Ho Ho Oh No #5
And so we stay in his bed, cuddling, kissing, the room quiet except for our breathing, and the occasional soft hum or shift.
I close my eyes, letting myself sink into the warmth, the safety, the undeniable joy of being with him.
We’re wrapped in a blanket of lights and snow, the world hushed around us. Santa really outdid himself this year.
CHAPTER FIVE NEW BEGINNINGS
One week later, I’m back in the town square, but this time it doesn’t feel like a punishment.
The Christmas lights are still up—Little Falls never misses a chance to linger in the holiday glow—but now they’re joined by silver streamers and paper clocks taped into storefront windows.
Someone has hung a banner between lampposts that reads HAPPY NEW YEAR!
in slightly crooked letters. The tree from Anderson’s Farm is still standing too, a little drier now, a little more hunched, but lit all the same. Stubborn. Relatable.
There’s a crowd, but it’s thinner than Christmas Eve. Families drift in and out, kids bundled up in coats that are still too big, hats still slipping down over their eyes. A few of them look at me like they’re trying to place my face.
I try a smile on one of them—a boy with a red scarf and matching hat.
“Hey there,” I say, immediately regretting opening my mouth. “Uh. Happy… almost New Year.”
He squints at me.
I nod, like that’ll help.
Brad Lee presses closer to my side, his shoulder warm through my coat. “Hi, Oliver,” he says easily. “Did you have a good Christmas?”
The kid lights up. “I got a drone!”
“That’s awesome,” Brad Lee says. “Just what you asked for.” He knocks his shoulder against mine. “Santa really delivered.”
The boy nods, suddenly chatty, and I stand there, useless but smiling anyway. When he runs back to his parents, Brad Lee looks up at me, eyes bright.
“You did great,” he says.
I snort. “I said three words.”
“Exactly.”
And the thing is—I’m laughing. Actually laughing. Not the tight, careful version I usually offer to be polite. Genuine laughter that comes from my belly and booms out.
I didn’t know I had it in me. I guess I needed Brad Lee Robert Levi (and Santa) to coax it out of me.
Christmas feels both a lifetime and ten minutes ago.
I stayed. All of Christmas Day. And the night.
We couldn’t keep our hands off each other.
It was… unexpected, yet completely correct.
I went with Brad Lee up north the next morning to see his family—warm, loud people who hugged me like they’d been waiting for me without knowing it.
We’ve been inseparable all week.
We only had to work one day between holidays, and Brad Lee brought me lunch like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Hot butternut squash soup from the deli next to the bookstore.
He sat across from me while I ate, feet hooked around my legs, telling me about an idea he had for a spring festival.
I didn’t tell him how much the soup meant. I just wiped my face and kissed him softly.
The night stretches on. The children disappear one by one, herded home by parents who keep checking their watches and the sky. Snow drifts down again, light and lazy this time, like it’s got nowhere urgent to be. And neither do we.
We end up near the clock tower, tucked slightly out of the wind. Brad Lee’s hand finds mine, and my fingers lace through his without thinking. One week and we’re a couple. And when I let my mind ruminate on it, that scares me.
“I need to say something,” I tell him quietly.
He turns toward me, patient. Always patient. “Okay.”
“I’m not good at… this,” I say, gesturing vaguely between us. “Wanting things. Letting myself have them.”
“I know,” he says.
“I’m scared,” I admit. The words feel heavy, but also lighter once they’re out. “Because I want this. You. And I don’t want it to be a holiday thing. Or a snowstorm thing.”
Brad Lee smiles, and my entire world lightens. “Then let’s not call it that.”
“What do we call it?”
He shrugs, squeezing my hand. “We don’t have to name it yet.”
The clock tower chimes, drawing the crowd’s attention. People start counting down together, voices overlapping, messy and joyful.
Ten.
Nine.
Brad Lee turns fully toward me.
Eight.
Seven.
I can smell him—clean, familiar, with a hint of pine from the tree.
Six.
Five.
My chest expands, like a million stars exploding.
Four.
Three.
He leans in.
Two.
One.
“Happy New Year,” he says, and then he’s on his toes, kissing me—warm and sure and perfect.
Cheers erupt around us. Someone lights a handful of sparklers. Snow keeps falling, like it’s reminding us of its role in all this.
When we pull back, he rests his forehead against my chin.
“Maybe we call this”—he motions between us—“new beginnings.”
I nod, holding him close, the town glowing around us, the future stretching ahead of us like a promise I’m finally ready to keep. This must be what all the holiday magic fuss is about.
I’ve never been very good at asking, but somehow Santa still got me exactly what I wanted—for Christmas and beyond.