The first thing Jordan noticed when he woke on Christmas Eve morning was Ben’s deep voice drifting up from downstairs, muffled but unmistakable, rumbling through the old floorboards like a distant thunder. He opened his eyes lazily, the room still dim in the pale pre-dawn light filtering through the curtained windows. A quick glance at the ancient analog clock on his nightstand, the same battered thing he’d had since he was ten, confirmed it was barely six a.m. Outside, the world was pure, perfect snow white: thick and unbroken on the lawn, clinging to the bare branches of the oaks, muffling everything into a soft, crystalline hush. The old quilt and flannel sheets had turned his bed into a warm, heavy cocoon, the kind of cocoon that made the cold world feel far away and safe.
He felt relaxed in a way he hadn’t in months, maybe years.
He could hear his mom’s voice too, bright and laughing, saying something he couldn’t quite catch, followed by Ben’s low chuckle and the soft clink of mugs (coffee, probably). Then footsteps on the stairs, deliberate but unhurried, creaking along the hallway that led straight to Jordan’s childhood bedroom.
Jordan didn’t move until Ben stepped into the bedroom.
It was like the air itself shifted with his presence, the man he loved, finally there, filling the doorway with broad shoulders and that familiar, grounding weight. It had only been a day, not even that, since Jordan had left him in the Chelsea loft and driven north alone. It felt like years.Ben crossed the room in three quiet strides, the floorboards creaking under his weight, and the scent of good coffee followed him: rich, dark, with that faint cardamom note his father had brought back from a business trip to Dubai decades ago and Jo had kept buying even after the divorce, like a small, stubborn tradition no one wanted to let go.
He set one mug on the nightstand, then crouched beside the edge of the bed. One big hand brushed Jordan’s hair back from his forehead, thumb lingering at his temple.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Ben murmured. He planted a soft kiss on Jordan’s forehead.
“Gonna open those pretty eyes for me?”
Jordan made a show of it, fluttering his lashes like a princess waking from an enchanted slumber, blinking dramatically until Ben’s grinning face came into focus.
“Thought you’d never get here,” Jordan whispered.
Ben leaned down and kissed him on the lips, slow and lingering.
“I’m here now,” he said against Jordan’s mouth. “Not going anywhere.”
Jordan kissed him again, and again, deeper this time, hand sliding to the lapel of Ben’s jacket (another new one, thick wool that smelled like cold air and money) and tugging, trying to pull him down into the bed, make use of the morning wood already straining his briefs.
Ben didn’t budge.
“Jo says you got ten minutes to get up,” he rumbled, amused, “before she comes up here with a bucket of water.”
“Too bad for her,” Jordan said, grinning up at Ben from the bed, “I’ve got my strong boyfriend to protect me.”
Ben’s laugh rumbled wicked. “Me? Nah, Jord. I’ll be in the corner filming and putting it online. Maybe we could get you an internet career too.
Jordan laughed, the sound bright and easy in the quiet bedroom, but something tugged sharp at his insides all the same. The joke was harmless, but it landed like a pebble in still water, ripples spreading to places he didn’t want ready to look in that moment. The internet. OnlyFans. Ben missing dinner with his family because he’d been in a hotel room fucking Dante Montoya. The laughter faded from his throat. He rolled onto his side, facing Ben, and forced the smile to stay.
“Yeah,” he said lightly, “I’ll leave the stardom to you.”
As promised, Jo made Jordan spend the entire day slaving away at Christmas. After a hearty breakfast of thick-cut applewood bacon crisped to perfection, fluffy scrambled eggs laced with cheddar and golden hash browns with caramelized onions, plus another steaming mug of Jordan’s father special Dubai roast coffee, Jo shooed her Walt out of the kitchen with a playful swat of her dish towel. She tossed Jordan a festive apron embroidered with dancing reindeer and pointed him straight to the sink, ordering him to scrub and quarter the Brussels sprouts while she prepped the turkey. When Ben asked how he could help, Jo dismissed the idea sweetly, insisting he was a guest and shouldn’t lift a finger.
Jordan, elbow-deep in green sprouts, pointed out that technically he was a guest too.
Jo swatted him lightly with the hand-towel for the impertinence.
But, she added while Jordan was still rubbing the sting away, if Ben really wanted to help, she’d be eternally grateful if he could shovel the long driveway and clear the path to the garage, something Walt had been stalling since the day before. Ben grinned, shot Jordan a wink, and said he expected a beer and a “sammich” waiting when he returned. Jordan muttered that it was very offensive and borderline homophobic that Jo would treat Ben as “the man” in their relationship.
Jo swatted him with the towel again, harder this time, but her eyes sparkled with laughter as she turned back to the stove.
Jordan and his mom spent the whole morning cooking, the kitchen warm with the scent of roasting meat and spices, eggnog flowing freely from the carton Jo kept spiking with a generous splash of bourbon. Jordan had missed her. He’d never been much of a momma’s boy as both of his parents had pampered and spoiled him in equal measure, but with Jo in Connecticut and his dad who moved to the city after the divorce, he saw far more of one than the other these days..
