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Robin’s parents leave around eight.
They do the whole routine in the foyer with their coats half on, her mom asking if she’s sure she doesn’t want to come, her dad reminding her that the leftovers are in the fridge and the turkey is “still good, don’t give me that look.” Robin tells them she’s sure, tells them she’ll eat, tells them to call when they get there.
What she doesn’t tell them is that she's been watching the clock all evening, doing her best not to let her impatience show.
When the door finally clicks shut behind them, the house settles into a quieter version of itself. Not empty. Just still. The Christmas tree lights blinking softly in the living room.
Robin moves through the space like she’s keeping herself busy on purpose. She straightens the stack of coasters on the coffee table, then nudges them back because the alignment suddenly feels too intentional. She crouches in front of the TV and opens the VCR tray just to make sure it’s empty. She slides It’s a Wonderful Life in, rewinds it a few seconds, presses stop.
Everything is ready. She still doesn’t know what to do with her hands.
She picks up the blanket folded over the back of the couch, folds it, then refolds it again slower. She sits. Stands. Sits again. Her thoughts keep pace with her body, quick and jittery, always a step ahead.
By the time the knock comes; light, almost easy to miss, she’s already moving.
She opens the door too fast.
Vickie stands on the porch bundled up against the cold, scarf wrapped high, knit hat pulled down over her hair. Her cheeks are pink, eyes bright. Robin has the familiar, fleeting thought that just when she thinks Vickie can’t possibly get any prettier, she proves her wrong. It still catches her off guard every time.
“Hi,” Vickie says.
“Hi,” Robin says back, her voice coming out just a touch higher than intended.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Vickie adds. “Dinner ran longer than I thought it would.”
“It’s Christmas,” Robin says automatically, then winces and shakes her head. “I mean—you could’ve shown up whenever. I’d still be here, waiting for you.”
Vickie pauses, something warm and quiet settling in her expression. “Okay,” she says. “Good.”
She steps inside. Robin steps back to let her in and then hesitates, suddenly aware she’s never actually done this before. Girlfriend coming over on Christmas night. Girlfriend standing in her foyer. Girlfriend looking around her house…
Vickie saves her by taking off her hat, giving Robin something to focus on that isn’t her face. She loosens her scarf, then glances around the foyer, taking it in.
“My parents left,” Robin says, because the quiet feels louder if she doesn’t fill it. “They’re visiting my aunt. Some overnight thing.”
Vickie nods. “So it’s just you.”
“Yeah.”
A beat passes.
“And me,” Vickie says.
Robin nods once. “Yeah. And you.”
They stand there for a moment longer than necessary, close enough that neither of them quite knows what to do next. Vickie shifts her weight, hesitates, then lifts her arms slightly, offering without committing.
Robin steps in immediately.
The hug isn’t rushed. It isn’t careful in a way that feels forced, either. It lasts long enough to settle into something real. Vickie’s coat is cold against Robin’s cheek, her hair smelling faintly of strawberries, and oddly enough, winter air. Robin holds on a second longer than she probably should, then makes herself let go before she overthinks it.
“You look tired,” Vickie says softly.
“Family Christmas,” Robin says, shrugging. “I’m okay now. It’s quieter here.”
Vickie smiles at that, then follows when Robin gestures toward the living room.
They end up on the couch with little space between them. Vickie slips off her jacket and folds it over the armrest. Robin watches her do it without meaning to, her attention drifting to Vickie’s hands, still pink from the cold.
Without saying anything, Robin reaches for the throw blanket and pulls it across both of them. The fabric settles easily, warm and unassuming, closing the space between them without calling attention to it.
Vickie shifts beside her, relaxing into the warmth just as Robin grabs the remote and presses play.
“I thought maybe we could watch a Christmas movie for a bit,” Robin says, casual on the surface, like she hasn’t already planned this part in her head. She glances over, gauging Vickie’s reaction.
Vickie smiles, small and genuine. “Yeah,” she says. “That sounds really nice.”
For a while, they just watch.
After a few minutes, Robin shifts. Then shifts again. Eventually, without quite thinking about it, she moves even closer, Vickie doesn’t move away. When Robin finally slips her hand into Vickie’s, it’s tentative at first, like a question.
Vickie’s fingers curl around hers easily.
Robin’s thumb starts tracing slow circles without conscious thought, grounding her in the rhythm of it. That’s when she notices.
Vickie’s hand is still cold.
