting every nerve alight, I feel myself pulled dangerously close to the edge.
‘So close, Char,’ I rasp.
‘Me too.’
I change the angle slightly, pulling him closer, and he gasps.
‘Fuck.’
‘Oh my god.’
‘Gonna come.’
‘So good.’
Our voices overlap, messy and intimate.
‘I love you being here,’ I manage—and then we’re coming, near enough at the same time. It’s clumsy and so perfect.
Our breathing is heavy, my forehead slick with sweat.
It’s just us—pressed together, coming down from another orgasm, cocooned beneath the glow of the tree lights.
And truth be told, I don’t want to leave. I’d happily cancel Christmas to stay right here. Like this.
And like he can read my mind, he murmurs, ‘I really don’t want to leave you.’
‘Me neither,’ I huff. ‘Me. Neither.’
We have another shower—quicker this time. Then we’re back in clean boxers, tucked under a blanket with another Christmas film playing quietly in the background, touching each other idly beneath it, absent-minded and warm.
He doesn’t moan about me being annoying. He purrs into my touch, like a cat, every time I do something he likes.
He settles back against my chest, perfectly content, and when I glance towards the window I squint slightly before turning my attention back to the TV.
Then I look again.
‘Char, I need to get up for a second.’
He shifts away so I can stand, watching me as I wander over to the window.
‘It’s snowing!’ I exclaim.
Charlie looks surprised—and then delighted—before he hops up to join me. We stand side by side at the glass, utterly enamoured, watching the flakes drift down and quietly marvelling at the idea of a white Christmas.
After we’ve been standing here far too long, I make a joke. A silly one.
‘You know, wouldn’t it be a shame if we got snowed in?’ I say. ‘Forced to spend our first Christmas together. What a tragedy.’
Heat floods my face immediately, fierce with embarrassment. I brace myself for teasing.
But Charlie just… pauses. Like he’s actually considering it.
‘You know,’ he says slowly, thoughtful, ‘that wouldn’t be such a bad idea.’
I blink at him.
‘The British transport system coming to a halt would be very believable to Jane Spring,’ he adds, lips twitching.
I let that sink in for a moment, trying to work out whether I’m reading this right.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Really,’ he says, eyes still fixed on the window.
There are many important questions I should pluck up the courage to ask him. But right now, I pour everything I’ve got into just one.
‘Would you like to spend Christmas here,’ I ask quietly, ‘with me?’