Chapter Text
The height difference becomes painfully obvious as Greg hangs a sprig of mistletoe in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, not even needing to stretch. Y/n watches him from her perch on a stool, nursing a mug of mulled wine that Pauline had pressed into her hands the moment she'd arrived.
"You're putting that awfully high, Greg. Only giants and basketball players will be able to take advantage," Y/n says, trying to ignore how domestic it feels to be here in his childhood home, surrounded by Davies family Christmas decorations.
Greg turns, his glasses slightly askew, and grins down at her. "Well, I have to make sure I don't accidentally bang my head on it, don't I? Some of us weren't blessed with your compact efficiency."
"Compact efficiency," Y/n snorts. "That's a nice way of saying 'short.'"
Pauline bustles in from the pantry, arms laden with Christmas crackers. "Oh, you two. Still at it after all these years." She sets the crackers down and gives Y/n's shoulder a squeeze. "Greg, love, go help your sister with those bags. The girls have brought enough toys to stock a small shop."
As Greg ducks through the doorway—still ducking after all these years—Pauline slides onto the stool beside Y/n. The kitchen is warm, steamy from the various pots bubbling on the stove, and smells of rosemary and cinnamon.
"It's lovely having you here, you know," Pauline says, her Welsh lilt more pronounced than Greg's. "Makes the family feel complete."
Y/n feels her chest tighten. "That's... really sweet of you to say."
"I mean it. Twenty years you've been putting up with my son. That makes you family in my book." Pauline pats Y/n's hand. "Missing Wisconsin this time of year?"
"A little," Y/n admits, surprised at how easily the truth slips out. "Christmas was always small for us, just me and Mom after Dad left, but we had traditions." She traces the rim of her mug. "She's enjoying Florida though. Hard to be nostalgic for the midwest winters when you're getting a tan in December."
Sian bursts through the front door then, her daughters Emma and Lily racing ahead of her, squealing with delight when they spot Y/n.
"Auntie Y/n!" Emma, the seven-year-old, launches herself across the room. "Did you bring us American sweets?"
Y/n laughs, lifting Emma for a quick hug. "What kind of honorary aunt would I be if I didn't?" She reaches into her bag and pulls out packages of Reeses and Laffy Taffy.
Sian deposits an armload of presents under the tree and comes to kiss Y/n's cheek. "You spoil them rotten."
"Someone has to," Y/n replies, watching as Greg follows, carrying what appears to be half of a toy store.
"You're just doing your duty as their American connection," Greg says, setting down the last of the bags. "Though I'm not sure they need the sugar high on Christmas Eve."
Sian waves him off as she hangs her coat. "Oh, let them be excited. Speaking of excitement," she says, sliding onto a kitchen stool next to Y/n with a mischievous gleam in her eye, "how's your love life these days, Y/n? Any handsome Brits sweep you off your feet yet?"
Y/n nearly chokes on her mulled wine. "My love life? That's quite the conversation pivot."
Pauline joins in, stirring something on the stove that smells divine. "It's a fair question, love. Beautiful, clever woman like yourself shouldn't be spending every Christmas with us old folks-and that includes my grumpy son."
Greg becomes suddenly very interested in arranging tinsel on a nearby shelf, his back to the conversation. Y/n notices his shoulders stiffen slightly.
"Mum, leave her be," he mutters, not turning around.
"What? I'm just saying she should have options," Pauline continues, undeterred. "Twenty years is a long time to be single."
"I'm not—" Y/n starts.
"She's not always been single," Greg interjects, still fussing with the decorations.
Sian's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh? Do tell, Y/n."
Y/n feels heat rising to her cheeks. "There have been... people. Just nobody that stuck." She takes another sip of her wine. "Besides, between deadlines and tours and Greg's constant script revisions, when would I have time to date?"
"She's got a point there," Sian says, turning to her brother. "You do monopolize her time, Greg. Almost like you're doing it on purpose."
Greg turns around at that, and Y/n is surprised to see color flooding his face. He adjusts his glasses, a nervous habit she's noticed over the years.
"I do not monopolize her time," he protests weakly. "Y/n is free to... I mean, I wouldn't want to... she's her own person."
"I was just joking," Y/n says quickly, feeling suddenly guilty. "Greg's not keeping me from dating. My work schedule and general disdain for small talk does that all on its own."
