Allie
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G: “Hallmark Romance”
🕑 Added 2025-12-25 12:40:23 +0000 UTC24 December
The pilot's voice crackles over the intercom, pulling you from a hazy half-dream. You press your forehead to the cold airplane window. Below, the landscape unfolds in shades of white and grey and deep green—endless pine forests threaded with silver rivers, frozen and still.
G sits beside you, thigh warm against yours.
“How’s the book?” you murmur.
G glances up, a small smile tugging at their mouth. They close the book—The Cherry Orchard, dog-eared and annotated in the margins. Unlike you, they’ve stayed awake most of the flight, reading a dark Russian play that doesn’t much look like entertainment to you. “It’s getting dramatic. Perfect winter holiday reading.”
You snort. “That’s what people say about romance paperbacks, not Chekhov.”
You land in Montreal, then take the train East to Quebec City. The landscape shifts as you go—urban sprawl giving way to small towns, frosted fields, church steeples rising like pins against the pale sky. G watches it all with the focused stillness of someone framing a shot, and you wonder if they're cataloging it, storing it away for later.
"How new is this boyfriend?" you ask as the train rocks gently beneath you.
G shrugs. "About a year? I met François once, last summer. They weren't living together then, but now she’s moved in. To some little cabin just outside the city."
“Huh. Sounds like it’s going well,” you say.
You'd hesitated when G first suggested you come. A month apart over winter break had felt unbearable, yes—but meeting their mother feels like something… pretty significant. Certainly not something you just do if the relationship’s casual. Their family life has always been a piece of G that they keep pretty private.
Still. You'd said yes.
Because this might be the only chance you get. By this time next year, G will be back in Paris. And you'll be… in Cargill, still.
The last leg of the journey is a short uphill walk from the bus stop. You'd packed light—four days, one small duffel—so despite the incline, it's a pleasant walk. The air smells like pine and woodsmoke and something clean and cold that makes your lungs ache in a good way. As you draw closer, you catch the faint scent of laundry hanging on lines out back, freezing stiff in the winter air.
The house is small, charming in a rough-hewn way—wood-paneled siding, a steep roof heavy with snow, smoke curling from the chimney.
G’s mother opens the door for you before you knock; as the only people walking up this trail, you suppose they’d seen the two of you coming a long time before you’d actually showed up on the doorstep. You blush a little, thinking about how you’d been swinging your entwined hands, skipping a little.
She pulls G into an embrace, saying something rapid and affectionate in joual—Québécois French.
| if second language is French
it's all nasal vowels and swallowed syllables, different enough from your own native French that you miss a couple of words here and there. There’s a sentence in there that’s definitely referring to you.
| else
G had tried to teach you some phrases on the way here, but there’s absolutely no chance of you catching a single familiar word, with the speed that they’re going at.
A couple of breathless seconds later, G’s mother steps back with a laugh. Her eyes are a light sky blue, so you suppose G had gotten their stormy-grey eyes from their father. “Bienvenue, it’s so good to finally meet you. Suzanne.” She gives you the traditional greeting—two quick kisses to each cheek—you know it’s only conventional, but it has the effect of making you feel instantaneously closer to her nonetheless.
You step into the cabin after the two of them.
Inside, the house smells like caramelized onions and leeks, butter and thyme. Somewhere in the back, you can hear music—French R&B, smooth and soulful—and a deep baritone voice singing along, slightly off-key.
Suzanne grins when she catches you smiling. "François is making soup."
François is tall—intimidatingly so—but he hunches slightly, like he's learned to make himself smaller to put people at ease. He's got a kind face, laugh lines etched deep around his eyes and mouth, and when he greets you both, he does the same cheek-kiss routine, his stubble rough against your skin.
"Bienvenue, bienvenue!" he says warmly, gesturing you into the kitchen. "You must be starving, non? Would you like a snack first?"
You laugh, shaking your head. “I’ll wait for lunch—everything looks incredible,” you say with genuine enthusiasm, peering into the pot where the soup is simmering happily, and the pan where Francois is browning some leeks and mushrooms in butter.
François lets out a little chuckle, looking pleased. “Merci! Je suis excité aussi. It does look good, doesn’t it?”
Suzanne laughs, eyes twinkling as she elbows her boyfriend. “Bon, bon, enough patting yourself on the back—grouille-toi, actually feed us, non?”
…
Lunch is a cozy affair, all four of you cramming round a small wooden table in the living room, in front of a large window that looks out into the small valley. G’s mother keeps the conversation humming along merrily in a fluid blend of French and English switching mid-sentence without seeming to notice. François listens more than he speaks, often breaking into a rich, deep laugh. You slot in effortlessly into the rhythm of conversation.
