I end the call and toss my phone back onto the couch. It bounces onto the floor.

It’s noon on Christmas Day, so I don’t know who could possibly be visiting. It’s either the kids upstairs securing their place on next year’s Naughty List, or it’s Mrs. Laghari next door, who always needs to borrow a cup of sugar that we never have.

So when I pull the door open and it’s someone else, my heart drops all the way down onto E 17th Street.

“Asher.”

His eyes meet mine briefly—hesitantly—before they fall onto his feet, like he’s admiring the worn leather of his Saint Laurent boots, which honestly, is a very Asher thing to do. Always so put together, I’m surprised to find him standing in front of me in a pair of black jeans that have been worn one too many times without washing and a wrinkled maroon crewneck. His hair is wrangled underneath a beanie, but a few wisps have broken free.

He’s holding a brown paper bag in one hand and a box of donuts in the other.

“They didn’t have any strawberry frosted, so I hope chocolate’s okay.”

For the first time since learning how to talk, I forget how to speak. My brain can’t articulate words—just feelings. And I’m feeling everything at once. An ache in my chest. A dizzying sense of grief. Jarring happiness. Paralyzing shock. I’m the human embodiment of someone hitting play on every single Taylor Swift song at once.

He remembered what we talked about when we were on the sleigh ride. Of all the things I’ve said to him over the last year, this is what he remembers.

I’m all frenzied emotions when I grab his face, cradling his cheeks in my shaking hands. I kiss him because I don’t know what else to do—because I want to, because I miss him, because even after everything that happened, the feelings I have for him run deeper than anything I’ve ever felt.

The kiss is soft and slow and salty from the tears I don’t realize are falling. I don’t want it to end—I want to stand in the doorway until we ring in the new year—but Asher sighs against my mouth and pulls away.

“O,” he whispers, dropping his forehead against mine.

God.

I want to kiss him again.

“Come in.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He follows me back to the couch, stepping over the boots, jacket, and pants thrown carelessly on the floor. The apartment isn't a total pit, but it does look like a dryer barfed clothes all over the place. Asher’s eyes linger a little too long on a pile of underwear I haven’t shoved into a drawer yet.