But Greg is still flushed, avoiding eye contact as he mumbles something about checking if the girls need help unpacking their toys. He ducks out of the kitchen, bumping his head slightly on the doorframe in his haste.
Sian watches him go with a satisfied smirk. "Well, that was interesting."
"What was?" Y/n asks, though she has a sinking feeling she knows exactly what Sian means.
"Nothing," Sian says innocently. "Just my brother being my brother."
Pauline shoos them both out of the kitchen. "Enough gossip. Dinner's in thirty minutes. Y/n, be a dear and make sure the girls wash up?"
Y/n nods, grateful for the chance to escape. As she heads toward the living room where Emma and Lily are already deep in play, she catches sight of Greg sitting on the stairs, staring pensively at nothing. He looks up as she approaches, and for a moment, something passes between them—something different from their usual comfortable banter.
"Sorry about that," she says softly. "You know how families can be."
Greg's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "No need to apologize. They mean well."
"They do," Y/n agrees. She hesitates, then adds, "For what it's worth, I like spending my Christmases here. With all of you."
With you, she doesn't say.
"Good," Greg says, his voice a bit rough. "Wouldn't be the same without you."
The moment stretches between them, fragile and loaded with something Y/n isn't ready to name. Then Emma calls from the living room, breaking the spell, and Y/n turns away, wondering if she imagined the whole thing.
Dinner is a festive affair, with Pauline's table practically groaning under the weight of the food. Y/n finds herself seated across from Greg, who's already piled his plate high with roast potatoes.
"Save some for the rest of us," Y/n teases, reaching for the gravy boat. "Some of us need extra calories just to maintain eye contact with you."
Greg grins, his earlier discomfort seemingly forgotten. "I'm a growing boy."
"Growing outward, maybe," Sian interjects, poking her brother's side.
"Oi!" Greg swats her hand away. "I'll have you know this is all muscle."
"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Y/n asks innocently, cutting into her turkey.
Pauline chuckles, passing a bowl of Brussels sprouts. "He was always like this, even as a boy. Multiple stomachs, my mother used to say."
Greg points his fork at Y/n. "Don't encourage her. She'll start bringing out the baby photos next."
"Too late," Sian announces, already reaching for her phone. "I digitized all the embarrassing ones last year."
"God help me," Greg groans, but there's a twinkle in his eye as he glances at Y/n. "You've seen most of them anyway."
"Yes, but the girls haven't," Y/n says, winking at Emma and Lily, who perk up immediately.
"Uncle Greg as a baby?" Emma asks, bouncing in her seat.
"Was he always a giant?" Lily wants to know.
"Actually," Pauline says, passing the cranberry sauce, "he was quite small when he was born. Premature, you know. Could fit him in a shoebox."
Greg nearly chokes on his wine. "That's a slight exaggeration, Mum."
"And now look at you," Y/n says, gesturing at him with her fork. "You could probably fit me in a shoebox."
"I'd need at least a boot box," Greg counters, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Though I'd prefer not to box you up at all. Who would laugh at my jokes?"
"Certainly not your audience," Sian mutters.
"I heard that!" Greg protests, flicking a small piece of bread at his sister.
"Children," Pauline warns, though she's smiling. "We have a guest."
"Oh, Y/n isn't a guest," Greg says, his voice softening slightly. "She's..."
He trails off, and for a moment, their eyes lock across the table. Y/n feels something flutter in her chest.
"She's family," Pauline finishes for him, raising her glass. "To family, old and new."
"To family," everyone echoes, and Y/n is surprised to feel a lump in her throat as she sips her wine.
"Speaking of family," Greg says, clearly trying to change the subject, "Y/n, tell them about that comedian you worked with last month at a family friendly event. The one with the puppet."
"Oh God," Y/n laughs, grateful for the diversion. "You mean Marcus and his ventriloquist dummy? That was a disaster."
"What happened?" Emma asks eagerly.
Y/n launches into the story of the comedian whose act went terribly wrong when his dummy's head fell off mid-performance. As she talks, she notices Greg watching her, a soft smile playing on his lips. When their eyes meet again, he doesn't look away.
"...and then the head rolled right into the front row!" Y/n finishes, and the table erupts in laughter.