He listened as she talked, words tumbling out in that bright, effortless way she had when she was happy. She filled him in on all the gossip: the scandal in her book club over who’d “borrowed” a rare first edition and never returned it, the bridge club drama involving Mrs. Langford’s alleged cheating with marked cards, the latest antics at the community center where she volunteered (someone had tried to donate a box of romance novels with covers so steamy the director nearly had a heart attack). She even dished a little on extended family: Aunt Melanie stubborn refusal to get hearing aids, Great-Aunt Irene’s ongoing feud with the next-door neighbor over whose cat was terrorizing whose garden, Cousin Oliver (Jordan had no idea who that was), who had taken up online dating and was now “seeing” a retired cartomant from from Portland.
When he mentioned Aunt Theresa’s new hobby of competitive pickleball, Jo paused mid-stir, leveling him with a judging stare that could curdle milk.
.
“Theresa also mentioned Nolan’s having a hard time reaching you.”
Jordan cringed, embarrassment flooding his cheeks as he focused harder on the carrots he was chopping.
“I know, I know,” he muttered. “Things have been crazy lately, Mom. I’ll talk to him soon, I promise. How’s he doing, anyway? Is Uncle Nick still giving him a hard time about being gay?”
Jo frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”
“What do I mean, what do I mean?” Jordan echoed, knife pausing. “Aunt Theresa told me Uncle Nick hasn’t really accepted his coming out.”
Jo snorted, rolling her eyes so hard Jordan heard it.
“That’s what she told you?” She shook her head, turning back to the stove. “I swear to God, my sister is blind to who her son really is. Yes, Nick’s been giving him a hard time, but it has nothing to do with his sexuality. He’s furious Nolan lost his scholarship for, and I quote, ‘inappropriate behavior.’”
Jordan’s knife stopped completely.
“What?” he asked, shocked, the carrot forgotten in his hand.
“Oh yes,” Mom answered, eyes lighting up with that familiar gossip gleam. “That crazy cousin of yours got caught streaking across campus at three in the morning, drunk as a skunk, wearing nothing but a rainbow flag as a cape. Security chased him for six blocks. It was in the college newspaper and everything. If you ask me, the only reason he came out to his parents right then was to take attention away from what he’d done. Theresa ate it up, of course, but Nick wasn’t as charitable.”
“Jesus Christ,” Jordan said, laughing despite himself, shaking his head as he resumed his work on the carrots. “What does she want me to talk to him about, then?”
Jo shrugged, stirring the gravy with a wooden spoon. “I don’t know, honey. Maybe put some sense into that child’s head?”
“Me?” Jordan snorted. “That’s her job, not mine.”
He felt the guilt about dodging Nolan’s texts ease considerably, sliding way down his list of priorities. He loved Aunt Theresa and would reach out eventually, he’d do it for her., but talking sense into her wild-child son had just dropped to the very bottom of his to-do list.
The morning dissolved into afternoon, the kitchen growing warmer with every passing hour, the snow outside piling higher in soft, silent drifts. When Ben returned from shoveling the driveway, they paused for an improvised lunch: leftover prime rib sliced thick and piled on crusty rolls, melted sharp cheddar oozing over the edges, all of it drizzled with the rich gravy they’d made for dinner later that night. The sandwiches were messy, perfect, eaten standing around the island with napkins and laughter.
Afterward, they returned to cooking. The cocoa was swapped for a fine bottle of Pinot Noir that Jordan eyed with surprise because Ben, who never drank anything fancier than Bud Light, had apparently brought it with him. Jo poured generous glasses, the deep red catching the tree lights from the living room, and they toasted to nothing in particular while the turkey roasted in the oven and the sides came together one by one. The afternoon slipped by in easy rhythm: chopping, stirring, tasting, the occasional stolen kiss when Jo’s back was turned. For those few hours the kitchen felt like its own small world, warm and safe and full of the kind of ordinary magic Jordan hadn’t realized he’d been starving for.
The dinner was a feast, far too much food for only four people, but Jordan felt starving after a day of hardwork, and Ben had the kind of appetite that could have fed five of himself without breaking a sweat. He let Jo live out her dream of having a son who didn’t care about preserving a six-pack, accepting seconds and thirds with grateful enthusiasm, piling his plate high with more turkey, extra gravy, another helping of garlic mashed potatoes. Jordan watched him, amused at first, then with a quiet flicker of realization. Ben had no qualms about skipping the strict diet he’d imposed on himself for months. This wasn’t just holiday indulgence; Jordan thought back and remembered Ben cracking a beer the night he’d come home from work three days ago, then another the day before that. The monk-like regimen of grilled chicken and greens had quietly slipped away sometime in the last week.
Then came the presents.