You notice the way François automatically leans in to refill Suzanne’s glass while she’s busy talking, the way she leans toward him subconsciously when she laughs. The way they talk over each other and finish each other’s sentences like they’ve been doing this for years, not just months. It’s… sweet.
Later, as the two of you wash up together at the sink, G bumps you gently with their hip. “My mother seems happy.”
You nod, handing over a rinsed plate.
G dries it slowly, thoughtful. "I used to think that whole thing—settling down, becoming some boring domestic couple—wasn't for me." They pause, shooting you a crooked smile. "But maybe it's not so bad after all."
You laugh. “Oh yeah? You want what they have?” you ask lightly, pausing to rest a soapy hand on the sinktop as you turn to face G fully.
G snorts. They swallow, not quite looking at you. "I like what we have just fine,” they murmur quietly.
Your heart does something complicated in your chest. You dry your hands on your jeans and pull G in toward you, tilting your face to theirs. G closes the distance, kissing you slow and certain, hands settling on your hips. Your back presses against the counter as they step closer, deepening the kiss, and for a moment the world narrows to just this—heat and want and the shape of G against you.
Your back presses up against the counter as they step in closer, hands gripping your hips.
A shadow passes the doorway.
"Câlisse, you two actually washing up or just making out in there?" Suzanne calls, but her voice is warm, teasing.
G pulls back, flushed, but their eyes are bright. "Want to go for a walk? “I think there are a couple of paths that lead straight from behind the house.”
You're still catching your breath. "Where do they lead?"
G shrugs, smirking. "No idea. Guess we'll find out. Somewhere there aren’t nosy mothers.”
...
The path behind the house is narrow and well-trodden, snow packed firm beneath your boots. The trees stand tall and patient, branches heavy with white. The air is sharp enough to sting, and you can feel it in your teeth when you breathe.
G walks with their hands shoved deep in their coat pockets, breath misting in little clouds. Snow crunches underfoot. Somewhere overhead, a bird startles from a branch, wings beating hard against the cold.
The lake appears suddenly—a smooth sheet of ice framed by trees, the surface so clear it mirrors the hills and sky. Someone's cleared a small circle near the edge; razor-thin ice skating tracks crisscross the ice. There’s something about the frozen, quiet splendour of the scene in front of you that makes your heart catch.
G takes your hand, their fingers cool and steady, and you walk along the shoreline together. The world feels suspended, held in place by the cold and the quiet. Snow drifts down slow and deliberate, catching in G's hair, on their lashes.
You climb a low rise overlooking the lake. From here, you can just make out the house in the distance, roof dusted white, smoke rising thin and straight from the chimney.
G turns to face you fully, and their expression—open, unguarded—catches you off guard.
All through lunch, you'd noticed the little differences in G’s demeanor. The way each word G speaks seems to slur into the next while they gesture loosely, so unlike the careful deliberate way they speak English. The way they move differently around their mother, less careful, less composed. It's a version of them you've never seen before.
Now, standing here on this hillside, that softness is directed at you.
A different kind of quiet settles between you. It feels thick, tangible, almost fragile.
You lean into G as the wind tugs at your coats. They shift, slinging an arm around your shoulders, and you draw warmth from each other.
"I think my grandmother brought me here once," G says eventually. "When I was a kid. We didn't know François then, obviously. My parents were still together, but they were fighting constantly—my mom would bring me to visit her family in Quebec without my dad, and I'd look forward to it all year." They pause. "I don't know why they stayed together as long as they did. Seven more years of that."
You hum, thinking of your own parents. "Funny. I always resented mine for not staying together. For giving up too easily."
G squeezes your hand once—a quiet acknowledgment of your separate histories, connected now by this shared thread.
...
After the walk
When you return to the cabin, you find Suzanne and François curled up together on the worn leather couch in the living room. The TV casts a soft blue glow across their faces.
On screen, a perfectly coiffed woman in an impractical white coat stands in a picturesque town square decorated with approximately ten thousand Christmas lights. A ruggedly handsome man in flannel approaches, looking conflicted.
A Hallmark movie. Of course.
François is leaning into Suzanne, saying something low in French that makes her laugh so hard she has to press a hand to her chest. Her face has gone pink, and she swats at him playfully, still giggling.
Suzanne spots you both at the doorway and sits up, trying and failing to compose herself. "Ah! You're back!" She gestures excitedly at the TV, where the woman is now crying artfully in the snow. "Come, come—sit with us! This is the best one, I swear."
