Off Script

The cold December air bit at my face as I stepped out of the subway station, tucking my hands deeper into the pockets of my wool coat. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the glow of the streetlights, dusting the sidewalks of Greenwich Village. The city pulsed with the energy of the holiday season--shop windows twinkling with festive lights, pedestrians bundled in scarves and heavy coats, the scent of roasted chestnuts wafting from a street cart. But tonight, my mind was elsewhere.

I was thinking about the solstice.

Growing up in Athens, where winter nights stretched long and quiet over the Ohio hills, I'd always found something magnetic about the longest night of the year. A pivot point in time. Nature's own revelation that even in the deepest darkness, light was already planning its return. After everything that had happened in London--the career breakthrough, the late-night calls with Emma that made the distance feel both infinite and insignificant, the way my feelings for her had crystallized into something I couldn't ignore--tonight felt weighted with possibility.

When I reached Joseph Leonard, a small bistro tucked into a quiet corner of the West Village, I spotted Emma through the fogged windows. She was already inside, claiming our usual corner table, her long black hair still wind-tousled, a cream sweater hugging her curves. She looked up as I stepped inside, and her smile--god, that smile--hit me like a shot of whiskey, warming me from the inside out.

"You're late," she teased as I shrugged off my coat and slid into the seat across from her. The candlelight caught in her eyes, turning them from ocean-blue to midnight.

"Barely," I countered, brushing snowflakes from my sleeves. "I was savoring the moment." I gestured out the window, where the snowfall transformed the city into something softer, almost dreamlike. "It's the solstice, you know."

Emma tilted her head, a strand of hair falling across her cheek. "Are we celebrating the changing of the seasons now? Very pagan of you, Harris."

"I like the symbolism," I admitted, leaning forward. The table was small enough that our knees brushed underneath. "The longest night means everything gets a little brighter after this. Seems like a good time to think about the future." Emma's lips curved around the rim of her wine glass. "Is this your way of telling me you're having an existential crisis over dinner?" I chuckled, reaching for the bottle of red between us. "No crisis. Just... possibilities."

The server set our plates down--my braised short ribs nestled against a bed of root vegetables, Emma's roasted chicken glistening with herbs and surrounded by wild mushrooms. Before I could even pick up my fork, Emma was already eyeing my plate with that familiar gleam in her eyes.

"You know," I said, unable to hide my smile as she speared one of my carrots without asking, "most people would consider that theft."

"Mm," she hummed around the stolen bite, "consider it a tax for putting up with your philosophical musings about the seasons." She was already plotting her next target--the mushrooms from her plate that she knew would end up on mine anyway. This had become our ritual: the casual migration of food between our plates, the way she'd trade her mushrooms for my roasted vegetables, how she'd always insist on "just a taste" of my dish before inevitably claiming a quarter of it.

The candlelight caught the silver bracelet on her wrist as she reached across with her fork again. "These short ribs are incredible," she said, making no attempt to disguise her theft. "Want some of my chicken?"

I smirked, already reaching for the mushrooms she'd pushed to the edge of her plate. "I thought you'd never ask."

We fell into our comfortable rhythm, trading bites and stories about our day. Emma told me about a new cocktail she was developing for the winter menu at The Dead Rabbit--something with spiced pear and bourbon that made her eyes light up as she described it. I found myself watching her hands as she talked, the way they moved through the air, painting pictures of precise measurements and delicate garnishes. She caught me staring and raised an eyebrow.

"What?" she asked, pausing with her wine glass halfway to her lips.

"Nothing," I said, but we both knew it wasn't nothing. It was everything--the way she could turn a simple dinner into an adventure, how she knew exactly which foods I'd want to trade, the familiar dance of our conversation. Even the comfortable silences between us felt right.

"You're thinking about work, aren't you?" she asked, her voice soft but knowing.

I nodded, exhaling slowly. "London was a big moment for me... I've been talking with Jeff, and if all goes well, I'm hoping my temporary assignment turns into something permanent. But not in the way we originally thought."

Emma's brow arched slightly. "Go on." Her fork paused halfway to another bite of my short ribs, and I couldn't help but smile at how even in serious moments, she couldn't resist stealing from my plate.

