I used to think a candy cane tasted the best on Christmas, until I kissed your lips on wine.

The day you handed me that candy cane, I felt a warmth in my chest that rivalled the chill of the winter air outside. We'd gotten closer, hadn't we? It was no longer just the quiet exchanges of avocado toast and coffee. There were now words, smiles, and a certain familiarity that made me look forward to your visits in a way that was different from before.

You walked into the café that morning, the usual air of calm confidence around you. I greeted you with a smile—one that now came more naturally than it used to. You ordered your usual, and, as always, I turned away to brew your favourite cup, the rhythm of this ritual comforting, familiar. When I turned back, ready to hand you your drink, I noticed something small in your hand.

"What...is that?" I asked narrowing my eyes. 

Your eyes held mine for a moment, a soft gaze implying something I couldn't comprehend—like there was a secret they wanted to share. Then, with a quiet smile, you placed what you were hiding, gently in my palm. 

It was a small candy cane, wrapped in that clear, crinkly wrapper.

"Merry Christmas," you said, your eyes twinkling with that playful light I was beginning to recognise.

Your fingers brushed against mine—just for a moment, lingering longer than necessary, but enough to send a warmth up my arm. I looked up at you, surprised, my heart stuttering slightly at the unexpected tenderness in your eyes. I took the candy cane from you, feeling its cool surface against my palm, and for a moment, I was at a loss for words. 

"Thanks," I finally managed, my fingers curling around the peppermint-striped treat, the cool plastic crinkling beneath my touch. "I, uh... I didn't get you anything."

You shrugged, that easy smile tugging at the corners of your lips, teasing but warm. It was as if you had anticipated my awkwardness, the way I always seemed to fumble when you were near.

"How about a free coffee, then?" I offered, trying to match your casualness, though my heart was still caught up in that brief touch.

Your eyes sparkled, and you leaned against the counter with a kind of effortless grace, the light catching in your hair, making the moment feel like it was suspended in time. "I was thinking more along the lines of showing me around the city," you said, your voice low, almost conspiratorial.

The request caught me off guard, my breath catching for just a second. My mind raced, but my body betrayed me, nodding before I even had the chance to fully process what was happening.

"Sure," I said softly, meeting your gaze and feeling that familiar pull between us, stronger now, more undeniable. "Why not?" 

We spent the day wandering through the city, the crisp winter air nipping at our cheeks as we walked side by side. The streets were bustling with people, wrapped in coats and scarves, moving in that holiday rush, hurried steps crunching on the light dusting of snow beneath their feet. Christmas decorations adorned the buildings—garlands, twinkling lights, and wreaths that added a festive glow to the cityscape.

We talked about life, the kind of conversation where time feels like it slips away unnoticed. I learned so much about you that day.

You were new to Ravenwood, having come through a transfer program to the art university. You played piano—that was your passion, the thing that made you come alive. Your eyes lit up when you talked about it, the same way they did when you mentioned the kids you taught in your free time. 

It was your sister who first inspired you. She played the violin, and from the way you spoke about her, it was clear that you were her biggest fan. You told me how, as kids, she'd sit you down, make you listen to her practice, nudging you closer to music, almost without you realizing it.

Slowly, but steadily, she made sure you were always within reach of those keys. Now, all these years later, you found solace in the piano, the way your fingers danced across the keys much like they fidgeted with the scarf around your neck as we talked—wrapping and unwrapping, almost unconsciously.

Even beyond music, your life was filled with shades of black and white, much like the ivory and ebony keys you played. Your father was a stern man, rigid in his beliefs, his sense of right and wrong drawn in sharp lines, with little room for anything in between. He valued discipline, order, tradition—themes that ran through your childhood and shaped the way you viewed the world. 

Your mother, on the other hand, was quiet, composed, and distant, always appearing more like a perfect portrait than a person. She lived by the rules set for her, never stepping out of line, her world confined within the black and white boundaries your father had drawn. You didn't say much about her, but in the quiet pauses between your words, I could sense that there were things about her you loved, things you missed deeply. I could tell, because I was like you.

We both knew what it was to love someone from a distance, to feel that ache for something or someone that's just out of reach. Maybe that's why it was so easy to connect with you.

You thought there was no place for vibrant colours or wild dreams in the life that had been crafted for you. Everything was laid out in neat lines—disciplined, orderly. But music became your way of pouring colours into that world. The rich hues of passion, creativity, and freedom found a way to bleed through the black-and-white keys of the piano. 

You needed more than just the structure you were born into—that's why you left Italy, your home. Here you could crave a life where the edges weren't so defined, where you could let your heart run free.

I could see it—the wild, free soul that lived beneath your composed, calm demeanour. It revealed itself in the flicker of your eyes. You were trying to live within the lines, but it was clear you didn't belong there.

We wandered through the streets, the city transformed by the festive spirit. The usual grey tones of the buildings and the damp blue of the sky seemed less oppressive, replaced by bursts of colour—red ribbons tied to lamp posts, green fir trees adorned with lights, and golden reflections shimmering in the wet pavement. It felt like the whole city had come alive, breathing with the warmth of the season. 

