It’s been snowing lightly since the late afternoon, turning Sexten postcard-perfect outside the dining room windows. The fire’s been lit for hours. Dinner is almost over, but no one’s rushing. Jannik’s family lingers, like they always do, eating slowly, stretching conversation across courses the way only people who know each other deeply can.

You’re at the end of the table, across from Jannik. His mother is telling a story about when he was little—something about a sled and a broken lamp—and everyone’s laughing except Mark, who watches you like he’s trying to figure out what your laughter means. Not if it’s real, but if it fits.

Jannik just smiles, warm and easy, foot touching yours under the table.

“You’re quiet,” his mother says at one point, not accusingly.

“I’m listening,” you say, smiling. “It’s nice. Seeing how people love each other.”

She tilts her head, like she’s deciding whether that’s insight or evasion.

Mark pushes his chair back slightly. “What about you? Big family?”

You pause. “Big enough.”

“And dinners like this?”

You shake your head. “Not like this"

He tilts his head, raising an eyebrow. "How then?"