"If I get the promotion I'm aiming for, I'd be able to work remotely," I explained, watching as she set her fork down, giving me her full attention. "It would mean more freedom. No office grind. And..." I took another breath, "it would mean we could live anywhere." I let that last part hang in the air, watching her reaction carefully.

She blinked, then set her wine glass down, folding her hands in front of her. "Anywhere," she repeated, tasting the word.

A flicker of something--hesitation, contemplation--crossed her face. "That's... quite a coincidence, actually."

"How so?"

She traced the rim of her wine glass slowly. "I've been thinking more about the Danish residency. January 31st is coming up fast."

The deadline. Six weeks to decide whether she'd spend a year in Denmark. I'd been trying not to count the days, but the knowledge sat heavy between us now.

"I know," I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. "Have you been leaning one way or the other?"

Emma looked down at her plate, nudging a mushroom with her fork. "It's complicated. When I applied for it, it was literally everything I wanted. A chance to reconnect with my roots, focus entirely on writing, build connections in the Danish literary world..." She glanced up at me. "But now..."

"Now there's us," I finished quietly.

She nodded. "And it's not just us. It's... everything's different now. The New Yorker piece, the agents who've reached out. My life here has... expanded in ways I couldn't have imagined when I sent that application."

I nodded, reaching across to steal one of her abandoned mushrooms--a small gesture to keep things light, to remind her we were still us, just talking about possibilities. "Yeah. I love the city, but I don't know if I see myself here long-term. At least not forever. What about you? Could you ever picture yourself leaving New York?"

Emma leaned back in her chair, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the condensation on her glass. "I don't know," she admitted. "This city has been everything to me. It's where I rebuilt my life, where I started over after my mom..." She trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence. I'd heard enough about her mother's passing to understand what New York meant to her--not just a city, but a fresh start.

"I know," I said softly, reaching across the table to cover her hand with mine. Her skin was warm from holding the wine glass.

She glanced down at our hands, then back up at me, something softer in her expression. "But that doesn't mean I'd never leave. I mean, I used to think I'd never leave Denmark, and look at me now." She turned her hand over beneath mine, lacing our fingers together.

"I've been thinking about it a lot lately," I admitted. "Not just for the promotion, but long-term. Where we might want to be in a few years, what kind of life we could build together." I paused, suddenly aware of how forward I was being. "If that's something you'd want too, of course."

"You know," she said, voice teasing as she squeezed my fingers, "you're dangerously close to sounding like a man with a five-year plan."

I smirked. "Maybe I am." I ran my thumb over her knuckles, watching the candlelight dance across her face. "Does that scare you?"

"Surprisingly, no." Emma reached for her wine with her free hand, not letting go of mine. "Alright, Mr. Long-Term Thinking. Let's say we do leave someday. Where would you go?"

I exhaled, considering the question. "Somewhere quieter. Maybe a small town with character, or even rural if it's the right place. Somewhere with space, with nature all around us. A place where we can still get a good cup of coffee, but without needing to dodge a thousand people on the way there. I'd like to see seasons change more dramatically than they do here."

Emma smirked. "So, you're saying somewhere with at least one hipster café amid all that nature." She stole another bite of my short ribs, and I pretended not to notice.

"Exactly," I said, chuckling. "Vermont has always appealed to me, actually. Those small towns nestled in the mountains, the fall colors, maple everything."

"I've never been," Emma said, her expression thoughtful. "But I've heard it's beautiful. Very different from Denmark--our landscape is so flat by comparison."

"I just want us to have options," I said, watching her reaction carefully."

Emma studied me for a long moment, her blue eyes thoughtful in the low light. Then she nodded slowly. "Okay. Let's keep talking about it."

Relief bloomed in my chest. I hadn't expected a definitive answer, but hearing her openness to the idea meant everything. I lifted my wine glass. "To new possibilities, then."

Emma clinked her glass against mine. "To the solstice," she added, smirking. "And to you getting that promotion."

We drank, the warmth between us as steady as the candlelight. Then I hesitated for just a moment before speaking again. "There's something else."

Emma raised an eyebrow. "Oh? More big plans?"

I smirked, shaking my head. "Nothing major. I just... I was thinking, now that things are settling down with work, I want to take you to Ohio. To meet my parents."