They migrated to the living room after dessert, Jo’s famous pecan pie with vanilla bean ice cream, the tree lights twinkling soft gold against the snow-pressed windows. Wrapping paper rustled, ribbons curled on the carpet, Midas nosing hopefully at every crinkle. Jo and Walt spoiled them both shamelessly: cashmere sweaters for Jordan, a new leather wallet for Ben, a ridiculous amount of gourmet snacks and even some new gadgets neither of them needed but would use anyway.
Ben’s gifts were much more extravagant: a rare first-edition Hemingway inscribed to a Yale professor, the camel Loro Piana tote for Jo that made her gasp and hug him tight. Like he had promised, Ben’s gifts for Jordan were way too much: a sleek brown leather weekend duffel from Berluti, a beautiful black-and-grey Hermés wool scarf that draped like liquid cashmere, a pair of noise-canceling Bang & Olufsen headphones Jordan had mentioned once in passing months ago, and, cherry on top, a beautiful pair of vintage watches from the 1970s, one for Jordan and one for Ben himself, identical twins with warm cream dials and supple leather straps. Jordan’s own present felt modest by comparison, but Ben tore into his with glee he’d shown while unwrapping the new Wayfarer Clubmaster Jordan had hidden for weeks.
Walt had joked, raising his glass with a twinkle, that maybe someday those watches would be rings, making Jordan go red with embarrassment, face burning as he ducked his head. Ben only looked at him, eyes steady and warm behind his glasses, in a way that said he wanted nothing more than to make that come true.
On Christmas Day, after the frenzy of presents Jo, clutching her new camel Loro Piana tote like it was made of gold and Walt announced they had a Christmas luncheon at the country club and would be gone for the day. The door shut behind them with a cheerful wave, leaving the house suddenly, deliciously empty.
Jordan and Ben spent the entire day crammed together in Jordan’s old bed, the one that creaked under their combined weight like it was scandalized. They traded slow kisses that turned hungry, hands roaming over familiar skin, rediscovering every inch with the lazy urgency of lovers who finally had nowhere else to be. Clothes peeled away in stages, discarded on the floor amid crumpled wrapping paper from the night before, until they were skin to skin under the heavy quilt. Ben’s mouth mapped Jordan’s throat, his chest, lower, while Jordan arched and gasped, fingers twisted in Ben’s hair. They moved together in that cramped twin bed like they were making up for lost time, caresses turning to strokes, breaths turning to moans, until both of them exploded in cum, messy, breathless, laughing into each other’s necks as the snow tapped softly against the window.
Part of Jordan wanted to ask then, in the hazy afterglow, how it had felt fucking Dante Montoya into submission. A dark, whispering part of him insisted his orgasm would have been even more powerful if Ben had leaned in and murmured every filthy detail: how Dante had begged, how he’d broken, how it felt to wreck that cocky Cuban until he called him Daddy. The question burned on his tongue, but he swallowed it.He didn’t want to bring any of that into their snowed-in Christmas, into the house where he’d grown up, where the walls still held echoes of childhood and everything was supposed to stay innocent. No, it was better if Montoya and porn stayed locked away in New York City, buried under the snow with the rest of the world.
The next few days slipped by in a haze of holiday bliss, the kind Jordan hadn’t felt since he was a kid: lazy mornings tangled in sheets with Ben’s warmth pressed against him, waking slow to the soft creak of the old house and the muffled hush of snow against the windows; afternoons bundled in coats and scarves for snowball fights in the backyard that always ended the same way:breathless, laughing, pinned against a snow-laden pine with Ben’s cold hands sliding under layers of wool to find skin, kisses tasting like winter air and stolen hot chocolate. Evenings were for the fire: board games spread across the coffee table, Monopoly turning cutthroat when Jo landed on Boardwalk, Walt’s terrible poker face giving him away every time, too much eggnog laced with bourbon, laughter echoing off the rafters while Midas snored at their feet. The snow never let up, blanketing the world in quiet white, turning the house into a perfect, insulated bubble where nothing outside could touch them.
Neither of them mentioned work once.
Ben’s phone stayed face-down on the nightstand, Big Ben’s Twitter feed abandoned after a single post on Christmas Eve, a raunchy close-up of his thick cock, rock-hard and leaking a shiny bead of precum, with a tiny red Santa hat perched jauntily on the swollen tip. The caption read: “Ho ho ho… who wants Big Ben’s special delivery down their chimney?”, no replies enabled, no mention of the Montoya collab, the account silent for the first time since the Ezra clip exploded. Jordan only touched his phone when Bethany, Evan Hargrove’s unflappable personal assistant, left a voicemail reminding him to RSVP for the New Year’s party Evan and his husband were throwing on the last day of the year. He listened to it once, thumb hovering, then set the phone aside without responding.
For those few days, the outside world stayed locked out with the cold.
It was exactly what Jordan needed.
He wondered how long that could last.
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