safe hands
HAVE YOURSELF A MERRY LITTLE CHRISTMAS BY JUDY GARLAND
I stare at the outfit options laid out on my bed. This felt like a casual invite—hell, I even joked about sweatpants. But now? Now I’m getting ready to go to Oliver’s apartment on Christmas Eve, for the very first time.
My phone buzzes, like he knows I’m spiraling.
Oliver: I was serious about the sweatpants, by the way.
Oliver: I say that because I imagine you’re stressing about it right now.
Oliver: (photo)
I open it and immediately bite my lip, because there he is, standing in front of his mirror in black track pants and a fitted black tee, hair messy, smirking at the camera like he knows exactly what he’s doing, curving his body like that.
I smile, tossing the outfits back into my closet and returning with a pair of sweats.
Me: Sweatpants. Got it.
I’m about to put my phone in my pocket when it buzzes again.
Oliver: Pack a bag.
Oliver: I want to wake up with you tomorrow.
I sit at the edge of my bed, pulling on a pair of socks while my heart flutters.
This whole arrangement is temporary. No strings or expectations.
We both agreed to this because it’s the only way it can be.
But… it’s also Christmas, and he wants me there.
He wants to wake up on Christmas morning with me beside him, and that does something to me.
I grab a small wrapped gift sitting on my desk and put it in my overnight bag. I wasn’t even sure if I was going to bring it. I’ve had it for weeks, but it felt too intimate. But now, it suddenly doesn’t feel like too much. It feels just right.
It only takes me fifteen minutes to get over to Oliver’s apartment. He’s one of the only players to live so close to Ashdown Park and the training grounds. Most of them live outside the city, but many of them have families and are settled down.
I don’t even have to knock. The door opens just as I raise my hand, and there he is, grinning at me. He’s in the same outfit from the photo, though his cheeks are a little flushed, like he’s overheated.
The smell of his apartment instantly hits me, wrapping around me like a blanket. The scent of rosemary and garlic wafts into the hallway, beckoning me to come inside. It just smells like a holiday.
“Hey,” he says, stepping back to let me inside.
“Thanks for having me.”
“Of course.”
He takes my overnight bag as I kick off my shoes by the door.
His apartment is modern and spacious, but still cozy.
It’s more openly laid out than mine—the kitchen, dining, and living area all in one large, flowing space.
One wall is exposed brick and lined with bookshelves.
In the corner of the living area is a fireplace with a string of warm fairy lights over the mantle.
There’s music playing too. It’s not overplayed pop Christmas music. It’s the kind that makes you feel something. Nat King Cole, I think, or maybe Bing Crosby. It’s just classic, soulful.
I inhale deeply and glance around his apartment. “Okay, what smells so good?”
He grins, backing towards the kitchen. “That would be your Christmas dinner.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “You’re cooking?”
“I figured if you’re only having one English Christmas, I should make it a proper one.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but it is a big deal to me.
The way he says it—so casual and genuine. It’s just soft, like it’s a fact. Like of course I deserve more than sad takeout, cheap wine, and crying by myself while watching Love Actually.
He leads me into the kitchen, hand brushing my lower back in a way that makes my stomach flip. He heads over toward a large, well-stocked wine rack built in next to his cabinets and pulls out a few bottles.
“Impressive,” I say, examining the bottles of wine he picked out. “I had you pegged as a beer-and-whatever’s-in-the-fridge kind of guy.”
“I can be.” He tilts his head at me and smirks. “But I also like good wine.”
He hands me a glass and I give it a little swirl, watching the tannins slowly drag down the sides.
“Can I help with anything?” I ask, leaning up against the counter. I like watching him move around the kitchen. It’s comfortable, confident—it feels like a different kind of intimacy.
“Nope,” he says, opening the oven door to check something. The scent that pours out just smells like home. “Just relax. Drink your wine. Let me take care of you.”
Take care of me? God, I don’t even know the last time someone took care of me, or went out of their way to do anything for me. No one’s ever cooked for me before. I’ve never been able to just be somewhere without expectation of reciprocation.
So, for once, I sit and let someone take care of me.
I watch as he moves around the kitchen, doing multiple things at once but never seeming flustered.
It’s like he knows exactly what he’s doing, like this isn't a performance, just instinct. It’s unfair how sexy he is right now, in track pants, cooking a full English Christmas dinner, forearms flexing as he moves between basting the turkey and stirring something on the stove.
