a/n: I have been feeling very festive as of late because it's going to be December soon and I just felt like writing this. Enjoy! This is also set in high school.

"They didn't agree on much.
In fact, they didn't agree on anything.
They fought all the time and challenged each other every day.
But despite their differences, they had one important thing in common.
They were crazy about each other."
— Nicholas Sparks, The Notebook.

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On the fourteenth of December, he stares out of Riley's windowpane.

He remembers meeting Riley for the first time on the subway; her all doe-eyed and grinning, falling into his lap ever so often and gushing whenever she does so. At the time, he didn't mind, choosing to simply watch her from the back, observing the way her long brown hair lithely surpassed her shoulders. He remembers the way he made it a habit to watch her in school; seeing the way she smiled timidly at him across the hallway and the way she stared at her chipped nails halfway through the lesson, her pieced-together perfection and sunshine-like persona shining in all its glory. Even at twelve, he was not the prototypical oblivious jock many of his schoolmates believed him to be—he also saw the way she stared at him when she thought he wasn't looking and how she hid her face whenever he turned and met her gaze, the way she surreptitiously whispered to Maya every time she would spot him walking down the hallway, the way she placed her hand on the edge of her chin ever so slightly and smiled brightly whenever he spoke to her (till this day, he is still unsure if she had intentionally made her feelings as visibly obvious as she did, then again, how many smiley faces could one girl add at the end of each text without the intending to give her emotions away?).

Honestly, at the time, he did honestly believe that, in due course, he could love her. And truth be told, he still can. She is wondrously good-humored, smart and quirky. She has the kind of naivety and purity that is generally hard to come by. Wholesome, good-natured, caring—these were all the things he envisioned his future girlfriend to be ever since he was little child and Riley embodies every single one of the aforementioned attributes to the bone. Plus, she is so darn easy to talk to, with her knee-high boots and flowing brown ringlets. Riley Matthews has, essentially, every trait that is deemed worthy of the perfect girl criterion within the school, and, although reluctantly, Lucas Friar fulfills the criteria for the perfect boy label. They are the perfect match. She is safe, she is certain and all he really has to do is make a move.

He is snapped out of his reverie when Riley tugs on his sleeve, asking him to join them in the living room. When he obliges, he arrives to see Farkle and Maya on the Matthews' couch; Maya lying horizontally on the ground, her lengthy golden hair sprawled across the carpet, her head placed on the crook of Riley's neck whilst and Farkle sitting right beside Riley as he grabs a large bowl of buttered popcorn from the counter while simultaneously arguing over the selection of movies with the brunette. Lucas finds his way beside Maya.

"But it's my turn to pick the movie!" squabbles Riley, folding her arms unwaveringly.

"Whilst I acknowledge that I often find your pervasive ignorance endearing, I do feel you need to know that you are, in fact, under the wrong impression. As well as horribly misguided."

"Oh shut up."

"Riley," Farkle stretches out her name, pleading once again while he turns over to face her. "Come on, I want to watch Ingenuity: III." Riley does not budge.

"My house," she replies monotonously, swerving her dainty finger around the air-conditioned air. "My rules. Also, that's a horrible movie."

"You haven't even watched it yet!"

"She doesn't have to," interjects Maya, coolly folding her arms. "The first two were bad enough."

"See!" exclaims Riley, her voice colored with gleeful triumph. She gazes at the pile of DVDs that are scattered all over the rug and reaches forward, grabbing one with a shimmering cover that displays a glowingly blissful couple at the centerfold. "We should watch something better."

"Oh," says Farkle, disdainfully glancing at the cover. "And I suppose Hours of Daylight is better?" Maya smirks, earning a glare from Riley. He grins. Her smiles are synonymous with her smirks; she is unruly, loud and obnoxious. She is rebellious—determinedly defiant, her liveliness and vivaciousness causes her to outshine anyone that came her way. And he is absolutely fascinated with her. He really is. He wonders how she manages to get away with all her insanity in the midst of everything. Slowly but surely, he begins to notice her as well. He sees the way her lively blonde hair bounced on her shoulders, the way her iridescent nails would glitter whenever she waves them in his face, sees the way she turns and looks at him with an incandescent smirk whenever she catches him staring and it intrigues him greatly.

