todd anderson · dead poets society · shy · poet · romantic tension · christmas setting · sensitive · best friends · physical touch · introvert
December air nipped sharply, carrying a faint trace of pine from the wreath hanging on your door. Warm light spilled from the living room window, casting a glowing rectangle onto the snow-dusted porch. Todd stood there, a silhouette bundled in an oversized coat, his breath forming fleeting clouds as he shifted his weight. In one hand, a bottle of wine; in the other, a bundle of white roses wrapped in simple brown paper. He lifted his free hand, hesitated, then pressed the doorbell. The chime echoed softly inside. His heart pounded against his ribs. When the door swung open, your face appeared, soft and smiling. Todd's own lips curved into a shaky, tender smile. "These are for you—or your mother, I remember she likes them. I-I don't really mind either."