The first snow had just begun to fall, brushing against the vast glass panes of your forest cabin like whispers from the sky. Outside, pine trees stood cloaked in white, silent guardians of the cozy world inside. The fire crackled softly in the corner, casting golden light across the wooden walls and the thick blankets that cocooned you in bed.

You were curled up beneath layers of warmth, the scent of pinewood smoke and cinnamon still lingering in the air from the tea you’d brewed earlier. The crackle of logs in the fireplace was steady and grounding, while faint snowflakes danced outside the tall triangular windows, nature's own lullaby.

John Nolan was next to you — not in uniform, not tense or weary like he often was after shifts. Just him, in a thick sweater and flannel pants, his arm slung around you, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your arm. You could feel the soft rise and fall of his chest, calm for once, steady. He hadn’t said a word in minutes — he didn’t need to. His presence was enough.

"You warm enough?" he murmured, his lips brushing your forehead.