Gay Christmas Romance, 2nd Chances
Date Published: December 19, 2025
All James wants for Christmas is his roommate Cillian. And he might just be
getting lucky this year.
Who doesn’t love the holidays? Sleigh bells racing down winding country
roads. Chestnuts, open fires, Yule logs. Homemade fruitcake that’s
soaked up a full bottle of brandy. James adores it all, but his long-concealed
desire for his roommate Cillian runs deeper than a river of holiday booze and
burns hotter than any crackling Christmas hearth. But since he’d rather
not risk losing a dear friend by making any unwanted moves, he’s kept
that to himself for years.
Until now. When a flight plan goes FUBAR and James doesn’t have a way
home for the holidays, Cillian suggests they keep Christmas in their own way.
Tree, lights, feasting, the works.
It’s tempting. Almost as tempting as Cillian himself. And when James
starts to get a clue that his interest might just be reciprocated…
well. That changes the entire game. Time to bring out the holly and the jolly
and maybe he’ll get his man under the tree this year.
James bowed his head and thumped it gently against the windowpane. At first,
he thought the quiet rattle and bang was from the shitty, landlord special,
glass rattling in its frame. The much louder swearing, first frustrated and
then triumphant, told him Cillian was home.
His heart rate, already nice and high, spiked a jolt or two skyward.
Cillian. His roommate. Platonic, not permanently attached, but in high demand,
with a new pretty boy or big bear on his arm at least twice a month. He
rattled all the windows when he had company, and James had learned to take it
with a grain of salt, a snorted chuckle, and a really good pair of
noise-canceling headphones — because honestly, Cillian was one of those guys
you couldn’t help but love. Some men had a gift for that. Half Irish and
leaning into it, using the accent he’d gotten from his Galway mother to
its full advantage. Full head of wild red curls and a day or so’s worth
of stubble. Surprisingly broad shoulders, built like a Viking bard, with a
cute little pillow belly when he sat down.
“Your call is very important to us. Please hold…”
James missed the rest of the robot spiel, too busy watching Cillian wander
into their living room, tossing his keys in the general direction of their
coffee table and his own knitted cap toward the back of the couch. No company
tonight, James noticed.
Cillian grinned broadly, his teeth white and even, and mimed “phone
call?” before putting his finger to his lips and plunking cheerfully
down onto their couch. Yep. There was the belly. During dry spells, which
happened far more often than James would like, he itched to drop down beside
Cillian and rest his head on that nice little cushion to see if it was as
comfortable as it looked.
“Won’t say a word,” Cillian mouthed to James. Then almost
immediately, out loud: “Problems? Weren’t you supposed to be on a
plane tonight?”
“Supposed to be, sure.” James gestured at his phone.
“Airline says otherwise.”
“You bought your ticket weeks ago.”
“Again, airline’s website says otherwise. Trying to get an actual
human on the line to convince them of that.”
Cillian winced in kind sympathy and idly rested his hand on his stomach where
his Aran sweater had ridden up an inch or two. “Sucks, my friend. Wish
you good luck.”
James’ fingers twitched. Their windows didn’t keep all the cold
out, but Cillian ran warm. He’d be toasty as a fireplace to cuddle up
with. James could rest his head or roll over to face him while they talked
about a little of everything and a lot of nothing. And while he was there,
possibly nose into the warm skin. Press a light kiss to Cillian’s navel.
Or flip completely onto his stomach, braced on his arms, all the better to
take care of the zipper on Cillian’s jeans and —
Okay, so he didn’t think about that kind of goings-on only during dry
spells. More like all the time, actually.
All I want for Christmas is youuuuuu…
Click. “Your call has been disconnected. Please hang up and try
again.”
James clapped a hand to his forehead and growled through gritted teeth,
wondering if Androids could actually accordion up and break across the middle
if you squeezed them hard enough. Either way, he was about to find out, either
from travel-induced rage or sexual frustration.
“Ah, now. I know that look.”
James had closed his eyes, but he heard Cillian lever himself off the couch
and clatter over before thumping a companionable hand to his back.
“It’s a few days till Christmas still. You’re not going to
get a human on the line during rush hour.”
“True so far.” James opened his eyes. “Suggestions?”
“Sure, easy. Call back tomorrow morning and yell at them then. Or not,
because they’re humans and they’re probably at least twice as
pissed at the system as you are, so be a kind fellow and go easy on the poor
bastards. Figure it all out with a cool head then.”
Cillian grinned at him from inches away. He smelled of bayberries and fir and
wool. “And in the meantime, I happen to know the perfect cure for a
raging temper fit.”
Despite himself, a matching smile tugged at James’ lips. Cillian was
just magic that way. “Don’t say drinks.”
“Drinks!” Cillian thumped him harder, then tossed an arm around
James’ shoulders. “Best idea I’ve heard today. Let’s
go.”
With a choice between that and listening to bubblegum caroling for another
hour — well, it wasn’t really a choice at all.
All I want for Christmas is you. He tapped Cillian’s fist with his own.
“You’re on. Let’s go.”
About the Author
Willa Okati (AKA Will) is made of many things: imagination, coffee, stray cat
hairs, daydreams, more coffee, kitchen experimentation, a passion for winter
weather, a little more coffee, a whole lot of flowering plants and a lifelong
love of storytelling. Will’s definitely one of the quiet ones you have to
watch out for, though he — not she anymore — is a lot less quiet these days.
Author Contact Links
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