From his corner, Hamlet snorts his approval, still wearing a small garland around his neck like he enjoys it. Duchess lounges beneath the lowest strand, her twitching tail making the garland bounce, and even Peanut seems to have grudgingly accepted our color choices.
We stand back to admire our handiwork—garlands draped over doorways, pinecones arranged on the mantle, berry strings woven through one of the railings in the kitchen. The cabin has transformed from a survival bunker to a cozy Christmas haven.The gratitude in her eyes shifts to something deeper, warmer. Something that looks like the beginning of trust, of possibility, of maybe being brave enough to let someone close.
The quiet stretches until my phone buzzes on the counter, the sound abrupt in the stillness. Glancing at the screen, I expect another weather alert—but the headline makes my stomach tighten.
Integration Zone protest scheduled for tomorrow at City Hall. Advocates of Other employment rights face growing opposition from Purist groups…
I turn the screen facedown, but the damage is done. The reminder of the world outside our winter-wrapped sanctuary settles between us like a cold draft. My jaw tightens, fingers curling against the counter.
“You okay?” Laney asks softly.
“Fine.” But even I can hear the strain in my voice—the weight I’d somehow managed to forget while stringing popcorn and making her laugh creeping back where it always lives.
“You don’t look fine.”
I force myself to meet her eyes. “It was an alert about more protests at the Zone. I’m just tired of it.”
“Of the protests?”
“Of all of it. The headlines. The arguments. Being treated like a political issue instead of just… a person.” The words came out rough.
I set down the pinecone I’ve been holding, afraid I might crush it. “For a few moments, I forgot, up here with you. Forgot that when this is over, I go back to being ‘one of the Others’ instead of just Ryder.”
Her hand finds mine on the counter, warm and steady. “To me, you’re just Ryder.”
“To you.” I turn my hand over, threading my fingers through hers. “But to everyone else? I’m an Integration Zone resident. Work permit only. Can’t own property outside designated areas. Can’t travel more than fifty miles without additional documentation. Can’t—” I stop myself before the bitterness takes over completely.
“Can’t what?” Her voice is gentle, but there’s steel underneath. Like she actually wants to hear this.
“Can’t build a life anywhere but inside a fence.” The words taste like defeat. “Can’t make plans that don’t fit inside someone else’s rules about where I’m allowed to exist.”
The weight of what I’m not saying presses against my chest. Our deadline. Roads clearing. The impossibility of what we’re building here lasting beyond the snow.
“Snowplows will clear the roads soon,” she says quietly, and I realize she’s thinking the same thing I am.
“Yes.” I let her hear the reluctance in my voice.
“And then you go back.”
“And then I go back.” To the Zone. To the firehouse. To the life that doesn’t include waking up to her coffee and her laugh and the way she looks at me like I’m not a problem to be solved.
She’s quiet for a long moment, her thumb tracing small circles on the back of my hand. “What if there were a way?”
“A way to what?”
“To make this work. After the roads clear. After reality comes back.”
I want to believe her. Want to let myself imagine a future where the rules bend, where distance doesn’t matter, where love is enough to overcome bureaucracy and prejudice and the fifty miles that might as well be five thousand.
“Maybe,” I say, because hope is cruel, but I can’t quite kill it. “Maybe wecanfind a way.”
Her smile is sad and determined all at once. “Then we’d better make the most of whatever time we have.”
Outside, snow continues to keep us isolated from the world. But inside, surrounded by handmade decorations and the animals that brought us together, it feels like we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.
Maybe getting snowed in together wasn’t the complication I thought it would be. Maybe it was exactly what we both needed.
Chapter Thirteen