“You make this look so easy,” I say after watching him maneuver around the kitchen.
“What?”
“This,” I say, gesturing toward the stove. “How many dishes are you making at once? Gravy from scratch. Yorkshire puddings. It’s nuts.”
He shrugs. “It’s not that hard.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oliver…”
“Okay, it’s a little hard,” he concedes, flashing me a full smile. “Especially the Yorkshire puddings. They’re temperamental little buggers.”
“You’re kind of a show-off,” I murmur.
He winks, pulling a dish out of the oven. “Only for you.”
When he starts placing the dishes on the table, I’m salivating and practically full just from the smell alone.
It looks like every feast I ever saw in the Great Hall of any Harry Potter movie.
A perfect, golden roast turkey in the middle, surrounded by stuffing, roasted potatoes, Yorkshire puddings, honey-glazed carrots, and homemade gravy in a real gravy boat. A gravy boat, for fuck’s sake.
I blink, stunned. “Oliver, this looks like a postcard.”
He smiles at me, but seems nervous. “Yeah?”
“I can’t believe you did all this,” I say, genuinely floored. “Like… you cooked this. You. From scratch. If I didn’t watch you do it, I’d think you ordered this.”
“Mum taught me everything.” He shrugs, but I can tell he’s proud. “Taste it first though. Maybe it only looks good.”
“I swear, if it tastes even half as good as it smells—”
“Then I win Christmas?”
“Then you destroy Christmas, Oliver.”
He laughs as he pours more wine into both our glasses and sits down across from me. I get both the turkey and the stuffing on my fork and shove it into my mouth.
“Oh my god,” I say, hand over my mouth. “Oliver… I’m sorry.”
“Bad?”
“No.” I shake my head. “You’re a better cook than your mother.”
His eyes go wide as he grins. “I’m texting her that.”
“I’m serious. It’s incredible,” I say, taking another bite of turkey.
“Bloody lush, innit?” he says, raising his glass to me with a cheeky grin.
We dive into the meal, and each dish is somehow better than the last. We’re laughing, drinking, and stealing bites from each other’s plates like this is our fiftieth Christmas.
“Alright,” he says, picking up his third Yorkshire pudding. “Favorite Christmas?”
I take a sip of wine, letting it sit in my mouth while I think.
“Probably when Luke was with us. The year he lived with us as an exchange student was the only Christmas we actually spent at home. It snowed like crazy that year, and he and I went to Central Park and made a snowman together. We went ice skating, got cocoa, and my parents took us to the Christmas show at Radio City.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It was.” I pause, remembering the holiday while also trying to push back my emotions. “It was… it was the first Christmas I remember feeling like I had a brother. He still feels like my brother. What about you?”
“Mine was with Henry,” he says, voice soft.
“I was fourteen. We didn’t have a lot that year.
I knew money was tight and Mum was working extra shifts at the hospital, so I didn’t ask for anything, even though I needed new football boots.
But on Christmas morning, I came downstairs and there they were, sitting under the tree.
He had saved up and bought them for me, and then he spent the day following all our holiday traditions, so that even without Mum there, it was still Christmas.
We made a roast dinner for just the two of us and watched The Muppet Christmas Carol.
It was the best Christmas because it was so simple.
” Oliver goes quiet, tracing the rim of his wine glass. “It was our last Christmas together.”
I reach across the table, placing my hand over his. We sit like that for a moment. No jokes. Just wine and candlelight.
And for the first time in a long time, Christmas doesn’t feel like yet another thing I’m surviving.
I try to insist on helping clean up, but Oliver shoos me out of the kitchen.
I take my wine and walk around the living room, watching his life and career unfold in photos.
I like how personal his apartment feels.
It’s not an episode of Cribs where his entire apartment is just a shrine to himself.
There’s not a single photo of just him, and many of them have nothing to do with football.
Even his Christmas decorations are personal. Every ornament on his tree looks like he’s had it for years, or it’s been passed down to him. The lights on the tree cast the whole room in a warm, dreamy glow that makes everything feel more romantic.
Oliver disappears into the hallway for a second and comes back with both arms behind his back and a mischievous grin on his face.
“Okay. Ready for another English tradition?”
I narrow my eyes. “That sounds ominous.”
He laughs, pulling two bright red cardboard tubes from behind his back. “Christmas crackers.”
“Crackers? Oliver, I cannot eat any more food.”
“No,” he says, smile widening. “It’s not like that.”
“Oh, thank goodness.”