“Firewood,” he muttered, checking something on his phone. “Matches, hot chocolate, marshmallows?—”
“Marshmallows?”
“You can’t have hot chocolate without marshmallows. It’s a rule.”
“Since when?”
“Since I decided five minutes ago.”
I followed him around the store, oddly charmed by this domestic side of him. He debated between different types of pasta, frowned at the limited wine selection (before remembering I couldn’t legally drink it anyway), and spent five full minutes choosing the perfect firewood bundle.
“You know we’re only going for one night, right?” I asked as he added a third type of cheese to the basket.
“I want to make sure we have options.”
“Options for what? Are we feeding an army?”
He paused in front of the breakfast foods. “I don’t know what you like for breakfast. Eggs? Pancakes? Cereal?”
“Nils.” I put my hand on his arm, not caring if anyone saw. “Whatever you make will be perfect.”
Something soft passed over his face. “I want this to be good for you.”
“It already is.”
Back in the car with our supplies, we turned off the main road onto increasingly narrow mountain paths. The GPS on Nils’s phone showed us heading deep into the Adirondack Park, far from any towns or cities. Snow banks rose on either side of the plowed road, and the trees pressed close, their branches heavy with fresh powder from last week’s storm.
“This is beautiful,” I said, pressing my face closer to the window. “I’ve never been anywhere like this.”
“No?”
“City kid, remember? My version of nature is Chestnut Ridge Park, and that’s like twenty minutes of trees max before you hit suburbs again.”
“My family has a cabin in the mountains,” Nils said, then caught himself. “Had. When I was young. We’d go there in winters.”
There was something odd about the way he said it, a careful correction that made me curious. But before I could ask, we rounded a bend and the cabin appeared through the trees.
It was perfect, like something out of a Christmas card. Small but sturdy, with log walls and a steep roof designed to shed snow. Smoke already rose from the chimney, and warm light glowed in the windows.
“Someone’s here?” I asked, suddenly worried.
“No, the rental company prepared it for us. Turned on the heat, started a fire. It should be warm inside.”
“You rented this place?”
“Just for tonight.” He pulled up beside the cabin and turned off the engine. “I wanted somewhere we could be completely alone. No chance of anyone from school seeing us.”
The thoughtfulness of it, the planning he’d put into this surprise, made my throat tight. “This is incredible.”
“Wait until you see the stars.”
We unloaded the car, carrying groceries and bags inside. The interior was even better than the exterior—one main room with a stone fireplace, exposed wooden beams, and comfortable furniture that looked actually lived-in rather than staged. A ladder led up to what must be a loft bedroom, and the kitchen, while small, had everything we might need.
“How did you even find this place?” I asked, setting grocery bags on the counter.
“Research. I looked for dark sky locations within driving distance. This area has some of the least light pollution on the East Coast. Class 2 on the Bortle scale.”
“I have no idea what that means, but it sounds impressive.”