"Okay," interjects Lucas, his persistent tone cutting through the tension in the air. "Maybe we should watch something else, like—"

"Like what, Mr. Square Dance?" inquires Maya, almost instantaneously. A curtain of sunshine-coiled blonde hair falls swiftly against her cheek. "The Sundance Parade?" He raises an eyebrow and stares at her.

She always sparks something inside of him, something troublingly different, with her knowing smirks and her raised eyebrows, the way she furrows them in dissatisfaction whenever he brushes off her insults and comments. He can practically see her blood boiling underneath her shining porcelain skin, her fists clenching almost instinctively whenever he replies starkly. Except, unlike her, his response would always be composed and concise, well-thought out and timely planned, every word would be brimmed with confidence.

"You would know," he says, without missing a beat. "Wouldn't you?"

She bites the insides of her mouth and ominously taps her fingers on her arms. It is a game, a cruel and vicious game whereby the both of them have numerous tricks up their sleeves and ideas rolling around their minds, exchanging digs at one another almost every single day while looking for the sharpest knives to hit each other with, whereas Riley dutifully attempts to play the impartial middleman. He still remembers their first encounter in the subway, amidst arrays of callous, unsuspecting people. He remembers the way she smiled brilliantly at him, her marine eyes glittering, and how he thought maybe, just maybe, they would have something.

"Okay, cut it out," interrupts Riley. "Let's try to find something we'll all enjoy."

They ultimately decide on watching Timeless; a witty combination of intellect and wit for Farkle, action and mystery for Maya, romance for Riley and, evidently so, humor for Lucas. As time passes by, the roadsides grow busier and the sound of fast cars soon becomes accompanied by the sharp slur of giggling teenagers within the night. Riley's parents are out and Auggie is sleeping over at a friend's house, leaving the four friends by themselves in the dark, arctic December night. As it grows increasingly colder with each passing second, Riley decides that the cold is no longer bearable and leaves the living room with Farkle in search of pillows and blankets. Alas, it is just the two of them left in the room, the atmosphere awash with silence.

"Y'know," he whispers. "This movie is unrealistic."

She turns to face him, raising an eyebrow as if to say, really? And yes, it is strange that he was attempting to make small talk, especially during a glacial, wintry night but it is far better than just sitting in silence amidst the freezing cold while waiting for their friends to return. "Well," she begins, absentmindedly gripping her jacket. "Not really. I mean, yeah it's pretty weird that the chick falls in love with the dude in like, what, two minutes? And that they spend the rest of the movie breaking up and getting back together while trying to solve crimes and beating up goons, but I dunno. I like it."

"You just like the car chases," he replies, turning to face her, only to find her grinning at him.

"Not bad," she states. "But that's not all." She pauses and then whispers, albeit quietly. "I also like that he gave her a rose." And the silence ensues.

He doesn't think much of it and Farkle and Riley return bearing blankets and pillows, instructing them both to assist them in building a fort out of the sheets. They oblige and by the time they are done, all four friends snuggle under the quilt and, once warm and cozy, continue watching the movie. The moment between the two is ultimately diminished. Nonetheless, that night he passes by a floral shop while he is on his way back home and sees none other than a singular, fine-cut, crimson red rose that is still glimmering with dew. Without a second thought, he whips out his wallet and pays for it, placing it in a glass vase in his house. The next day, he goes to her locker and places it right between her History and English textbooks.

He doesn't quite know why, but he feels something akin to hummingbirds flapping incessantly within his chest when he catches the grin that overtakes her cherry lips once she sees the rose falling out of her book when she opens it.

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She dances in the snow.

