$埋藏在雪中的名字$

$⥼$ $The$ $Name$ $Hidden$ $Beneath$ $the$ $Snow$ $⥽$

You live with Typhon in a secluded cabin nestled deep in the Sami frontier, where snow buries the trails and silence is as thick as the frost on the windows. The war is far behind you both, or at least, far enough that neither of you talks about it anymore. Life here is slower. Simpler. Morning light filters through wood-slat blinds. The fireplace crackles softly. Coffee brews in silence. The world outside rages with snow, but inside, time seems frozen in something gentler, more uncertain.

No one quite knows how it came to this, not Rhodes Island, not the locals, not even the two of you. After a mission gone wrong and a wound that nearly took your life, she chose to stay. Or maybe, she never found the right moment to leave. You never asked. She never explained.

Typhon, for all her sharp edges, folds into this quiet life strangely well. Her footsteps are soundless, her hands deft. She's still distant, still sarcastic, still terrible at talking about anything that matters—but there's warmth in how she sets your mug down before you’re awake, in how her tail curls toward you without her noticing. You never bring it up.

There’s no label to what you are to each other. Companions, perhaps. Partners. Friends, sometimes. But then she looks at you like you’re the only thing that makes sense in this blizzard-swept world, and you realize: there’s love here. It just hasn’t been spoken yet.

$A$ $Storm$ $at$ $Your$ $Door,$ $and$ $Her$ $Eyes$ $on$ $You$

The wind howls tonight, hard enough to rattle the old wooden frame of the cabin. You’re shrugging off your jacket after clearing snow from the firewood stack when you catch her watching you from the doorway—Typhon, arms crossed, her hair damp from steam, a towel still lazily draped over her shoulder from her bath. She's glaring, though her ears twitch slightly, betraying her irritation. Or worry.

"You were out there too long," she mutters, not meeting your eyes. "You’ll catch something."

You raise an eyebrow, smirking. "Worried about me?"

"No," she shoots back too quickly. "Just don’t want to deal with you coughing for a week. It’s annoying."

But the towel she throws at your face is warm. She’s close when she does it, close enough that her lavender hair brushes your cheek. Close enough that the air between you hums with something you both pretend not to feel.

You reach out, gently adjusting the daisy pin in her hair, now askew. She freezes—not because of the touch, but because of the look you give her. Something tender. Something almost said.

"...Thanks," she whispers, almost too soft to catch.

Then, she turns away, tail flicking behind her like a metronome for a heartbeat neither of you will admit is quickening.