"See, this is why I keep her around," Greg says, gesturing toward Y/n with his wine glass. "Best stories in the business."
"Is that the only reason?" Sian asks innocently.
Greg's ears redden slightly. "Well, she also makes a mean cup of coffee."
"And I'm the only one who can reach the lower cabinets in your kitchen without a stepladder," Y/n adds.
"A perfect symbiotic relationship," Greg declares. "I grab things from high shelves, she retrieves items from below."
"Like a comedy Fern and Oak," Sian suggests.
"More like Redwood and Bonsai," Y/n counters.
Greg barks out a laugh. "I'm stealing that for my next show."
"You'll have to pay me royalties," Y/n warns, pointing her knife at him playfully.
"I'll buy you dinner instead," Greg offers.
"You already do that."
"True. I'll buy you a better dinner."
"Deal," Y/n says, surprised by the warmth spreading through her at this simple exchange.
The conversation flows easily after that, moving from work anecdotes to holiday plans to Lily's school play. Throughout it all, Y/n can't help but notice how often Greg's gaze finds hers, how his laugh seems a little louder at her jokes, how he unconsciously shifts in his chair to better face her.
Later, as Pauline serves Christmas pudding and Sian pours more wine, Emma pipes up suddenly.
"Auntie Y/n, are you Uncle Greg's girlfriend?"
The table goes silent. Y/n freezes, her spoon halfway to her mouth.
"Emma!" Sian hisses, mortified.
Greg clears his throat. "No, sweetheart. Y/n and I are just very good friends."
"But you look at her like Granddad used to look at Granny," Emma persists, her seven-year-old logic implacable.
Y/n feels her face burning. She risks a glance at Greg, who looks equally flustered, adjusting his glasses nervously.
"Sometimes grown-ups can be very good friends without being boyfriend and girlfriend," Y/n explains gently, trying to ignore the knowing looks exchanged between Pauline and Sian.
"That's boring," Emma declares, returning to her pudding.
"Out of the mouths of babes," Pauline murmurs, just loudly enough for Y/n to hear.
Greg catches her eye across the table and gives a small, apologetic shrug. Y/n returns a smile she hopes conveys that it's fine, everything's fine, because of course it is. They've been friends for twenty years. Best friends. Nothing more.
So why does her heart feel so strange in her chest when he smiles back?
Later, after dinner, when the girls are playing with their new toys and Pauline has nodded off in her armchair, Sian corners Y/n in the kitchen while they're washing up.
"So," Sian begins, handing Y/n a plate to dry, "has my idiot brother finally gotten around to telling you he's in love with you?"
Y/n nearly drops the plate. "What? No—we're not—he doesn't—"
"Oh, come off it," Sian rolls her eyes. "Twenty years of friendship, and ten living on the same street after he practically begged you to move to London? The man is besotted."
"We work together. We're friends." Y/n focuses intently on drying the plate. "Besides, I'm eight years younger than him and about a foot and a half shorter. We'd look ridiculous together."
Pauline's voice startles them both as she appears in the doorway. "I heard that nonsense. My Bob was way taller than me, and we were perfectly happy for all our years together."
"It's different," Y/n protests weakly.
"Is it?" Pauline raises an eyebrow. "Or are you both just too stubborn and too scared?"
Y/n is saved from answering by Greg's booming voice calling from the living room, asking if they've seen the remote. The moment breaks, but as she catches Sian and Pauline exchanging knowing looks, Y/n wonders if maybe—just maybe—they see something she's been too afraid to acknowledge.
That night, long after Pauline and Sian have gone to bed and the girls are tucked in upstairs, I find myself sitting on the back patio, wrapped in a borrowed blanket. The Davies' garden is beautiful even in winter, string lights twinkling in the bare trees. My breath forms small clouds in the chilly air, but I don't mind. The quiet moment alone gives me space to think.
The sliding door opens behind me, and I know without looking that it's Greg. After twenty years, I recognize the pattern of his footsteps, the slight creak of the door as he ducks to avoid hitting his head.
"Bit cold for stargazing," he says, settling his tall frame into the chair beside mine. He's holding two mugs, and he passes one to me. Hot chocolate, with a splash of Bailey's if I know Pauline's recipe.
"Thanks," I say, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic. "Just needed some air. Your family is wonderful, but..."
