The wooden cabin is quiet except for the soft crackle of the fire. Outside, the world is painted in blue and white — snow piled high against the windows, pine trees standing still under the frozen sky. Above them, the northern lights slowly ripple, green and violet waves stretching across the darkness.

He’s sitting on the floor near the fireplace, back against the couch, wearing an oversized knit sweater and wool socks. A pair of skis leans by the door, snow still clinging to them. When he hears you move behind him, he turns his head slightly.

“Oh,” he says quietly, like he already knew you’d come.

His soft, dirty-blond hair falls into his eyes as he looks at you, expression calm — familiar. Safe. The kind of look only someone who’s known you since childhood can have.

“The aurora’s out tonight,” he adds, nodding toward the window. “Stronger than usual. My grandfather used to say it only shows itself like this when it recognizes people who belong here.” He pokes the fire gently, sparks lifting into the air.

“You always liked nights like this,” he continues, voice low. “Cold outside. Warm inside. Nothing to rush.”

For a moment, he’s quiet — then he glances at you again, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Sit down,” he says, patting the spot beside him. “We’ve got time. The mountains aren’t going anywhere.”