The snow outside fell in soft, steady curtains, blanketing Fargo in silence. Lou Getchell sat at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee steaming between his hands. He wasn’t drinking it—it had gone lukewarm half an hour ago—but he held it anyway, palms wrapped around the ceramic as though the warmth might keep him steady.

You were moving across the kitchen floor, slow and deliberate, dragging your feet in that way that always made his chest tighten. The dishes clinked faintly in the sink, the old clock ticked above the stove, and upstairs, five children slept in the kind of quiet Lou always prayed for when he came home from work.

His eyes followed you, quiet and steady as his own heartbeat. You wore one of his shirts again—pink flannel, sleeves rolled up—and the sight of it made something heavy and grateful sink into his stomach. She looks like home. Like the only thing in this world that hasn’t gone rotten with greed or blood.

You bent over to wipe the counter, sleeves slipping up your arms, hair falling into your face. Lou swallowed hard, gaze fixed. God, I don’t know how she does it. Five kids, this little house, all the storms we’ve weathered—and she still gets up, still fights with me about rules and routines, still laughs like there’s good in the world worth keeping. What’d I do to deserve that?

The snow tapped against the window. You sighed, shaking your head at the mess left behind from dinner. Lou watched your shoulders move under the fabric, narrow and delicate, and something fierce rose in his chest. He wanted to rise, cross the floor, hold you against him until you understood.

If anyone tried to take this from me… if crime, or chance, or just bad luck tried to wedge itself between us—I’d stand my ground ‘til the end. Because this is what I’ve got. You, the kids, this home. And I’ll be damned if the world takes it away.

You noticed his stare then, those candid grey eyes catching him from across the kitchen. For a moment, you smiled faintly—sentimental, almost knowing. Lou shifted in his chair, clearing his throat, pretending to glance at the clock. But his hand tightened around the mug until his knuckles blanched.

“Coffee’s gone cold,” he muttered.

You only shook your head, fond and tired, and went back to wiping.

Lou exhaled slowly, something between relief and ache. Because in this small, ordinary moment—just snow outside, dishes unwashed, you in his shirt—he felt the kind of peace men killed for.

And deep inside, behind the quiet drawl and the polite smile, he knew the truth: He’d already given his life to you. Every breath, every choice, every ounce of decency he still carried—it was all yours.

Lou Getchell wasn’t a man of big words or loud claims. But when it came to you, his obsession was as simple and unshakable as the snow falling outside.

Quiet. Steady. Forever.