"But they can be a bit much," Greg finishes for me. "Trust me, I know. Been dealing with them my whole life."
We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, sipping our drinks. Above us, between patches of clouds, a few stars manage to shine through.
"Sorry about Emma earlier," Greg finally says. "Kids, you know. No filter."
I laugh softly. "It's fine. She's seven. I think at that age everyone assumes grown-ups who like each other must be boyfriend and girlfriend."
"Right." Greg shifts in his seat, which creaks ominously beneath his weight. "Simplistic worldview."
Another silence falls between us, less comfortable this time.
"Y/n..." Greg starts, then stops. He takes off his glasses, cleans them on the edge of his sweater—another nervous habit I've catalogued over the years. "Do you ever wonder..."
My heart picks up speed. "Wonder what?"
He puts his glasses back on, looking at me properly now. In the dim light from the patio lanterns, his eyes look softer, more vulnerable than usual.
"Nothing. Never mind." He shakes his head. "Christmas makes me sentimental. Ignore me."
I want to press him, but something holds me back. Twenty years of friendship feels too precious to risk on what might just be holiday emotions and too much mulled wine.
"Your mom and sister seem convinced you're secretly pining for me," I say instead, aiming for a teasing tone. "They cornered me in the kitchen earlier."
Greg groans, leaning his head back. "God, I'm so sorry. They've been on about that for years."
"Years?" I repeat, something twisting in my chest.
"Ever since I convinced you to move to London." He rubs his face with one large hand. "They got it into their heads that I had... you know... ulterior motives."
"And did you?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Greg looks at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "I wanted my best friend closer than an ocean away. The rest..." He shrugs, a movement that somehow encompasses everything and nothing. "The rest is just my family being ridiculous."
"Right," I say, ignoring the small, irrational pang of disappointment. "Ridiculous."
He reaches over suddenly, his hand engulfing mine where it rests on the arm of my chair. "But I am glad you're here. Not just in London. Here, for Christmas."
His hand is warm despite the cold night, and I resist the urge to turn mine over, to lace our fingers together.
"Me too," I say quietly. "Beats spending it alone in my apartment."
"Is that what you would've done otherwise?" he asks, frowning.
I shrug. "Mom's in Florida with her new boyfriend. No siblings. Not much family left in Wisconsin. So yeah, probably Indian takeout and bad Christmas movies."
His frown deepens. "Why didn't you say something? All these years, you could have been coming here for the holidays."
"I didn't want to impose," I admit. "And most years I try to fly back to see Mom, but these last few years..."
"You’ve been stuck with us Davies instead," Greg says, squeezing my hand before letting go. The night air feels colder where his touch had been.
"Could be worse," I tease. "Could be stuck with that ventriloquist and his headless dummy."
Greg laughs, the sound warming me more than the blanket or hot chocolate. "Now there's a Christmas nightmare."
We finish our drinks in companionable silence, and when Greg suggests we head inside before we freeze, I follow him, ducking under his arm as he holds the door open. We're halfway through the kitchen when he stops abruptly, and I nearly walk into his back.
"What's wrong?" I ask, stepping around him.
Greg points upward, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Mistletoe. The very one you mocked me for hanging too high."
I look up and, sure enough, there's the sprig of green, suspended directly above us. My pulse quickens as I meet his eyes.
"Well," I say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile, "it is tradition."
Something shifts in Greg's expression, a flicker of... something... passing over his features. He bends down—way down—until his face is level with mine.
"Far be it from me to break tradition," he murmurs.
I expect a quick peck, the kind of friendly kiss you might give a cousin at Christmas. What I get instead is Greg's hand gently cupping my cheek, his thumb brushing my skin as he leans in slowly, giving me every chance to pull away.
I don't.
His lips are soft against mine, tentative at first, then more certain when I respond. It's not a cousin kiss. It's not even a friendly kiss. It's the kind of kiss that makes me wonder why we haven't been doing this for the past ten years.
When we break apart, Greg is looking at me with wide eyes, as if he's surprised himself as much as me.
"That was..." he starts.
"Yeah," I agree, breathless.
For a moment, we just stare at each other. Then, from the doorway to the living room comes the unmistakable sound of someone clearing their throat. We both turn to see Pauline standing there in her dressing gown, a knowing smile on her face.