She adjusts her grip slightly, covering more of it with her own, like that might fix it.
“You’re freezing still,” Robin murmurs.
“A little,” Vickie admits, glancing down at their hands.
Robin considers this for exactly half a second before the solution presents itself. “I can make hot chocolate,” she says. “We can drink it while we watch.”
Vickie’s smile is soft and immediate. “Yeah, okay,” she says.
Robin reluctantly lets go of Vickie’s hands and stands, already heading for the kitchen.
She expects Vickie to stay curled into the blanket; instead, she hears footsteps behind her.
⸻
The kitchen light clicks on, brighter than the living room. Robin blinks once, then moves like she’s done this a hundred times, because she has. The familiarity helps; it gives her somewhere to put the nervous energy that keeps trying to climb her throat.
She fills the kettle at the sink and sets it on the stove. Two mugs go onto the counter side by side, close enough that their handles almost touch.
Vickie stays near the doorway for a moment, like she’s orienting herself, then leans her hip against the counter. Her hands disappear into the sleeves of her sweater again, fingers tucked away.
Robin immediately notices, because how could she not.
The kettle starts to warm, a soft hum beginning under the metal.
“Okay. Hot chocolate,” Robin says, mostly to herself, opening a cabinet. She pauses, then opens another. Then a drawer.
Her parents have absolutely moved things around in the kitchen. Great.
She stares into the cabinet like it might cough up the missing hot chocolate packets if she looks hard enough.
Vickie’s mouth curves slightly. “Did you lose it?”
“No,” Robin says, too quickly. Then she exhales. “Yes. My parents reorganized. Which is… annoying of them.”
Vickie laughs quietly, a soft sound that makes Robin’s shoulders loosen without permission. “Do you want help?”
Robin gestures vaguely at the cabinets. “Unless you have psychic abilities, probably not.”
“I can try,” Vickie says, and pushes off the counter.
She moves in a way that’s unhurried, like she belongs in the room. She opens a cabinet Robin already checked, reaches behind something, and pulls out the hot chocolate packets like she knew exactly where they’d be.
Robin stares at them. “How did you—”
Vickie lifts one shoulder. “I guessed.”
“You didn’t,” Robin says, half impressed, half offended.
Vickie smiles and sets the packets down. Their fingers brush when Robin reaches for them, and neither of them pulls away too quickly. It’s enough to make Robin’s brain briefly forget what she was doing altogether.
She forces herself back into motion.
A spoon, two packets torn open. The kettle isn’t ready yet, so Robin starts searching for the new location of the marshmallows.
Vickie watches from close by, elbow resting on the counter.
The kettle starts to whistle, pulling Robin out of her thoughts a second too late.
She laughs under her breath, turns the burner down, and pours the hot chocolate into the mugs and hands one to Vickie, fingers lingering just a beat longer than necessary.
Vickie wraps both hands around it like she’s been waiting for the warmth. Her fingers are still a little pink at the tips.
Robin watches the way her hands fit around the ceramic and has to make herself look away. They sip in companionable silence for a moment, standing shoulder to shoulder at the counter.
Robin opens the fridge again to put the milk away and pauses.
There’s a foil-wrapped plate on the top shelf, cookies she’d made with her mom that morning.
“Oh,” she says quietly, taking them out of the fridge.
Vickie tilts her head. “Cookies?”
“From earlier,” Robin says. “I made them this morning.” Robin sets the plate on the counter between them.
Vickie reaches for one, breaks it in half before taking a bite, unhurried. “These are really good,” she says, eyes flicking to Robin.
She takes another bite, then looks up, the corners of her mouth lifting just a little, “I didn’t know you baked.”
Robin shrugs, trying not to make it a thing. “I do sometimes.”
“That’s kind of… cute,” Vickie says, and then seems to realize she said it out loud. Her cheeks pink a little deeper. “Sorry. I just—”
Robin’s heart gives a small, stupid lurch. “No,” she says quickly. Then, softer, “It’s fine.”
Vickie sips her hot chocolate again, eyes flicking away like she’s giving both of them space to recover. Robin focuses on her own mug for a moment. She feels as though the kitchen is warmer now, not just from the stove.
Vickie sets her mug down and taps the cookie plate lightly. “You know there aren’t many of these left. We should make more.”
Robin blinks. “Now?”
“Why not?” Vickie says easily. “We’re already up, you’ve got everything we need… and I kind of want to see you do your thing.”
