New Year's Eve, 1989
Emma
The world outside was gearing up for the end of a decade — fireworks waiting in boxes, pubs filling with laughter, the air cold and bright with anticipation.
But Tommy's room was still and warm.
The lamp on his bedside table cast everything in a soft golden glow — his records stacked neatly by the wall, a half-empty bowl of crisps between us, and the faint hum of The Cure playing low on his tape deck. A few candles flickered on the windowsill, their light reflected faintly in the glass where frost traced delicate patterns.
We were supposed to go to a party — all our friends from college would be there, counting down to midnight, drinking cheap cider and making promises they'd forget by morning. But when I'd asked if we could stay in instead, just the two of us, Tommy hadn't even hesitated.
"Best idea I've heard all week," he'd said, smiling.
Now, sitting cross-legged on his bed, a blanket around our shoulders and the window fogging faintly from the warmth inside, I felt that quiet contentment I only ever felt with him.
He was leaning back against the headboard, one arm draped over my shoulders. Every now and then, he brushed his thumb along my arm — absent, gentle, like he couldn't help it.
"This is better than any party," I murmured.
"Obviously," he said. "You think I'd rather be listening to Mark singing Sweet Caroline off-key?"
I laughed, tilting my head against his shoulder. "You love it really."
He smiled, the corners of his eyes soft. "I love being with you more."
We'd spent the evening talking about everything and nothing — silly memories from school, what films we wanted to see next, how he had burned the mince pies that morning. I told him about how Zoey had insisted on wearing her paper crown every day and called herself Princess Christmas all day. We shared a packet of chocolate biscuits, dunking it in milky tea.
Every so often, our conversation would fade into a quiet stretch of just breathing and the gentle music. The clock ticked on. It felt suspended — like time had forgotten us for a while.
Then, sometime after eleven, he shifted slightly, his fingers tracing the edge of the blanket.
"Can I tell you something?"
"Of course."
He hesitated, eyes flicking down before he met mine again. "I've been looking into universities. For next year."
Something in my chest tightened. "Oh."
"I'm going to apply to Hull," he said quickly. "It's close enough that I can still come here on weekends…" He paused, his thumb brushing my hand. "You said you were thinking about the Polytechnic there."
I nodded slowly. "I was. But I don't know how I'll afford the travel every day. The train's not cheap."
He was quiet for a moment, then said, almost shyly, "Then don't travel."
I blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean —" he ran a hand through his hair, suddenly seeming nervous "— if I get in, I'll be renting a room anyway. There'll be space. You could… stay with me."
I stared at him. "Stay with you?"
He nodded, his voice softer now. "I know it sounds mad. But we'd be careful with money, and it'd be ours. A little place. Just us."
I tried to picture it — a tiny flat with creaky floorboards and mismatched mugs, mornings that smelled of toast and coffee, evenings spent reading or cooking together, our lives tangled up in the quiet ways that mattered. The image filled me with a fierce kind of longing.
"I don't even know how to live away from home," I whispered.
"I do," he said gently. "It's hard at first, but it gets easier. And if you were there… I think anywhere would feel like home."
The words sank into me slowly, steady and sure. He reached out and took my hand, his fingers warm against mine.
"You don't have to decide now," he said softly. "I just wanted you to know I'd like that. You and me — starting something new together."
I swallowed hard, my throat thick. "I've never lived anywhere but home."
"I know." His fingers brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. "But if you ever wanted to, I'd want it to be with me."
The words settled between us like something sacred.
I smiled then, small, but certain. "If I was going to go anywhere," I said, "it would be with you."
He exhaled, a laugh half-hidden in relief, and pulled me close. "You mean that?"
I nodded against his shoulder. "Yeah. I do."
We stayed like that for a long while, listening to the faint sounds of fireworks starting in the distance. Midnight crept closer. Somewhere down the road, someone shouted a countdown.
Tommy shifted slightly, tilting my chin up. "It's midnight," he whispered.
And then he kissed me — slow and certain, his hands cradling my face like I was something precious. No countdown, no noise, just that soft, lingering kiss that felt like a promise.
When we finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, his breath warm against my lips.
"Happy New Year, Em," he murmured.
"Happy New Year, Tommy."
Outside, the sky flashed briefly with light, but it was nothing compared to the glow between us — that quiet, steady warmth that felt like the beginning of our new life together.
Later, as we lay tangled under the blankets, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, I thought about everything waiting for us — the new decade, the unknown years ahead — and for the first time, I wasn't afraid.
Because wherever the future took us, I knew I'd already found my home.