"You say that about all of them, chérie," François says, amused.
"Because they're all the best," Suzanne insists.
G snorts, shrugging off their coat. "I've seen this one at least fourteen times."
“Good. Fifteen can be a nice round number,” G’s mother says.
“And I haven’t seen it,” you pipe up.
G’s mother waves a hand at you, beaming. “Exactement.”
G rolls their eyes, but settles into one of the armchairs near the couch, and you take the one beside them.
The plot unfolds with ruthless predictability. The female lead—a high-powered career woman from the city—has returned to her small hometown and must choose between her ambitious job and the local baker who makes excellent sourdough and is emotionally available. There's a baking competition, a town Christmas festival, a moment where the woman slips on ice and the man catches her.
G leans back in their chair, one leg hooked over the armrest, and you expect them to spend the whole movie making cutting observations about the contrived, formulaic plot. But instead, you catch them smiling at the silly exchanges and quoting lines from the movie they clearly know by heart.
The movie builds toward its inevitable climax. The woman gets a call from the city—a promotion, the thing she's been working toward her whole career. She looks torn. She packs her bags. She gets in a taxi. Suzanne, despite presumably knowing exactly how this goes, is leaning forward—fully invested.
Then, of course, the taxi stops. The woman tells the driver to turn around. She runs through the snow in those impractical boots. The baker is closing up his shop, looking devastated. She bursts through the door—
G grins and takes your hand, clutching at their heart. "—I don't need the perfect life," G says breathlessly, in an almost perfect, French-accented imitation half a beat before the actress. "I just need this. I need you."
You laugh. Suzanne applauds. François hands her a tissue for her to blow her nose, his expression unbearably fond.
"Parfait," Suzanne sighs happily. "Ça, c'est l'amour."
G makes a sound that might be agreement or might just be acknowledgment—but there's no dismissive edge to it. You sit there together, the four of you, in the warm glow of the TV as the credits begin to roll.
You lean closer so only G can hear, "you definitely cried a little. I saw your eyes get glassy."
G looks affronted. “I did not!”
You cackle, showing them the surreptitious photo you’d taken with your phone of G quietly smiling, watching strangers fall in love, while the real thing unfolds quietly around the room.
...
In the evening, the four of you drive into the city.
The sky has deepened to indigo, the kind of rich winter blue that only happens in the north. The streets are blanketed in snow, Christmas lights strung everywhere—across storefronts, between lampposts, winding along wrought-iron balconies and narrow cobblestone streets. Vieux-Québec feels like stepping into a postcard, all stone buildings and steep roofs and glowing windows, except this moment—with G walking beside you, arms linked—is yours alone.
The four of you wander aimlessly, dipping in and out of shops admiring pottery, prints, handmade jewelry, kitschy tourist things. Restaurant windows glow warm from inside, and you catch glimpses of other lives as strangers pass in the cold. Somewhere nearby, a street musician plays something slow and wistful on a violin, the notes threading through the air like smoke.
Eventually, the four of you duck into a small restaurant tucked between two older stone buildings. The windows are fogged from the warmth inside, fairy lights strung along the frames. Inside, it smells like browned butter, garlic, wine.
All six tables in the restaurant are packed. The waitress—middle-aged, brisk, wearing a flour-dusted apron—nearly turns you away until she recognizes Suzanne and François. Her face breaks into a grin as she calls their names. She kisses them both on the cheeks, then launches into rapid French before squinting at G for a second. “Ah! Mon dieu! It’s you!”
Before you know it, you’re being introduced, and waved toward the bar to wait. The four of you chat in the warmth of the restaurant, the waitress takes your orders, promising a table soon.
When one finally opens up, she leads you to a small wooden table near the window. Outside, snow drifts past in soft spirals, caught in the glow of streetlights.
The food is simple and perfect. Tourtière—spiced meat pie with a flaky crust. Soupe aux pois, thick and savory. Crusty bread with salted butter. Red wine that tastes like earth and dark fruit. A wedge of sharp cheese and coffee to finish.
“I never understood this,” you say, shaking your head. “How is one to sleep after this?”
G winks at you, leaning in so that they can murmur into your ear, “You’re planning on sleeping tonight?”
You laugh, but you can’t help the flush in your cheeks at their low tone, the way their warm breath makes your insides curl.
Conversation flows easily. Suzanne asks about your semester, your family, your hometown. François wants to know if you've ever been to Quebec before, if you're cold enough, if you like the food. G sits beside you, sometimes translating, other times resting a hand on your knee under the table.
