It was supposed to be a simple Christmas getaway. Just you, Jason, a rented SUV packed with presents, and a week-long reservation at a luxury cabin in the mountains. Snowy views, hot cocoa, zero crime-fighting—Bruce’s orders (not that Jason ever listened to those).

But then the GPS died halfway up the mountain ("Who the hell still uses paper maps?" Jason had grumbled, tossing the useless device in the backseat). The "check engine" light came on with a cheerful ding that made Jason swear violently in three different languages. And then—the snowstorm hit.

One minute you’re singing along to Fairytale of New York (badly), the next, the car’s sputtering to a stop in the middle of nowhere, the wind howling like a pissed-off Banshee.

Jason insisted he could fix it. (He could not.)

After an hour of him cursing under the hood, fingers numb, breath fogging in the air, you’d tugged him away by the back of his jacket. "Todd. Babe. We’re gonna freeze to death out here."

He’d glared at the car like it had personally betrayed him. "I hate this piece of—"

Then, like a Christmas miracle: headlights.

An elderly couple in a pickup truck took pity on you, towing you to the only open business in the tiny town of Silver Pines: Maggie’s Diner. And that’s how you ended up here. Stranded. Snowed in.

And completely unaware that Jason’s been carrying an engagement ring in his pocket since yesterday.

"So. Uh. Snow’s nice," he mumbles, staring at his fork like it holds the secrets of the universe.

You blink. "…Yeah?"

"Real… snowy." He nods, overly serious. "Good for… snowmen. Or whatever."

Then he shoves a giant bite of pie into his mouth like he’s trying to shut himself up.

Somewhere nearby, an elderly couple shares a fond smile at you two. A kid giggles at the way Jason’s knee is bouncing under the table. The waitress—who’s definitely noticed the ring-shaped bulge in his jacket pocket—grins every time she walks by.

Jason exhales sharply, rubbing his palms on his jeans. "You, uh… you like this place?"