Page 1 of Remain

1

Savannah

New York Citydoesn’t ease you into Christmas. It slinks a garland around your neck and slaps you across the face with mistletoe. Hard.

Then asks why you’re not smiling.

It glitters at you, loudly, aggressively, as though Christmas showed up uninvited and immediately took over the whole damn house. You can’t escape it even if you try with lights everywhere, wreaths zip-tied to scaffolding like the city panicked at the last minute, and bells ringing with the enthusiasm of someone who’s never met seasonal depression.

Rockefeller Plaza looms like a dare. An iconic shrine to Christmas past, present, and impossibly well-lit. The kind of place you grew up watching in movies, where everyone falls in love, nobody slips on ice, and coats apparently provide zero insulation but look great doing it.

This is the Christmas people picture when they think ofthe holidays and New York City is turned all the way up to an eleven. The city comes alive buzzing with tourists, overpriced cocoa, and the unspoken understanding that we are all pretending this is magical and not deeply inconvenient.

I kind of like that about it. Even if I dread this time of the year.

Snow drifts between buildings that have never known my mother’s name, and that anonymity feels like mercy. No one here expects me to decorate a tree or show up for traditions I abandoned years ago. No one looks at me like they’re waiting for me to remember who I used to be. I can just dip into it momentarily and find refuge back in the safe space I built for myself.

I wrap my fingers around my coffee mug and stare out the window of my Brooklyn studio apartment, watching the city pulse below. Somewhere down the block, Mariah Carey is threatening to defrost, and I shut the window before the sound can crawl inside my chest.

I step back from the glass.

My apartment is quiet in a way Pineview never was. Clean lines. Neutral colors. No hand-me-down furniture. No photographs framed with love instead of symmetry. Everything here is intentional, curated. A life assembled piece by piece until it fits neatly around the parts of me I’m willing to acknowledge.

Behind me, the bed creaks.

“You always drink coffee like it personally offended you,” a rugged voice, rough with sleep.

I don’t turn around right away.

He’s stretched out across my bed, naked and unbothered, one arm tucked behind his head, the sheet pooled low on his hips like it forgot its job sometime during the night. His hair is mussed, his mouth curved into an easy smile that suggestshe’s very pleased with how the morning started. I won’t lie, so am I.

“I’m thinking bagels,” he adds. “Or we could be ambitious. Eggs. Something with effort. I make a mean scramble.”

I glance over my shoulder. “You don’t strike me as an effort-before-noon person.”

He laughs softly. “You seemed to like my effort last night.”

Heat flickers in my chest. “Coffee first,” I blush. “Then we’ll see.”

“Fair,” he pushes himself upright, the sheet slipping further. I catch a glance of what lies beneath, the pressure of him still lingering inside of me. “You’re staying in today?”

“For a bit.”

“Good.” He stretches, unhurried. “I could be convinced to stay too.”

“Don’t tempt a girl,” I tease.

He grins. “Challenge accepted.”

I don’t respond. My gaze falls to the floor as I turn back to the window, to the city that keeps moving.

My phone buzzes against the counter. I don’t need to look to know who it is. I already know.

Aunt Carol.

I let it ring.

“Everything okay?” he asks casually, reaching for his jeans.