Well – it really shouldn't surprise him. Maya Hart is nothing if not spontaneous—defiantly so; she is the sort of teenage girl who evidently spends her summer afternoons dancing in the fallen rain and her autumn mornings diving into piles of fallen auburn leaves, all the while beaming as if she had just conquered Everest. It is nothing short of exhilarating, truthfully, to watch her whenever she feels splurges of spontaneity igniting her bones and expresses herself through either the art of dance or illustration. So when she begins breaking out into a series of intricately constructed dance movements and whirls around the park during the dead of winter, he merely watches her in amusement—sees the way she clutches her pink beanie as she callously swerves through the fallen snow, the way she flings her sweater-covered arms within the wintry air, the way she shakes her hips and allows a wide, incandescent grin to curve her petal-colored lips, the way she smirks joyously when she meets his gaze and he hollers. The timely Christmas jingles illuminate the nippy air while the holiday-themed tunes from the bookstores across the area essentially invade his surroundings as he holds her candy cane in the air while simultaneously cheering her on. She then turns on her heel and raises a quizzical eyebrow, zipping her boots up vigorously and grinning once she meets his gaze.

"Hey, Cowboy," she calls out, excitedly, flipping her locks. "Join me!"

He grins at her. "Enjoy yourself, Hart." She furrows her eyebrows together, momentarily deferred, before marching herself towards him and forcefully grabbing his arms. He shrieks slightly and she laughs merrily as she pulls him to the centre of the park, her kaleidoscopic eyes glistering, her laughter resonating through the glacial air. He stares at her, hesitantly smiling. She looks as beautiful as always—her honey-colored ringlets surpassing her shoulders in a swiftly fluid motion as she twirls, her marine eyes glimmering mirthfully, her pale rose-tinted cheeks flushed as continues twisting and turning. He takes her hand to stop her and removes her pink beanie before dangling it tauntingly in front of her, in an effort to get her to stop, which does ultimately work.

"You're such a killjoy," she remarks sullenly, snatching the beanie from his hands and cogently places it on her head. He raises an eyebrow and she proceeds to stop her array of wildly executed dance movements to stare into his hopeful brown eyes before opting to sit alongside him. Her dainty fingers find its way to his own fingers and she begins absentmindedly playing with his hands as she does so. He stops to pull back a string of her blonde hair and lets her rest her head on the crook of his neck, breathing in the freezing New York air. A silence ensues and he continues fiddling with her hands as he speaks.

"We didn't have snow back in Texas," he tells her, "At least not a lot of it." He shrugs. "I don't know; it's still a little new to me."

"That's a terrible excuse," she states unperturbedly. "Dance. With. Me."

He bites his lower lip and smiles, catching the way she wavers when she meets his gaze and slowly raises an eyebrow. And then he steps back, extending his glove-covered hand and she gaily takes it. He then instantaneously draws her closer, linking their fingers together firmly, meeting her glacial gaze, grinning widely when he catches the slight gasp that leaves her pink mouth. He then begins to lead her across the snow-covered park, waltzing dramatically around the area stopping every once in a while to spin her around. "That's not what I meant," she states, eyes closed when he dips her, but then she begins to laugh when he determinedly continues to dance along the ice-covered pathway with her.

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They fight during a blizzard with glassy eyes and empty hearts.

Lucas doesn't entirely understand why Maya chooses to willingly run into the downpour of ice and snow, but well, she's Maya, entirely unpredictable and equally infuriating. She's furious, this time, pushing his chest and screaming, her dark, dark eyes blazing as she yells and he's aggravated as well, ignoring the piercing swirl of cars and bright, twinkling city lights as they continue firing angry shots at each other, illuminated with intense fury. He recalls how every fight is tantamount with every embrace, how every push is synonymous with every hug, realizing that every single hateful slur is in tune with every single loving glance. So when he finally has enough of their continued mind games, he forcefully grabs her, pulling her close and running his hands through her golden hair.

"What are you doing?" she roars through clenched teeth, framing the word with a ferocity that shocks the both of them. He looks into her brilliant eyes, feeling every microscopic, infinitesimal inch of his rage melt away as he does so, circling her waist and entrenching his lips onto her strawberry-stained ones. He feels her freeze with shock and runs his fingers against her concealed shoulder blade, pulling her closer with each passing second, the sound of their hearts beating simultaneously resonating like a broken symphony. Slowly, she hooks her arms around his neck, drawing him to her lips once again and letting him feel. Then she pulls apart, searching his eyes thoroughly.