At some point, G reaches across and traces their thumb lightly over your knuckles. You glance at them, and they're looking at you with something soft in their eyes, something almost like contentment.
After dinner, you step back into the cold, cheeks flushed, full and warm and a little wine-drunk. The waitress calls after you, "À la prochaine!"—see you next time—and the words land heavy. G turns to look at you. They don’t say anything, but their gaze is thick. The silence cloaks both of you like a layer of snow, half-buried emotions almost, but not quite hidden.
When Suzanne and François duck into a furniture shop, saying something about a new rug, G tugs you toward the town square. A massive Christmas tree stands at the center, lit in soft gold, and the square is dotted with people—couples, families, tourists with cameras.
G stops near the tree, standing close enough that you can feel their warmth through your coat. "I want there to be a next time,” they say.
You smile, holding their gaze. “Me too.”
G's hand lifts, hesitates, then cups your cheek. Their thumb brushes along your jaw. You lean in, a question asked and answered.
The kiss is slow. Unhurried. A winter kiss—cold-nosed and warm-mouthed, lingering just long enough to mean something without rushing toward it. When you pull back, G rests their forehead against yours, and for a moment you just stand there, breathing together, the world softly spinning golden and white around you.
...
Back in the cabin
At around ten, Suzanne and François retreat to their room with soft laughter and a murmured bonne nuit. G kneels by the fireplace in the living room and starts building a fire with the wood stacked next to it. The flames catch slowly, hesitant at first, then brighter, licking upward until the room fills with warmth and the sharp, resinous smell of burning pine.
“Wow, not bad,” you say, snuggling next to G on the sofa.
G smirks at you. “I have Quebec in my blood.”
You laugh. “Oh, is that why I catch you shivering even when you’ve got a jacket on and it’s 70 degrees outside?”
G pulls a heavy-knitted duvet over the two of you. “I can’t even be insulted, because I have no idea what 70 degrees is.” You shift closer, settling against G, knees touching. The fire pops softly.
"It's kind of unfair," G says after a while, voice low, "how much you and François are making me fall in love with a home that isn't even mine."
You can see the firelight reflected in their eyes—amber and gold, flickering.
You take their hand. "Is anything ever really ours?"
G huffs a quiet laugh. "Hey, you're starting to sound like me."
You lean in and kiss them. Slow at first, exploratory, tasting the wine still on their lips. G's hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, and the kiss deepens, shifts—less tentative, more impatient. Hungry.
You pull them closer. The world narrows to warmth, to the soft creak of the couch, to G's mouth on yours and their hands sliding under your shirt, fingertips cool against your skin.
G presses kisses to your jaw, your throat, a trail you've memorized by now. You swallow a soft sound, hand sliding into their hair, and G makes a low noise in response that sends heat curling through you.
"We should—" you start, breathless.
"Yeah." G's voice is rough. They pull back just enough to meet your eyes. "Upstairs?"
You nod.
G stands, pulling you with them, and the two of you make your way up the narrow staircase to the second-floor guest bedroom, trying and failing to be quiet, stifling laughter as the old stairs creak under your weight.
Later, you lie tangled in the sheets, listening to the wind whistle through the bare branches outside. G's hand rests over your ribs, thumb tracing idle circles against your skin.
Outside, snow falls around the cabin, quiet and constant.
For once, you let yourself think about what comes next. And instead of the usual dread—the ticking clock, the end of the year, the inevitable separation—there's something else.
Hope. Fragile, tentative, but unmistakably there. You let yourself believe that maybe there will be a next time. Maybe you'll make your way back to each other. Maybe this—whatever this is—doesn't have to end, maybe the days aren’t ticking down, but up. You let yourself think of tomorrow, and the day after that.
G shifts beside you, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "What are you thinking about?"
You turn to look at them. Their hair is mussed, eyes soft and sleepy in the dim light.
"I want to come back here in the summer,” you say quietly. “I want to see what the hills look like wearing green.”
G's expression shifts—surprise, then something warmer, more vulnerable. They don't say anything, but they pull you closer, tucking your head under their chin. “There’s a park my grandparents took me to once; I haven’t been back in years. Would you like to come with me?”
| If French is your second language.
You smile, resting your head on their forehead. “Of course.”
| Else
You smile, resting your head on their forehead, using the phrase G had taught you on the train ride over. "Bah ouais.”
Comments
Allie
Oh wow!! You share a small similarity with G, then! (Well, their mother’s the one) Quebec City has a special place in my heart from the time I went there in college
Avery
First, that was cute as heck, I love G so much 🥺 second, I have family on my bio dad's side that lives in Quebec City so that was slightly surreal 😅