Robin glances around. The night is late and quiet and theirs.
“Okay,” Robin says, the smile in her voice giving her away. “I should remind you, we just discovered my parents absolutely rearranged things today.”
Vickie hums, unbothered. “I think we can handle it.”
Robin lets out a quiet laugh. “I don’t think you’re prepared.”
They start pulling ingredients out, or at least attempting to. The mixing bowl turns up exactly where it’s supposed to be, which feels like a small, undeserved victory.
The measuring cups take longer. Flour appears, then sugar. The wooden spoon goes missing long enough for Robin to briefly question her parents’ sanity before it finally turns up in a drawer crowded with potholders, a pair of scissors, and an inexplicable collection of birthday candles.
Vickie moves around the kitchen with her, passing things over before Robin has to ask, steadying the bowl when it slides too close to the edge of the counter. Her sleeves are pushed up now, hair slightly mussed from the hat she’d worn earlier, and she looks comfortable in the space in a way Robin isn’t prepared for.
It’s the kind of ease that belongs there. The thought catches Robin off guard, enough that she has to look away and focus on measuring flour before it settles too deeply in her chest.
Robin finally finds the spatula she’s looking for and hands it to Vickie. “Here, stir.” Vickie takes the spatula and leans over the bowl, stirring slowly, careful not to splash batter over the edge.
Robin stays close, reaching in to add chocolate chips and sprinkles as Vickie mixes, their shoulders brushing now and then as they work. At one point, Vickie dips a finger into the batter without asking and tastes it, completely unapologetic.
Robin opens her mouth to protest on principle, but the words stall when Vickie’s expression softens, her smile small and unguarded, like she’s waiting to see if she’ll get away with it.
“It’s good,” she says.
Robin huffs. “You can’t just—”
Vickie wipes the batter from her finger, then reaches for the flour. She tips the bag just enough that a faint cloud lifts and settles against Robin’s sleeve.
Vickie looks up immediately, eyes widening. “Oh—”
Robin glances down at the dusting of white, then back at her. “You did that on purpose.”
“I absolutely did not,” Vickie says, and the denial almost works… right up until her mouth betrays her, curving like she’s barely holding back a smile.
Robin steps closer, pinches a small bit of flour between her fingers, and flicks it back lightly.
It lands on Vickie’s shoulder.
She freezes, staring down at it like she’s trying to decide how serious this just became. When she looks back up, she’s smiling.
“So that’s how it is,” she says.
“You started it,” Robin replies, already grinning.
Vickie’s response is measured. A careful flick of flour, more suggestion than attack, dusting across Robin’s other sleeve. Robin answers with a small flick of her own, sending a light dusting of flour toward Vickie’s sleeve.
Vickie laughs under her breath and retaliates, just as restrained, brushing a bit of flour back across Robin’s shoulder with her fingertips. Neither of them goes very far. It stays contained, deliberate, little bursts of white drifting through the air, settling on the counter, the floor, their clothes. A faint streak across Vickie’s cheek that Robin notices immediately.
She lifts her hand without thinking, brushing it away with her thumb.
Her touch lingers, just a moment longer than necessary as Robin becomes abruptly aware of how close they’re standing, of how quiet the kitchen is beneath the faint hum of the fridge. Vickie doesn’t pull away. She just watches Robin’s face, calm and attentive.
Robin clears her throat. “Okay. Cookie focus.”
Vickie’s smile is fond. “Cookie focus.”
They fall back into the task, shoulders bumping now and then. Robin talks a little too much because she can’t help herself, explaining why this recipe works, how long the oven needs, how her mom insists on a specific brand of vanilla like it matters.
Vickie listens, amused, nodding, occasionally handing Robin something before she asks for it.
By the time they scoop the dough onto the tray, both of them are warm, a little flushed, and smiling. Robin slides the tray into the oven and sets the timer. The beep feels authoritative in the quiet kitchen.
They stand side by side, leaning lightly against the counter, catching their breath in a way that makes Robin feel stupidly happy.
Vickie takes a sip of her hot chocolate and glances toward the living room. “We can
go back while they bake,” she says. “Keep watching.”
Robin nods. “Yeah.”
She hesitates, then adds, quieter, “Okay.”
Vickie looks at her like she understands exactly what that extra okay means. Then they head back to the couch together.
⸻
The living room feels different when they come back to it. Warmer, somehow, like the air’s shifted just enough to make room for both of them in it.
