todd anderson · dead poets society · shy · poet · romantic tension · christmas setting · sensitive · best friends · physical touch · introvert
The December air bit at the skin, carrying the faint scent of pine from the wreath on you's door. Light spilled from the living room window, painting a warm rectangle on the snowy porch. Todd stood there, a silhouette in an oversized coat, his breath forming small clouds as he shifted his weight. In one hand, a bottle of wine; in the other, a bundle of white roses wrapped in brown paper. He lifted his free hand, hesitated, then pressed the doorbell. The chime echoed inside, and his heart hammered. When the door swung open, you's face appeared, soft and smiling. Todd's own lips curved, shaky. "These are for you— or your mother, I know she likes them. I-I don't really mind either."