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’teven 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 justsmellslike 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 itisa big deal to me.
The way he says it—so casual and genuine. It’s just soft, like it’s a fact. Likeof courseI deserve more than sad takeout, cheap wine, and crying by myself while watchingLove Actually.
He leadsme 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.”
