NATALIE
The storm settles in by late afternoon, steady and thick, turning the world outside into a snow globe that someone shook a little too aggressively. Inside, the cabin feels warmer—not just from the stove, but from the way Calder has stopped glaring at me like I’m a glitter bomb waiting to explode.
He’s still wary. Still quiet. Still built like an avalanche.
But the edges have softened.
A little.
I’ll take it.
I stand near the windows, taking photos for my planning board while Calder slices vegetables with the kind of precision usually reserved for bomb squads.
“Those pieces are very… uniform,” I say.
“Knife’s sharp,” he replies.
“Uh-huh.” I take another picture of the window frame and jot down:need command hooks for garland. “And your cutting technique has nothing to do with your need for control?”
He pauses mid-slice. Slowly lifts his gaze.
I grin.
He shakes his head and goes back to chopping. “You don’t have to analyze everything.”
“I’m not analyzing.” I snap one more photo. “I’m observing.”
“Big difference?”
“Huge.”
He makes a sound that might be a laugh. Or a cough. Hard to tell.
The kitchen smells like onions and something earthy—thyme? rosemary?—and the stove crackles as snow smacks against the windows. It’s cozy in that accidental way, like the universe stuck us in here and said, Figure it out.
I turn my tablet around to show him. “Okay, this is what I’m thinking for the tree. That corner gets the most natural light during the day, plus sightlines from the couch and?—”
He blinks at the screen. “That’s my cabin.”
“Yes.”
“But…festive.”
“Yes,” I repeat, smile widening. “That’s the point.”
He studies the mockup. The glimmer of something—trepidation? nostalgia?—flickers across his face. “It doesn’t look like my place anymore.”
“It still is,” I say softly. “We’re not changing your cabin. We’re just dressing it up for one weekend.”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he turns back to the cutting board and resumes chopping with slow, measured calm.
A beat passes.
Two.
Three.