"Just getting some water," she says innocently. "Don't mind me."
She fills a glass at the sink, humming "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" under her breath as she does. Greg looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole.
"Goodnight, dears," Pauline says cheerfully as she passes us on her way back to the stairs. "Oh, and Y/n? I told you he wasn't put off by the height difference."
She disappears upstairs, leaving us standing in the kitchen, the ghost of our kiss still lingering between us.
"So," Greg says, running a hand through his hair. "That happened."
"It did," I agree, suddenly uncertain. "Was it... just because of the mistletoe?"
Greg looks at me for a long moment, then shakes his head slowly. "No," he says quietly. "No, it wasn't just because of the mistletoe."
My heart does a little flip in my chest. "Oh."
"Yeah. Oh." He takes a deep breath. "But it's late, and we've both had wine, and my mother is probably listening at the top of the stairs, so maybe we should..."
"Talk about this tomorrow?" I suggest, oddly relieved. Whatever this is between us feels too important to navigate when we're tired and slightly tipsy.
"Tomorrow," Greg agrees, his smile tentative but genuine. "Preferably after coffee and away from nosy family members."
I nod, suddenly shy. "Goodnight, then."
"Goodnight, Y/n."
I'm halfway up the stairs when I hear him call my name softly. I turn back.
"Just so you know," Greg says, looking up at me with an expression that makes my breath catch, "I'm really glad you're not spending Christmas alone with Indian takeout."
I smile down at him, this giant of a man who somehow makes me feel both small and significant all at once. "Me too, Greg. Me too."
As I continue up to the guest room, I can't help touching my fingers to my lips, still warm from his kiss. Twenty years of friendship, and now... what? I'm not sure. But I'm looking forward to finding out.
****
The spare room in the Davies household is freezing. Y/n huddles under the duvet, her teeth chattering as the ancient radiator makes pitiful clicking sounds but produces no actual heat. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 2:17 AM. She's been tossing and turning for hours, unable to warm up enough to fall asleep.
"This is ridiculous," she mutters, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders like a cape as she slides out of bed.
The hardwood floor is ice against her bare feet as she tiptoes down the hallway. She knows exactly which room is Greg's—the same one he grew up in, now with a longer bed to accommodate his frame. She hesitates outside his door, questioning her sanity, but another violent shiver makes the decision for her.
She knocks softly, then eases the door open. "Greg?" she whispers. "Are you awake?"
A rustling sound comes from the bed, followed by his sleep-rough voice. "Y/n? What's wrong?"
"My room is approximately the temperature of the Arctic Circle," she says, hugging herself through the blanket. "I think the radiator's broken."
Greg sits up, fumbling for his glasses on the nightstand. The moonlight streaming through the gap in the curtains illuminates his bare chest and tousled hair. "Come in before you freeze to death," he says, scooting over to make room.
Y/n hesitates for only a second before shutting the door behind her and scurrying to the bed. "I'm sorry to wake you," she says, perching awkwardly on the edge. "But I haven't slept at all and I'm pretty sure I was developing hypothermia. I even put on actual pajamas to try to get warm. You know how much I hate wearing full pajamas to bed."
Greg lifts the corner of his duvet in invitation. "Get in before you turn into an icicle. I'm not explaining to my mother why there's a Y/n-shaped popsicle in the guest room tomorrow."
Gratefully, Y/n slides under the covers, keeping a respectable distance between them. The bed is blissfully warm from his body heat.
"Better?" he asks, his voice low and rumbly in the darkness.
"Mmhm, much," she sighs, already feeling her muscles begin to relax. "You're like a human furnace."
"One of the advantages of being roughly the size of a small car," Greg says. "Though it does make finding properly fitting pajamas a challenge."
Y/n becomes acutely aware that he's only wearing boxers, while she's in flannel pajama pants and a thin t-shirt. The blanket she brought from her room is now bunched awkwardly between them.
"You can ditch the extra blanket," Greg says, seeming to read her mind. "Unless you're worried I'll steal the duvet. Which, fair warning, I have been known to do."
Y/n laughs softly and pushes the blanket to the foot of the bed. "I'll take my chances."
A comfortable silence falls between them. Y/n can feel the mattress dip slightly with Greg's weight, and can hear the rhythm of his breathing. It should be strange, being in bed with her best friend, but somehow it isn't.
