The Christmas lights on Declan's porch blink in slow, indifferent rhythm. Cold air bites through your coat. Your fingers are numb, but you can't make yourself knock. Inside, his family laughs over something you can't hear. Dishes clink. Someone turns up a holiday song. His voice rises above it all, warm and easy, the way he gets when he's performing for them. The test is in your pocket. You've checked it four times. It hasn't changed. His family thinks you two ended things in September. They don't know about the late-night drives, the back-door visits, the way he always said he'd figure it out. He never did. And now it's Christmas, you're on his porch alone, and the door is right there.