Robin settles onto the couch first this time, instinctively leaving space she doesn’t actually want. Vickie closes it without comment, curling back under the blanket with an ease that makes Robin’s chest tighten in a way she refuses to examine too closely.
The movie picks up where they left it off. Black-and-white light flickers across the room again, soft and familiar. Robin presses play and then stills, hyperaware of how close they are, how close they’ve been all night.
Vickie shifts, tucking her feet beneath herself, shoulder brushing Robin’s arm. Robin adjusts, resting her arm along the back of the couch like she’s done it a thousand times, even though she hasn’t. When Vickie leans into it fully, her head settling against Robin’s shoulder, Robin’s breath stutters despite her best efforts to keep it even.
She doesn’t move for a moment, afraid she’ll do something wrong. Then she relaxes, slow and careful, letting her arm curve naturally around Vickie’s shoulders.
It feels right in a way that makes her stomach flip.
“Is this okay?” Robin asks quietly.
“Yeah,” Vickie says without hesitation. “It is.”
The certainty in her voice loosens something in Robin’s chest.
They watch the movie like that for a while. Or at least, the movie keeps playing. Robin couldn’t say what’s happening on screen if someone asked. Her attention keeps drifting back to the weight of Vickie against her side, the warmth that’s finally chased the cold away, the way her breathing gradually evens out.
At some point, Vickie shifts again, lifting her head slightly. “I almost forgot,” she says softly.
Robin hums. “Forgot what?”
Vickie shifts upright and reaches for her bag, and Robin feels the absence immediately, her expression tightening just enough to give her away. “I brought something,” Vickie says.
Robin’s heart kicks a little faster.
Vickie pulls out a small, neatly wrapped box and holds it out, hesitating just a fraction of a second before letting go. “It’s not anything big,” she says.
“Oh, Vick,” Robin says quietly as she takes it, peeling the paper back with deliberate care, more focused on steadying her hands than on getting it open.
Inside is a compact mirror.
It’s heart-shaped, but simple. The metal is smooth and cool against her palm, and heavier than she expects. She opens it and catches her reflection, the tree lights glowing faintly in the glass behind her. When she looks up, Vickie is watching her quietly, giving her space to take it in.
“I figured you’d like something small,” Vickie says. “Something you could keep with you.”
Robin nods, throat tightening. She turns the mirror over once more before answering. “I love it,” she says, soft and honest. “Thank you.”
Vickie exhales, her shoulders easing like she’s been holding that breath all evening.
Robin doesn’t put the mirror down. Her thumb traces the edge absently, not inspecting it so much as grounding herself in the feel of it.
Vickie shifts beside her and reaches into her pocket like it’s an afterthought. She sets something down on the cushion between them.
Robin notices the second mirror immediately, her gaze shifting from the one in her hand to the matching shape resting on the couch, then back again, slower this time.
“Oh,” she murmurs.
“They came as a pair,” Vickie says, quiet and a little careful.
The meaning settles in without being named. Robin stills, thumb pressing lightly into the cool metal, and takes a measured breath, letting the warmth of it sit where it lands instead of reaching for words.
“I got you something too,” Robin says, standing a little too quickly and steadying herself. Vickie looks up at her with a soft, knowing smile.
Robin disappears down the hall and returns with the bag she’d tucked away earlier, offering it with careful hands, like she’s afraid of doing it wrong. Vickie takes it gently, slipping a hand into the bag and moving the tissue aside before looking inside. When she sees the earrings, she goes still.
Robin watches her face, every shift in expression feeling louder than it should.
“They’re from a flea market,” Robin says, filling the silence before she can overthink it. “Steve and I were walking around and I saw them and—” She stops herself. “I thought you’d like them.”
Vickie lifts the earrings out, turning them between her fingers, studying the small details like she’s committing them to memory. Then she sets them carefully back into the box and looks up.
Her smile is slow and sure; “I love them,” she says. “They’re perfect.”
Robin exhales, only then realizing how tightly she’d been holding herself. Vickie closes the box and keeps her hand resting on it for a moment longer than necessary before reaching for Robin’s hand. She gives it a small, grounding squeeze, then lets their fingers settle together naturally.
“Thank you,” she says.
“Of course,” Robin replies, her thumb already tracing slow circles against the back of Vickie’s hand without conscious thought. For a moment, they just sit there, hands linked, the movie forgotten entirely.
Then Vickie shifts closer.
