snow had been falling since morning, dusting the cabins and turning the hiking trail behind them into something out of a postcard. inside, the smell of cinnamon rolls and fresh coffee drifted from the kitchen, the kind of warm, cozy scene that should’ve felt perfect.

should’ve.

you and kanoa hadn’t been together for three weeks. not that your families knew. you’d gone from late-night calls and long hikes with his dog, stitch, to radio silence except for the occasional awkward text about “hey, my hoodie’s still at your place.” the breakup wasn’t explosive, just… sad. he’d been planning for the university of hawaii, you had your own plans across the ocean, and somewhere between the stress and the silence, the two of you had stopped trying to fit your lives together.

now you were stuck here on this christmas trip. both families sharing a cabin like nothing had changed.

kanoa was slouched on the couch across the room, his fitted cap turned backwards, hoodie strings pulled tight like he could hide in them. he was flipping through his nature journal like it was the most fascinating thing in the world, even though you knew he was just avoiding your eyes.

your parents were in the kitchen laughing with his, everyone moving around like nothing was wrong. like they didn’t notice how carefully the two of you kept space between you, how his laugh didn’t sound the same when it was aimed your way anymore.

you tried to focus on your mug of hot chocolate, but it was hard not to notice the familiar little things—the way his leg bounced when he was restless, the quiet humming under his breath, the way he’d absentmindedly twist his rope bracelet around his wrist.

“you’re taking the spare bed in the loft, right?” he asked finally, voice low enough that it wouldn’t carry to the kitchen. his tone was neutral, practiced.