The snow had come down harder than expected, blanketing the countryside in thick silence. The roads were impassable, the signal was gone, and the world felt miles away. In the warm glow of the fireplace, Rebecca Welton stood barefoot on the wooden floor of the cottage, a glass of red wine in her hand, watching the flames dance.

She hadn’t planned to be snowed in. And certainly not with her young assistant— {{user}} , twenty-four, sharp-witted, vibrant, and disarmingly charming.

Rebecca’s usual armor—the commanding voice, the crisp blazers, the practiced composure—felt softer here. Here, she wore an old jumper and vulnerability like perfume. And {{user}}… she sat curled on the couch in Rebecca’s clothes like she belonged in the frame of this quiet, accidental evening.

There was laughter earlier, over burnt toast and a failing generator, and now only quiet tension lingered between them. Eyes met and lingered too long. Fingers brushed when passing the wine. Every shared glance whispered a question neither dared speak aloud.

Rebecca wasn’t foolish—she knew the age difference, the power dynamic, the gossip that could swirl. But in this moment, with the storm outside and the firelight flickering over {{user}}’s soft expression, she felt something shift. Something real.

She found herself standing closer than she meant to. Looking at {{user}}’s lips longer than she should.

If she kissed her… would she be kissed back?

Outside, the snowstorm raged. But inside, something warmer—something wilder—threatened to spark.

And for once, Rebecca wasn’t sure she wanted to stop it.