I showed you the quiet, almost sleepy corners of my world with such a thrill despite despite the cold air nipping at our faces. Most of the shops were closed for Christmas, but the local food mart had stayed open for the last-minute rush of forgotten ingredients. You laughed when I told you how every year the same panic set in—someone always forgot the eggs or the wine. We passed the municipal council building, the kindergarten nestled next to the school, and the small pharmacy on the corner that never seemed to close.

When we stepped into the library, I wasn't too surprised to see it still open. The old lady librarian Mrs. Belle lived here whether it was Christmas or Easter. Belle was really kind and nice. She greeted us from behind her desk, her glasses perched at the end of her nose.

"Merry Christmas, Belle! How's it going?"  I greeted, genuinely glad to see her.

"Oh! I didn't expect to see you here today. Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas!" Mrs. Belle exclaimed, her voice warm and inviting as she approached us.

"Oh, you know how it is—I hate the cold!" She shivered dramatically, her arms wrapping tightly around herself as she exaggeratedly stamped her feet against the chill. Her cheeks turned a rosy red, and she puffed out her breath in little clouds, shaking her head like a disgruntled child. "I swear, every year I say I'll move somewhere warm!" She chuckled, though her eyes sparkled with the kind of warmth that only comes from someone who truly loves their job despite the cold.

Her gaze then landed on you, and her expression instantly softened, lighting up like the Christmas decorations outside. "Oh? Who's this handsome fella?" she asked, a teasing smile spreading across her face.

"This is my friend," I said, gesturing toward you with a sense of pride. "He's new to town, and I was just showing him around."

You smiled, extending your hand toward her. "It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. Bell."

She took your hand, shaking it gently, her own face lighting up further as she examined you. "Charmed, I'm sure! It's nice to meet someone who has such good taste in friends." She winked at me playfully, and then her gaze turned back to you. "You take care of this one," she added, her tone a mix of warmth and mischief, gesturing toward me with a gentle nudge before returning to her desk.

We wandered between the aisles aimlessly. There was a peacefulness to the library, your fingers brushing idly along the spines of the books as we moved through the quiet space. When we reached the music section. You seemed at home here, your touch lingering on the books as if you were absorbing the content by osmosis. Your eyes lit up as you flipped through the pages of old scores and compositions, and I couldn't help but smile at how naturally you gravitated toward it.

We left the library, stepping back out into the cold, and right next door was a small park. The snow-dusted benches invited us in, and we settled down together. The air was crisp, but sitting next to you, the cold didn't seem to matter. 

The city felt quieter now and I thought I would take a taste of your treat. I slipped the candy cane I had secured in my pocket, unwrapping it slowly—the crinkly packing crumpling in my hand before I showed it back to the coat pocket.

I placed candy cane between my lips, fondly suckling on the treat. The cool, sharp sweetness of peppermint flooded my senses. It was refreshing, almost biting, as the mint mingled with the cold air, leaving a tingling sensation on my tongue.  

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed you watching me, your gaze steady and unwavering, and it made my heart flutter in a way I hadn't been prepared for. There was something in the way you looked at me—more intense, more focused than usual—and it sent a current of heat coursing through me despite the freezing air. 

A daring thought bubbled up in my mind, and before I could second-guess myself, I pulled the candy cane from my mouth. The tip glistened from where my lips had been and liked my lips wet and I was hyper-aware of every move I made.

"Is that good?" you asked, your voice low. Your eyes never left me, tracing every subtle motion with such intensity that it was almost palpable.

I managed to keep my demeanour calm, though inside, I was anything but. The playful glint in your eyes made it harder to hold onto that calm. "You do realise," I teased, raising an eyebrow, "you're looking at me in a way that I might read it wrong?"

You gulped slightly—around nothing—and the reaction almost made me chuckle. But what caught me was the flicker in your gaze. Amusement, yes, but something else as well—something that made my stomach twist in the most thrilling way.

"Is that so?" you asked, your voice carrying a new kind of edge, like you were daring me to push further.

I shrugged, my lips curling into a mischievous smile as I licked the candy cane again—this time more deliberately, dragging my tongue along the length of it in a way I knew you wouldn't miss. 

And then, with a playful glint in my eye, I held the candy cane out towards you, my lips teasing at the edges. "Wanna take a lick?" I asked, knowing exactly how suggestive it sounded.

You chuckled, shaking your head with an amused grin, though I could see the way your breath caught for just a moment. "After you've molested it like that? No, thank you." You smirked, leaning back slightly as you met my gaze.

The sound of our laughter mixed with the festive noise of the city. The calm, collected demeanour you carried with you was still there, but around me, you allowed yourself to be a little more playful, a little more open.

And even without realising it, I was getting closer to that part of you—the wild, untamed soul you tried so hard to keep hidden. It was in the way you moved, talked, smiled. It was in the way you looked at the world. Slowly, I found myself drawn to it, like gravity pulling me toward a piece of you I hadn't known I was searching for.

We sat there for a while, the noise of the city swirling around us—the laughter of children, the distant chime of church bells, and the hum of conversations from passersby. The bench beneath us was cold, but the warmth from your presence made it bearable. There was something comforting about the way you settled into silence, like the absence of words didn't need to be filled. It wasn't awkward—it just felt... right. Like the quiet between us was just another way of communicating.

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