It’s subtle, easy. She closes the space between them like it’s the most natural thing in the world, her knee brushing Robin’s, her body angling toward her instead of the screen.
Robin’s heart thuds, loud and insistent.
Vickie tilts her head slightly, close enough now that Robin can feel her breath against her mouth. She doesn’t rush it. She waits, eyes flicking briefly to Robin’s lips and back again, like she’s giving her every possible chance to pull away.
Robin doesn’t, she leans in.
The first kiss is gentle, almost tentative, their mouths brushing like they’re still figuring out how close they’re allowed to be. It lingers, unhurried, then deepens just a fraction, enough to feel intentional. Vickie’s hand tightens in Robin’s, a small, grounding squeeze that sends a quiet jolt through her chest.
Robin exhales into the kiss, the last of her nerves easing as she realizes they’re moving together without thinking about it, matching each other’s pace instinctively. When she tilts her head, Vickie follows, their mouths fitting together more easily now, confidence blooming in the space between breaths.
Vickie’s free hand lifts, hesitates, then settles at Robin’s collarbone, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt like she needs something solid to hold onto. The touch is careful but sure, and it makes Robin’s heart stumble.
She slides her hand to Vickie’s waist, steady and warm, drawing her closer without breaking the kiss. Vickie responds immediately, shifting her weight until she’s half-kneeling, half-sitting—then, almost without ceremony, she swings one leg over Robin’s and settles fully into her lap.
Robin freezes for exactly half a second, then her brain catches up, and the thought lands, loud and incredulous and impossible to ignore: oh.
Vickie’s hands rest lightly at her shoulders now, her body warm and close, close enough that Robin can feel the rise and fall of her breath. The kiss deepens again, slower this time, heavier with intent. Robin’s hands find her waist more securely, thumbs pressing in just enough to anchor her there, like she’s afraid the moment might slip away if she doesn’t.
They break apart just long enough to breathe, foreheads brushing, noses nearly touching. Vickie smiles, a little breathless, eyes bright.
Then she leans in again.
This kiss is different—still gentle, but surer. Vickie moves with more confidence now, her mouth fitting easily against Robin’s, her weight settling more fully into her lap. Robin feels it everywhere, the closeness, the trust, the way this has crossed into something neither of them has let themselves have before.
She thinks, distantly and with absolute clarity, this might actually be the best Christmas present I’ve ever gotten.
They lose any sense of rhythm after that, kissing and pulling back only to lean in again, uncoordinated in the way that comes from not wanting to stop. Their noses bump once, clumsy enough to make Vickie laugh softly against Robin’s mouth, the sound warm and breathless.
Robin smiles into the kiss and slows them down without meaning to, her hand steady at Vickie’s waist, thumbs tracing small, absent arcs as they settle into something easier, unhurried, content to stay exactly where they are.
Robin barely registers anything except the warmth of Vickie in her lap, the soft press of her weight, the way her hands fit so naturally at her waist.
Then the timer shrieks.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Robin mutters, glancing toward the kitchen like it personally betrayed her. “I finally have you on top of me and it couldn’t wait one more minute.”
She pauses. “Oh no.” She presses her lips together, then sighs. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
Vickie’s laugh comes out surprised and soft. “I didn’t realize sitting on your lap would be such a milestone,” she says, eyes bright, glancing briefly toward the kitchen like it’s an afterthought. “But… considering we both completely forgot about the cookies, I guess that tracks.”
“I absolutely did not forget,” Robin says, still smiling. “I was just—prioritizing.”
Vickie laughs harder at that.
They stand reluctantly, still a little breathless, and head back into the kitchen together, fingers brushing as they go.
The cookies are… mostly fine. A little darker around the edges than planned. They eat them anyway, standing at the counter, stealing glances and smiling like they’re in on a secret.
When they return to the couch, the closeness comes easier. Vickie curls into Robin’s side without hesitation now, head settling against her shoulder. Robin pulls the blanket back over them, her arm fitting naturally around Vickie’s shoulders.
The movie resumes, but neither of them is really watching anymore. At some point, Vickie’s breathing evens out, her weight going pleasantly heavy against Robin’s side.
She’s asleep.
Robin doesn’t move; she watches the screen flicker quietly, one hand resting at Vickie’s back, the other curled loosely around the matching mirror still within reach on the table.
The house hums softly around them, and for the first time all day, Robin feels completely, undeniably at ease, like Christmas has finally settled into something simple and right.