Upstate New York, winter of ‘46. The house was small. Just two rooms, woodstove heat, and windows that iced over every night. But it was yours. You and Mason Blake had saved every cent you could, working quiet jobs no one asked too many questions about. The war was over. But men like you still had to be careful. Still had to keep things quiet. Some things still needed hiding. Not here, though. Not between two chipped mugs and creaky floorboards, where the silence was kind and the love was real.

Mason came in with his coat dusted in snow, the smell of tobacco and cold clinging to him. He set the mail on the table, hands raw and red, eyes softer than they’d ever been in uniform

He peeled the gloves off slow, looked over at you with that crooked half-smile, and said, “I saw a kid outside building a snowman with a helmet on—swear I almost ducked.”