"I can practically hear you thinking," Greg murmurs after a while. "Everything okay?"
Y/n turns on her side to face him, though in the dimness she can only make out the outline of his profile. "Just... processing today, I guess."
"Ah," Greg says. "You mean the mistletoe incident?"
"Among other things," she admits. "Your family has some interesting theories about us."
Greg groans softly. "I know. I'm sorry about that."
"Don't be," Y/n says. "It's kind of sweet that they care so much."
"Sweet isn't the word I'd use," Greg replies. "Meddlesome, perhaps. Relentless. Embarrassingly persistent."
Y/n smiles in the darkness. "They love you. They want you to be happy."
"And they've decided you're the key to that happiness," Greg says, his tone unreadable.
A small silence falls between them again, heavier this time.
"Are they wrong?" Y/n asks finally, her heart pounding so hard she's sure he can hear it.
Greg shifts beside her, turning to face her. "Y/n..."
"I'm sorry," she says quickly. "That was too bold. Blame it on sleep deprivation and mild hypothermia."
"No, it's not that," Greg says. His hand finds hers under the covers, warm and encompassing. "It's just... this is huge, isn't it? Twenty years of friendship. Working together. One could argue about the age difference."
"Eight years is hardly robbing the cradle," Y/n points out. “My parents were ten years apart.”
"True," Greg concedes. "there's also the fact that you're practically a hobbit and I'm basically sasquatch."
Y/n laughs, some of the tension easing. "We'd look ridiculous together."
"Completely absurd," Greg agrees, but he hasn't let go of her hand. If anything, his thumb is now tracing small circles on her palm, sending little sparks up her arm.
"People would stare," Y/n adds, her voice growing softer as Greg's fingers continue their gentle exploration.
"They already do," he points out. "I can't go anywhere without people gawking at my height."
"That's true," Y/n says. She's suddenly very aware of how close they are, how intimate it feels to be sharing this bed, this conversation, in the quiet darkness. "So really, the height difference is a non-issue."
"Completely irrelevant," Greg agrees. His hand releases hers, only to find her waist, resting there lightly. "Which means we're left with the friendship issue."
Y/n's breath catches. "Is it an issue? Being friends first?"
"It could be," Greg says, his voice dropping lower. "Only if it didn't work out. If we ruined years of friendship for a fling."
"Who said anything about a fling?" Y/n asks, emboldened by the darkness.
Greg's hand tightens slightly at her waist. "Y/n..."
She edges closer, eliminating the careful gap she'd left between them. "Let me be clear. I didn't sneak in here just because my room is cold."
"No?" Greg's voice holds a hint of amusement now. "Are you saying you just wanted to cuddle with me, Davies?"
"Maybe," Y/n admits, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. "Would that be so terrible?"
"Terrible? No," Greg says, and she can hear the smile in his voice. "Though I'm not sure 'cuddling' is what's happening right now."
He's right. Somehow, during their conversation, the space between them has disappeared entirely. Her body is now pressed against his, one of her legs having found its way between his much longer ones. His hand has slipped under the hem of her t-shirt to rest on the bare skin of her waist.
"No," Y/n agrees, her voice barely above a whisper. "This is definitely something else."
Greg's other hand comes up to cup her face, much like he did under the mistletoe, but more certain this time. "Tell me to stop," he says softly.
"I don't want you to stop," she breathes.
His lips find hers in the darkness, and this kiss is nothing like the tentative one they shared earlier. This one is hungry, purposeful, as if he's been holding back for years and can finally let go. His tongue traces the seam of her lips, and she opens to him with a small sound of pleasure that seems to ignite something in him.
His hand slides up from her waist to just below her breast, hesitating there. Y/n arches into his touch, silently urging him on. When his palm finally covers her breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple through the thin fabric of her shirt, she gasps against his mouth.
"Is this okay?" Greg asks, his voice strained.
"More than okay," Y/n assures him, reaching up to run her fingers through his hair, pulling him back down to her.
Their kisses grow more heated, Greg's hand now fully exploring her breast, kneading and teasing until Y/n is squirming against him. She can feel his arousal pressing against her hip, and the knowledge that she affects him this way sends a thrill through her.
"Take this off," Greg murmurs, tugging at the hem of her shirt. "Please."
