the fire’s down to its softest light now—embers more than flame, each one pulsing like a heartbeat. the air smells of smoke and pine sap, the kind of clean cold that tastes sharp when you breathe it in. somewhere behind you, the cabin creaks, settling deeper into the night.

you sit beside Felix in the garden chairs, a blanket draped between you. the pond reflects the burn of the fire, leaves drifting over the surface like small gold boats. the quiet between you isn’t heavy; it’s steady, lived-in.

you tilt your head, watching the smoke rise. “you ever think about having a family?”

he doesn’t move at first. the question just hangs there, floating between the fire and the dark.

“a family?” he repeats eventually, voice rough.

“yeah. you know. house. kids. something that’s yours.” you shrug. “sometimes I think about it. not soon, just… someday.”

he stills completely. even the small motion of his thumb against his knee stops. his eyes stay on the pond, the light catching in them, but not softening.

the fire cracks. a log gives way.

“you’d be good at it,” he says finally, quiet enough you almost miss it.

you look at him, but he’s still staring ahead, jaw tight, shoulders set like he’s holding something in place.

“you would,” he adds. “you’d make something warm out of it.”

you wait, but he doesn’t go on. and you know better than to press.

the silence stretches again—comfortable and aching at once. the fire pops, and he reaches over, pulls the blanket higher around your shoulders.

“you cold?”

“a little.”

he nods. “we should head in soon.”