Emma's eyes widened slightly, and then her entire face lit up in a way that made my heart skip. "Really?" she asked, her voice carrying a note of excitement that caught me off guard. "You want me to meet them?"

"Of course I do," I said, feeling warmth spread in my chest at her reaction. "I know they're going to love you. And I want you to see where I grew up."

Emma grinned, leaning forward slightly. "You're not worried about me charming your parents so much that they end up liking me more than you?"

I chuckled. "Honestly? That's a legitimate concern."

She reached for my hand again, squeezing it. "I'd love to meet them, Matt."

I felt something settle inside me--a feeling of rightness, of certainty. Whatever happened next, wherever we ended up, I knew I wanted Emma there for all of it. The longest night of the year suddenly felt full of promise, like we were standing on the edge of something new and wonderful.

The days leading up to Christmas were a blur of twinkling lights, crowded sidewalks, and the scent of roasted nuts and pine drifting through the cold city air. Snow had dusted the streets earlier in the week, but it had mostly melted into a slushy mess, leaving behind only remnants of white clinging to the edges of sidewalks and the tops of brownstone stoops. Still, the city had its magic--storefronts decorated in extravagant holiday displays, carolers dotting the parks, and the festive chaos of last-minute shoppers rushing down Fifth Avenue.

For me, this was my first Christmas in New York, and while I had initially thought the holiday would feel a little lonely without my family around, spending it with Emma made it feel more special than I ever could have imagined.

Emma had transformed the apartment into a true Danish Christmas haven. Woven paper Christmas hearts hung from the bookshelves and along the window, their intricate designs catching the glow of soft candlelight. The entire space was an embodiment of Hygge--cozy, warm, and filled with the rich scents of cinnamon, cloves, and pine. She had insisted on lighting candles every evening, their golden flicker enhancing the sense of intimacy that wrapped around us like a blanket.

One night, as she arranged plates of Æbleskiver, the small Danish pancake-like pastries dusted with powdered sugar, I couldn't help but chuckle. "I don't think I've ever seen you act so Danish before."

Emma shot me a playful glare as she set a pot of Gløgg on the stove, the spiced wine filling the air with a heady warmth. "I'm always Danish. But Christmas is different."

She was practically buzzing with excitement for Christmas Eve, which, she had explained with great enthusiasm, was the most important part of the holiday in Denmark. "We open presents then," she had insisted, "not in the morning like you Americans. It's tradition."

Seeing her so eager to recreate her childhood traditions made something settle deep in my chest. I realized just how much she must miss her family, the Christmases she grew up with. This was her way of holding onto that, of bringing a piece of Denmark into our home. And if that meant opening presents a night early and indulging in all the Danish customs she wanted, then I was all in.

On Christmas Eve, we sat at the small table, sharing a bowl of Risalamande--the traditional Danish rice pudding with almonds--Emma grinning mischievously as we searched for the hidden whole almond. "Whoever finds it gets a prize," she reminded me, her spoon clinking against the dish as she scooped up another bite.

I narrowed my eyes at her. "You didn't rig this so you win, did you?"

She gasped in mock offense. "I would never! But if I happen to win, I already have my prize in mind."

The way she looked at me made it very clear what that prize would be, and I had no complaints.

On my next scoop, I spotted the almond and held it up triumphantly. "Looks like I win," I said, grinning at Emma. "So, what was that prize again, Ms. Sørensen?"

Emma leaned in; eyes sparkling. "Well, normally the winner gets a small marzipan pig, but since I didn't have time to find one... I had something else in mind."

I raised an eyebrow, playing along. "Oh?"

She smirked. "But since you're an American and all, maybe you should wait until Christmas morning to claim it. You know, keep some of your traditions alive."

I chuckled, shaking my head. "Fair enough. But I expect a very good prize in the morning."

After finishing our bowls, we poured ourselves more Gløgg and moved to the couch, the candlelight flickering against the walls, wrapping us in a golden glow. Emma stretched her legs over my lap and grinned. "You ready for presents?"

I set our mugs of mulled wine down before settling beside her. "Absolutely."

