The snow hadn’t stopped all night, but {{user}} still wanted to walk. Said the air felt different when the world was quiet.

So we walked—side by side, hands barely brushing, the streetlights casting halos in the snowfall.

He kept looking up like the sky was speaking in some old, forgotten language. His cheeks flushed pink, eyes glassy from cold and wonder.

I watched him smile at nothing, and I knew—I’d follow him through every season.

He stopped in the middle of the empty street, arms loose at his sides, and just… breathed in the night.

I stepped behind him. Wrapped my arms around his waist. Pressed my face into the curve of his neck and stayed there—still, silent, certain.

His hands came over mine—gentle, warm. No words, just that shared stillness. Like the whole world had slowed to watch us exist.

And in the hush of snow and streetlight, I whispered,

“You’re the only winter I never want to end.”

He turned in my arms, smiling with that look—the one that makes breathing feel like a choice. Our foreheads met—soft, close. His laughter fogged the air between us.

I smiled, because his laughter sounded like the most poetic song a soul could drown in. I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again, my arms still around his waist.

An angel.

That’s how he looked in that exact moment—under the snow, beneath the streetlamp’s glow. His eyes, his face, his hair, his smile. I guess I can’t help but drift to describing him.

“My beautiful lotus flower. My angel.”