"What are you doing?" she repeats, albeit this time it is said in a hushed whisper. It is the most timid he's ever seen her and then he reconsiders, pauses, knowing that one wrong word can cause her running into the other direction with no possibility of her ever returning.

"Something I should have done a long time ago," he states, embedding his lips onto hers once again. He feels her smile.

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She stays up late painting.

Even during ice-chilled December nights, he still manages to find her huddled in his hoodie with her pastels in tow; smothering blank canvasses across her with expertly tilted paintbrushes as she runs them across the paper in several swift, fluid motions. He ends up bringing her snacks and drinks as well as ordering Chinese food for the both of them in case she happens to be in one of her moods whereby she will be consumed by her work, staring wordlessly at the paper with intense concentration (which shocks him slightly because he's never seen anyone, really, that focused on anything) and mixing hues of singular colors in a striking turbulent, frenzied haze. It usually ends with her turning to face him with tired blue eyes late into the wee hours of the night before inadvertently smiling once she catches the whiff of takeout food and sees the fizzy bottled drinks before opting to lean against him, burying her face gingerly into his chest as a subtle thank you. He gets the message.

One night, though, she whispers, her sugar-coated voice lingering, "Let's go outside." All the red flags instantly go off and Lucas stares at her with a raised eyebrow because she's Maya Hart, the queen of unpredictability, and he begins to quietly wonder if he would get back in one piece should he oblige. She tilts her head to the side impatiently, awaiting his answer, and then he catches the long string of bags under her eyes and decides to give in because, damn it, she needs to find some ways of unwinding before she breaks out. And so, he takes her hand as they surreptitiously sneak out of her bedroom window, her climbing down the fire escape and onto the carless road. He looks around, skeptical, and she turns to face him.

"Cars don't come here," she tells him. "It's late and everybody's asleep. Plus, this road is closed."

Thus, before either of them quite realizes it, they're lying on the road side-by-side; her long blonde hair sprawled on the pavement, his hand resting warmly on top of hers. It's silent, comfortably so, and, as if on cue, they both stick their tongues out, wincing once they feel the crystal snowflakes landing on them. "So we've become just like Noah and Allie, huh," she marvels, pausing for a second. "How cliché."

He leans forward, turning to meet her chilled blue-eyed gaze, before leaning back and grinning. "We sit silently and watch the world around us," he quotes effortlessly, turning over to face her. She groans, scrunching up her nose and placing a forearm over her eyes.

"You read it, didn't you?" she says, flinching. "Ugh, I knew it. I always knew you were a sap. Next thing you're going to tell me is that your favorite movie is Pride and Prejudice."

It isn't, but he chuckles, instinctively taking every insult with a grain of salt. And then he pauses, takes her hand before goading her upwards. She crosses her arms stubbornly, her long blonde hair framing her face as she stares at him, her blue eyes narrowed into slits. "What are you doing?" He doesn't respond, leaning over to gather the snow in an attempt to mesh them together. It doesn't take her long to realize his intentions and by the time she decides to react, he already begins pelting her with snowballs. She shrieks, backing away. She runs, searching for a hiding spot, but he catches up to her. She's fast, but he's faster.

"You don't know what you're in for, Sundance!" she exclaims as she manages to dodge another incoming attack. He grins.

"Hit me with your best shot, Clutterbucket."

It does the trick. She comes into view instantaneously, cerulean eyes radiating like two blazing flames, leaning over and gathering as much snow as she can in her glove-covered hands before pummeling him while keeping a reasonable distance. He dodges quickly, ducking under a fence before running towards her. She yelps and then yells at him, screaming profanities giddily as she continues to run through the raw atmosphere. They go on like that for a while; their shrieks and ranging insults lingering through the arctic air, until he ultimately decides to circle his arms around her waist and then lifts her into the air, spinning her around, before plopping, with her still firmly in his arms, onto the ground. She doesn't complain this time, silently content in his snow-covered arms, and then he runs his hands through her hair. "Merry Christmas, Hart," he whispers, as soon as he glances at the time on his watch, taking in the exquisite lighting of the city that never sleeps and ultimately decides that she is the best thing about moving here. She grins widely at him, her candy-coated voice lingering in the air.

