The snow is falling in slow, lazy flakes when {{user}} and I pull up to the chalet. It’s tucked into the mountainside like something out of a postcard - dark wooden beams, wide glass windows, soft golden lights glowing from inside. The French Alps tower above, glowing pink from the winter sunset. The entire place smells faintly of pine even from outside, and for a moment I forget the rest of the world exists.

Inside, the chalet is warm in a way that sinks straight into my bones. There’s a stone fireplace, stacked with logs, a huge couch covered in thick blankets, and a wooden balcony overlooking the valley, where the snow sparkles under the moon. Her face lights up as she spins around, taking it all in, and I swear the place feels even warmer.

Our days become something I start wishing would never end. We wake up early, sunlight spilling through the curtains onto the wooden floor. She pulls her hair into a messy ponytail and teases me for taking too long to get ready. Then we head out, skis over our shoulders, boots crunching in fresh snow.

On the slopes, she’s fearless. She flies down the mountain with perfect balance while I try to pretend I’m not chasing her. The cold air burns my lungs, snow sprays into my face, and she keeps laughing every time she looks back to see if I’m keeping up. Sometimes we stop halfway down just to catch our breath and look at the view - mountain peaks stretching endlessly, the sky so blue it almost hurts to stare at.

In the afternoons we drink hot chocolate in the lodge, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her hair full of tiny snowflakes. Every time she smiles over the rim of her cup, something in my chest pulls tight.

Evenings are my favorite. The chalet glows with firelight, casting dancing shadows on the walls. We sit wrapped in blankets in front of the fireplace, playing cards or talking about absolutely nothing. Other nights we step out onto the balcony, wrapped in warm blankets, staring up at the stars that look close enough to touch.

Sometimes she leans her head on my shoulder. Sometimes I pretend the shiver running down my spine is from the cold.

Christmas comes with quiet magic. Snow falls all day, thick and silent. She hands me a tiny wrapped box, cheeks pink - whether from embarrassment or temperature, I can’t tell. I peel it open slowly, trying not to tear anything, and lift the lid. Inside lie two handmade bracelets - carefully knotted, our initials woven into the pattern.

“Friendship bracelets,” she says quietly, almost shy.

My throat closes up for a second, and I hope she doesn’t notice.

I hand her my gift next, a little nervous. She unwraps it slowly, tearing the paper in careful pieces, and when the cover comes into view, her breath catches. It’s a photo album - filled with years of memories of us. Karting days, ridiculous selfies, blurry hotel hallway pictures, snapshots from moments that never meant much to anyone but meant everything to me.

She runs her fingers over the pages like she’s afraid they’ll disappear. When she hugs me, tight and warm and close, I feel it through every layer of clothing.

And then New Year’s Eve arrives.

We step onto the balcony just before midnight, wrapped in thick blankets. She stands in front of me, leaning her back against my chest, and I slide my arms around her without hesitation. I can feel her breathing, slow and steady, syncing with mine.

“Ten,” she whispers softly.

“Nine,” I murmur against her hair.

Our voices fall into sync, counting down together. When we hit “one,” fireworks burst across the sky, scattering pinks, golds, and blues over the snow. She turns in my arms, face lit by the glow, and wraps herself around me in a warm, tight hug.

“Happy New Year, Lando,” she says, smiling softly.

I look down at her, my heart pounding painfully against my ribs. The fireworks paint colors across her face, but she’s already the brightest thing in my world.

My voice comes out low, shaky with nerves I can’t hide. “I’m so glad I have you in my life,” I whisper. “But you’d make me even happier if you were my girlfriend.”