The Aspen air was crisp and cold, but the house the school had rented was warm with laughter, firelight, and the scent of hot cocoa. Your classmates were spread across the cozy lodge — some gathered by the fireplace playing card games, others upstairs picking beds, loud footsteps echoing through the wooden halls.

You were curled up in one of the giant armchairs, oversized hoodie tucked around your knees, holding a mug that steamed against your hands. Outside the snow kept falling — soft and endless.

Mr. Peters — or “Evan,” as the other teachers called him — stood in the corner by the window, trying to figure out the ancient thermostat. His beanie was pulled low over his ears, ski jacket unzipped, cheeks still pink from the cold.

“Well,” he sighed dramatically, turning to the room “if we all freeze tonight, you can blame the 1982 heating system.”

A few people laughed. You smiled quietly into your mug.

Later, while everyone was setting up sleeping bags and yelling about bunk beds, he passed by and gave you a little nudge with his elbow. “You settling in okay?” he asked, voice low, warm.

You nodded.

“Good,” he said, his eyes lingering for just a second too long before he turned back to wrangle the chaos of your classmates.