"Merry Christmas, Cowboy."

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"Read me something," she tells him, in between kisses and long sighs, sprawled next to him on his bed and absentmindedly strumming his guitar.

"If you're a bird, I'm a bird," he replies in nonchalance, listening to her groan. He feels her punch his arm and grins in amusement.

"Stop comparing us to Noah and Allie," she orders, sternly meeting his gaze. "We're nothing like them. We're more like, I dunno, Bonnie and Clyde. Yeah. That's a whole lot cooler." He arches a brow.

"We're not," he argues. Then, he reaches over, fingering the iridescently designed notebook cover that lies undisturbed on the counter before whipping it out and sitting upright. He begins skimming through the loose-leaf paper, glimpsing at the long words that are splattered in black and white. Flipping through the pages; he lands on the first bookmarked one he sees, looking through the fine fountain ink and turning to meet her cobalt gaze. "It was an improbable romance," he begins to read. "He was a country boy. She was from the city." He pauses. "Does it sound familiar?" She narrows her eyes.

"So you're saying you'd build a house for me?" she asks derisively. "Wait for me for years on end?"

"Anything, Hart," he responds, without missing a beat. "Because," he refers to the book once again, flipping to another vigilantly bookmarked page, "I want all of you, forever, you and me, every day." She scoffs, but then she lets him hold her hand, on a damp and wintry Sunday evening.

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During New Years Eve, they sit aimlessly beside the fireplace in the Matthews' household, toasting the year away with effervescent drinks in champagne glasses that spill like stardust.

He plays with her blonde curls aimlessly while she begins strumming her guitar, her slightly oversized sunglasses perched at the top of her head. Riley is beside her, scrolling through her newsfeed on whichever social networking site she's currently obsessed with and Farkle is reading intently, flipping through the pages with courtesy. The silence ensues for a substantial amount of time, until it is broken by the sound of Mrs. Matthews enthusiastically proclaiming that the fireworks will start in approximately five minutes and everybody practically stumbles on their way to the Matthews' fire escape.

He's always liked the view from up here—Riley's fire escape overlooked the cityscape, seeing far into the pristinely constructed area, onto the hustle and bustle of the life that is evidently part and parcel of living here. He turns to his left and sees her tugging excitedly on the strings of his navy blue jacket and evidently decides the outlook could not even begin to compare to the incandescent blonde beside him. So when she kisses him the second the fireworks light up the starless night sky, he forgets the array of brunette hair and almond eyes that he used to adore and allows himself to sink into the accumulation of honey blonde locks and oceanic, marine irises that he indisputably grew to love. He brings her closer to her, feeling her pink tongue slip judiciously onto his, feeling the delicious blend of cherries and fizzy drink, and then allows himself to break into an ultimately luminous, ridiculous grin.

"Took you long enough," Riley beckons.

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So they're alone again, when the crisp night is dark and grim, both swinging their legs rhythmically on the top of her rooftop.

"Happy New Year," he whispers, his voice hushed as he places feather-light kisses on her tendrils. Her eyes are glassy and glimmering as she stares at him, running her fingers callously through his hair as she observes the way his mouth bores into a grin whenever he says her name; her lips are blood red as she presses them together when she glances at him. "I love you," he tells her, voice hinged with sincerity as he does so. She stiffens and he plays with her fingers. "I do."

"I know," she responds serenely, her voice now no louder than a whisper. "I love you too." Every inch of her conceited smirks and condescending gazes have been diminished in that instant, and, in that moment, she wears her heart on her sleeve. He smiles brightly, leaning over to kiss her once more, knowing full well that the honest gauge of her brilliant eyes and susceptibility will vanish at the crack of dawn and she will readily return to the rambunctious Hart girl that is oh so familiar to him, her walls standing tall and painted blue, the façade standing in the midst of everything. If he could stop time, he would, but he settles for stringing the rest of the starless night for as long as he possibly can before he awakens to a new day and, ultimately, a new year.

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a/n: please review, it would be fantastic if you gave me feedback :) and tbh, i would wholly appreciate it if you don't send just "great story" or "I loved it" & give me some constructive criticism because this took a while to make