We had agreed to keep things simple, but I had still put a lot of thought into my gifts. Emma went first--a delicate silver necklace with a small pendant shaped like an open book.

Emma's fingers brushed over it, her expression soft. "It's perfect," she murmured, looking up at me. "I love it."

"Glad to hear it," I said, brushing a kiss to her temple. "Now, my turn."

Emma handed me a neatly wrapped package, and as I tore through the paper, I found myself staring down at a beautifully bound leather journal. I flipped it open and was immediately met with pages filled with handwritten notes, little pictures, and ticket stubs. Each entry chronicled a moment from the past few months--snapshots of our time together, from our first date to our trip to London, complete with Emma's witty commentary scribbled in the margins.

I ran my fingers over the pages, my throat tightening. "Emma... this is--this is incredible."

She shrugged; her cheeks tinged pink. "I wanted you to have something to look back on. So, you'll always remember how ridiculously charming and amazing your girlfriend is."

I let out a quiet laugh, but I couldn't stop staring at the pages. It was the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever given me. I looked up at her, the emotion thick in my voice. "I don't deserve you."

Emma smiled, shifting closer. "Too late. You're stuck with me."

I leaned in, kissing her deeply, hoping it could convey even a fraction of what I felt.

"Alright, now it's my turn," Emma said, sitting up. "What did you get me?"

I reached for a larger box, setting it in front of her. She tore through the wrapping paper, then paused when she saw what was inside--a brand-new laptop.

Her lips parted in surprise. "Matt..."

"You keep saying your old one is slow, and I know you've been working on your novel again," I explained. "I figured you could use an upgrade."

Emma blinked rapidly, like she wasn't sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. "This is too much."

"It's not," I assured her. "You've given me more than I can put into words. It's only fair that I support you the way you support me."

Emma exhaled a soft laugh, shaking her head. "You are so sappy, Harris."

"And yet, you're keeping the laptop."

Emma grinned, launching herself into my arms. "Of course, I am."

She curled against my side once more, fingers toying with the edge of the blanket we had draped over our legs. "This is perfect," she whispered.

And I couldn't help but agree. Because in that moment, wrapped in the warmth of Emma's traditions, her joy, and the quiet magic of Christmas Eve, I knew that there was nowhere else I'd rather be.

The next morning, I made Emma watch A Charlie Brown Christmas. She laid with her head in my lap as we watched, my fingers absently running through her hair.

"It's so melancholic," she murmured. "But there's something comforting about it too. Like Christmas is both joyful and a little sad, all at once." She was quiet for a moment. "And look at how simple the animation is, but you can feel everything Charlie Brown is feeling. That's so Danish, actually--this idea that sometimes the simplest thing is the most profound." She glanced up at me. "Though I have to say, no therapist I know would only charge five cents."

I chuckled, running my thumb along her cheek. "Lucy's rates haven't kept up with inflation."

"You know what's really getting me?" Emma continued, her voice softening. "How it's about finding meaning in something that's become too commercial. That feels... especially relevant right now." She reached up, lacing her fingers through mine. "Though I have to say, that sad little tree would look perfect in our apartment."

I kissed the top of her head. "Yeah, that's part of the charm."

We spent the rest of the day in full lazy mode--cozy, cuddled up, watching the snow fall outside. There were no obligations, no rush, just the warmth of each other and the lingering scent of the candles still burning from the night before. Every now and then, Emma would make another observation about American Christmas traditions, or I'd share another childhood memory, and it felt like we were building something new together--a bridge between her world and mine.

In the afternoon, I stretched my arms over my head and turned to Emma with a slow smirk. "Alright, I think I'm ready."

Emma blinked up at me, eyebrows raised. "For what?"

I grinned. "To claim my prize for finding the almond. As the rightful winner of a Danish game, I fully expect a worthy reward."

Emma's lips curled in a knowing smile as she sat up, shifting onto her knees beside me. "Oh, do you now? Well, I'm afraid this isn't exactly traditional, but I hope you'll like it just the same." She tapped her finger against her lips thoughtfully. "You know, traditionally the winner just gets a marzipan pig or maybe an extra dessert... but I think we can bend Danish tradition a little." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "After all, cultural exchange is important, and I find myself increasingly fond of certain American customs."