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The snowfall that hits New York on the evening of the 23rd comes so thick and fast that by the time Helen stirs early on Christmas Eve, all she can see as she squints through the window at the head of the bead is a blanket of white outside and Max looking bewildered as he holds the curtain open to take in the for view himself. It looks perfect and untouched, the few footprints that she knows must be there—because come rain or shine, snowstorm or hurricane, New York never truly stops—are barely visible from this high up.
"Do you think the roads will be cleared by this afternoon?" She mumbles, not completely awake yet.
Max lets the curtain fall and repurposes his arm to rolls her towards him in the middle of the bed. "Yes," he says simply, kissing the closest part of her—her bare shoulder, the one with the freckles he likes. "It'll be fine. We'll meditate in the car or do whatever it takes to get through a painless dinner with Gwen and Calvin, then Luna can sleep on the way back here and we'll just take the roads slow."
"What time do we need to leave?" She raises one closed fist to her eye and tries to rub the sleep from it. "What time is it now?"
Max's eyes flicker back to the window, and he grins that wide child-like smile that makes Helen forget about the monotonous things like whether they're out of bread, or if the bottle of Chardonnay sitting in the fridge that's destined for Connecticut will earn them a frown and a clipped remark about new-age Californian wine from Gwen, and instead just take a minute to bask in the joy.
"Do you wanna go outside?" He asks, barely contained excitement visible in the glimmer of his eyes.
So, of course, she says yes.
They bundle up in layers of wooly socks and sweaters, Helen making no attempt to conceal her blatant theft of Max's favorite thick burgundy turtleneck. It may be more than fashionably oversized on her, but it smells like his aftershave and it's the softest thing that either of them own, so she doesn't care in the slightest.
"You're lucky you look so cute in that," he murmurs, staring at the upturned basket of their gloves and scarves on the bed, searching for a matching pair. "I don't think I've had the chance to wear it since Halloween."
Helen raises an eyebrow. "Wear something of mine, then," she says, and fishes out her pale pink tartan scarf from the pile Max is rooting through. She drapes it around his neck and pats his chest. The simple act brings back a startling memory from years ago, of tucking the same scarf around her own neck as she set out in the middle of a snowstorm, making her way to the hospital; to Max. She'd had to break her own heart a little that night on the roof, and his too, but things had been veering dangerously close to the point of no return between them. She hadn't worn the scarf again until the following winter.
They make their way down to the street, the icy bite of the wind hitting them as soon as they set foot outside. Helen's barely had time to tug her own scarf a little higher to cover her mouth when something powdery and cold hits her square in the back.
"You did not just—"
But Max is already leaping down the steps, another snowball half-formed in his hands.
Helen's too competitive to give in without a fight, so she gives chase, stopping every few yards to form another tightly packed snowball and lob it towards him. Eventually, when she catches up with him under the guise of the game being over, she manages to get half a handful of loose snow down the neck of Max's shirt—causing him to yelp and hop from one foot to the other while he tries to shake it out—they call a truce, for the sake of their marriage.
Holding hands—mostly so neither can secretly scoop up another snowball without the other knowing—they walk in a circle a few blocks wide until they get to the bakery they'd both known they would end up at despite not discussing it, and Max orders their drinks while Helen picks out golden and flaky almond croissants from the counter.
When they're home and they've shrugged off their outer layers, Helen turns to watch him unwrap the scarf from his neck and wolf-whistles, catching Max by surprise. He raises both eyebrows, but the crinkles at the corner of his eyes give away the smile he's suppressing.
She sees him glance a the kitchen clock and knows him well enough to know the train of thought. There's nowhere they need to be for a few hours. He keeps going, lets a hand slip beneath his cable knit sweater and the shirt beneath, baring the flat of his stomach to her, and then pulls the sweater over his head in one swift motion.
Slowly but firmly, he moves forward, inching her backward until her legs hit the couch and she sits, reflexively, one hand balled up in his shirt in an effort to drag him down with her. He resists, straightening back up and stands in front of her, legs spread just a little. He gives her a long look, doesn't say a word, and starts unbuttoning his shirt, starting from the bottom. With every button his left hand unfastens, the flat of his right palm moves higher up the skin beneath, teasingly.
Helen's breath catches in her throat. Her hands—which, until now have sat folded uselessly in her own lap, in slight bewilderment—reach for him, and he lets her touch him, but only the skin he's already exposed to her. By the time he's fully unbuttoned his shirt and Helen's hands are impatiently skimming the line of his waistband, she's almost laughing from the unexpected wonder of this moment.
Max kicks his shoes off and kneels on the couch, one leg on each side of her, and starts rolling his hips until she's no longer laughing at all, and finally he lets her unfasten the buckle of his belt with deft, impatient fingers.
He holds out two fingers an uses them to tilt her chin up towards him, kissing her slowly, all tongue. It's filthy, the kind of kiss that he normally reserves for when they're fucking, so close to coming that the jerk of his hips or the brush of his fingers could tip either one of them over the edge.
"Off," she says, the single syllable all she can manage for now. He helps her push the shirt off his shoulders until it falls to the floor behind him.
He sits a little lower, and even through the multiple layers of denim separating them, Helen can feel the evidence of his arousal straining against the buttons of his jeans. The friction makes Max let out a low whine from the back of his throat. He keeps up the agonizingly slow pace as he unfastens his jeans and pushes them down his thighs, and in return Helen lets her hands roam across every new inch of skin he reveals.
She wonders, while he stands up for just long enough to kick his jeans off altogether and then climbs back into her lap, what she could ask him to do like this. He'd dance for her—he's doing that much already—but would he touch himself like this, with her hands everywhere but there, telling him what she wants to see? Would he take her jeans off as slowly as he'd slipped off his own, kneel on the floor in front of her, drape one of her knees over his shoulder and spread her open with his hands and lips and tongue?
As if his mind had gone to the same place as hers, he kisses her again, grinds against her until she lets out a shallow gasp and then sits back in her lap and asks, "What do you want?"
He runs one hand through his hair and finally, finally lets the other one slip below the waistband of his boxers.
Helen watches, not bothering to avert her eyes or conceal her desire. "Well," she says. "Now I've unwrapped my present, I've got a few ideas.”