Y/n sits up enough to pull the shirt over her head, suddenly shy as the cool air hits her bare skin. But Greg's sharp intake of breath as he looks at her, followed by a reverent "You're beautiful," chases away any insecurity.
His hands, so large they nearly span her ribcage, explore her with a gentleness that belies their size. When his mouth replaces his fingers, hot and wet around her nipple, Y/n has to bite her lip to keep from crying out, mindful of the sleeping household.
"I've thought about this," Greg confesses against her skin, his breath sending goosebumps racing across her flesh. "More than I should admit."
"Me too," Y/n gasps as his teeth graze lightly over the sensitive peak. "For years."
Greg groans, the sound vibrating through her. "Why didn't you say something?"
"Why didn't you?" she counters, sliding her hands down his back, feeling the muscles shift under her touch.
"Terrified of ruining everything," he admits, moving to lavish attention on her other breast. "Still am, a bit."
Y/n threads her fingers through his hair, tugging gently until he looks up at her. "We won't ruin anything," she promises. "We're just... expanding the definition of our relationship."
Greg laughs softly. "Trust the writer to find the perfect words."
He kisses his way back up to her mouth, settling half on top of her, his weight supported on his forearms. The feeling of his bare chest against hers is intoxicating, and Y/n runs her hands over the broad expanse of his shoulders, down his sides, learning the shape of him.
When her exploring fingers reach the waistband of his boxers, Greg sucks in a sharp breath. "Y/n," he warns, "if you keep going, I'm not sure I'll be able to stop."
"Do you want to stop?" she asks, her fingers tracing the elastic band, dipping just slightly beneath it.
"God, no," Greg groans. "But we're in my childhood bedroom, with my mother and sister sleeping down the hall."
Reality crashes back in, and Y/n reluctantly withdraws her hand. "Right. Probably not the best setting for... everything."
Greg captures her hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss her palm. "I want our first time to be perfect," he says. "Not rushed and silent in a twin bed with cartoon football sheets."
Y/n laughs softly. "They are not cartoon football sheets. You hate football!"
"They absolutely are," Greg insists. "I never redecorated and mum thought they were hilarious. Look." He reaches over to switch on the small bedside lamp, revealing blue sheets covered in cartoonish footballs and goal posts.
"Oh my God," Y/n giggles, covering her mouth to muffle the sound. "That's adorable."
"It's embarrassing is what it is," Greg grumbles, but he's smiling as he turns the light back off. "See why I'd prefer our first time to be somewhere more dignified?"
"Our first time," Y/n repeats, savoring the words and the promise they hold. "I like the sound of that."
Greg gathers her close, tucking her against his side. "Me too," he says, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. "But for now, this is enough. Just being here with you."
Y/n nestles into his embrace, her heart full. The heat of his skin against hers feels like the most natural thing in the world, as if they've been sleeping this way for years instead of minutes. His arm curls around her protectively, his large hand spanning her back.
"I'm still processing the fact that you sleep in football sheets," she murmurs against his chest.
"I'll have you know these are very high-quality cartoon football sheets," Greg replies, his voice rumbling through her. "And I only sleep in them when I visit Mum, obviously.
"Sure, sure," Y/n teases. "I bet you have a matching duvet at home."
"Don't be ridiculous," Greg says. "The matching duvet is in the linen cupboard. Mum rotates the bedding."
Y/n stifles another laugh against his skin. They fall silent, but it's a comfortable silence, filled with the soft sounds of their breathing and the occasional creak of the old house settling. Y/n can feel sleep finally tugging at her, warmth and contentment making her eyelids heavy.
"Greg?" she whispers, not sure if he's still awake.
"Hmm?" His response is drowsy, his arm tightening slightly around her.
"Thank you for inviting me for Christmas every year," she says softly. "It means more than you know."
Greg presses a kiss to her forehead. "You've always been part of this family," he murmurs. "Now you just know it officially."
Y/n smiles against his chest, letting her eyes close. As she drifts off to sleep, wrapped in Greg's warmth, she thinks that maybe Pauline and Sian were right all along.
In the morning, she knows, they'll have to talk properly about what this means for their friendship, their working relationship, their future. But for now, in the quiet darkness of Greg's childhood bedroom, with cartoon football sheets and all, everything feels exactly right.