The snow had started to fall sometime in the night.
By morning, the world beyond the cabin was blanketed in white—soft, endless, and untouched. The trees stood like silent sentinels around them, their branches heavy with powdered hush. No sound of traffic, no emails, no press. Just the crackle of the fire and the rhythm of two people slowly remembering what it meant to just be.
Amelia stood by the window, mug in hand, wrapped in Damian's sweater. It draped over her like armor, even though they were miles from anyone who could harm her.
He walked up behind her quietly, hands slipping around her waist.
"Morning," he murmured into her shoulder.
She leaned back into him. "It's beautiful out there."
"Almost as beautiful as in here."
She smiled without turning around. "That was cheesy."
"I'm allowed to be cheesy. I'm in love."
That word—love—still caught her off guard when it fell so easily from his lips. She hadn't expected it to grow so naturally in him, this man who had once lived so carefully, so completely in control.
"You weren't like this when I met you," she whispered.
"No," he agreed. "But I think… I was always waiting to be."
They spent the early hours wrapped in domestic quiet. Amelia cooked pancakes this time, teasing Damian as he tried—and failed—to flip them like a pro. They played old records on the turntable, danced barefoot on the wooden floors, and laughed like no one was watching. Because no one was.
And then the silence came.
Not an awkward silence.
But a necessary one.
It found them while they sat on the couch, side by side, each lost in thought as the snowfall outside thickened. Damian was reading, but his eyes hadn't moved from the same page in ten minutes. Amelia watched him, sensing the shift before he even spoke.
"You ever think about the future?" he asked, eyes still on the book.
"All the time," she said softly.
"I mean—our future."
Amelia placed her mug down carefully. "What do you see?"
Damian closed the book, setting it on the table. He looked at her, voice slower now. "I see a world where we don't have to run to cabins to feel safe. I see you writing stories that aren't just about love, but real—uncompromising, brave. I see you speaking your truth. And me… learning to live mine beside you."
She reached for his hand. "Sounds perfect."
"But it won't be easy," he said. "There are things I haven't told you. About my board. About my family. There are people who think love makes a man weak. That it'll destroy everything I've built."
Amelia's voice was calm, but firm. "Then maybe it's time to stop building for them."
He nodded slowly, then stood, pulling something from the inside pocket of his coat.
At first, she thought it was a letter.
But it was a photograph—creased and faded.
A woman stood in the frame, laughing mid-spin, arms open like she was welcoming the sky. Her hair was dark and wild. Her eyes were almost identical to Damian's.
"My mother," he said. "She left when I was ten. Said the world my father lived in would swallow her whole. She wasn't wrong."
Amelia stared at the photo.
"You never talk about her."
"Because I learned early that missing someone isn't a strength in my world. It's a vulnerability. And vulnerability gets exploited."
Amelia looked up at him. "But you kept this."
"I did." He hesitated. "And I kept my softness too, though I buried it so deep, I almost forgot it existed."
She stood and wrapped her arms around his waist. "You're not your father, Damian."
"I know."
"And you don't have to be his version of strong."
"I don't want to be." His voice cracked. "I want to be yours."
That night, they lay beneath thick quilts, the storm swirling outside like a whispered warning.
But inside, there was warmth.
There was safety.
There was truth.
And even though the snow was beginning to trap them in, neither one wanted to leave.
Because for the first time, they weren't hiding from the world.
They were preparing to face it.
Together.