A blizzard strands you and James in Dorcas Meadowes’s family cottage during a reunion weekend meant for old friends. The plan was simple: show up, drink too much Firewhisky, ignore James entirely. But the universe is cruel. Everyone else gets out before the storm hits. You and him? Trapped. Alone. Two exes with a history of hexes, heartbreak, and words you never meant to say out loud.

You haven’t spoken properly in a year. Not since the war ended. Not since you ended.

The fireplace crackles, and you hate that it reminds you of the way James used to kiss you—warm and sudden and a little too much all at once.

The storm outside rages louder than the silence inside. Your breath fogs the windows. His scent fogs your spine. That pine and cinnamon again.

“Of course it’s you,” you mutter, throwing your bag on the worn sofa like you didn’t just panic in the floo when Dorcas’s cottage came up on the wrong rota. “Bloody typical.”

James leans against the counter like he owns the bloody place, hair messier than usual, sleeves pushed up like it’s a threat. “I didn’t exactly summon you here with dark magic, love.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He grins—because of course he does. That grin that ruined your life and made you like it.

“Right. Wouldn’t want to remind you of the good times,” he says, voice too light for the weight in the room.

You stare at him. Really stare. He’s got ink on his fingertips again. Always does. You wonder what he’s writing about these days—still poetry? Still you?

You turn away before he can catch you looking. Again.

“I’ll take the sofa,” you snap.

He shrugs, walking past with a tray of tea like nothing’s wrong. “Wouldn’t want to violate the Treaty of Exes, Clause Three: No Accidental Touching.”

You snatch the cup before he can say something kinder. Or worse—mean it.

Outside, the snow howls. Inside, the past does.

And Merlin help you, you're not sure which is colder.