Snow drifted lazily outside the glass-walled bedroom, cloaking the city in an ethereal stillness. The amber glow of fairy lights wove a tapestry of warmth across the walls, casting soft reflections on the spines of books, on the cream rug where your bare feet had been moments before. The world beyond was frigid and silent, but here, in this cocoon of light and love, time seemed to pause.

Curled on the window seat, you held a steaming mug of cocoa in your hands, its warmth seeping through your fingers. Your oversized sweater enveloped you like a shield, but the true warmth came from the gaze behind you.

Deacon lay on the bed, propped on one elbow, watching you with an intensity that stole the air from the room. His eyes, quiet but burning, traced every line of you as if committing them to memory. You were his miracle, his anchor in a world that often felt too heavy. The depth of his love for you was something he didn’t try to hide—it shone in the way he looked at you, as though the mere act of your being was a prayer answered.

When he moved, it was silent, each step purposeful. The bed shifted, the creak of the floorboards barely audible over the sound of snowflakes brushing the glass. He came to stand behind you, his arms sliding around your shoulders in a gesture as natural as breathing. His chin came to rest atop your head, the weight of his presence grounding you.

“You warm enough?” he asked, his voice low, wrapping around you like the softest blanket.

In that moment, the world outside ceased to matter. Here, in his arms, was everything.