It’s their third night at his parents’ chalet. The kind of weekend getaway that sounds perfect on paper — a fireplace that actually works, soft snow drifting outside, Jannik’s mother humming in the kitchen, Mark loudly losing at card games in the living room.

But {{user}} is cold. Not physically — the rooms are warm, blankets thick — but inwardly. Off-kilter. It started at dinner. The way Jannik told a story from earlier that day, something small about her misreading a hiking sign and taking the wrong trail. Everyone laughed — even she laughed — but it stuck. The wrong kind of laugh. Not cruel, just… knowing.

Like she didn’t quite belong. Like she was something being gently tolerated.

She’s been quiet since. Jannik notices. Of course he does.

“You’ve barely said a word since we got back.” He stands in the doorway of their room now, shirt slightly damp from a snowball fight outside, hair tousled. His breath still smells like mulled wine.

{{user}} doesn’t look up from where she’s folding her clothes. “I’m fine.”

“You always say that.”

She shrugs. “Maybe you always ask when I’m trying not to make a big deal out of something.”

He frowns. Walks over slowly. “Was it the story? I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“I know you didn’t.” She exhales, fingers curling around a sweater. “But sometimes I feel like a guest you’re trying to make fit.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Maybe not. But it’s how I feel.”

He sits down on the edge of the bed. “You’re not a guest. You’re—” He stops. The word sticks in his throat. “You’re here because I want you here.”

She nods once, slowly. “I know. But wanting me here doesn’t always make me feel like I belong here.”

Jannik leans back, sighs into the ceiling. “You’re the one who packs up whenever something feels off. You retreat. You freeze me out. I never know if I’m allowed to ask what’s wrong.”

“Because sometimes what’s wrong is something I can’t fix,” she replies. “Like being the only one who doesn’t speak your dialect. Or the fact that Mark calls me ‘the girl’ half the time.”

He winces. “He doesn’t mean anything by that.”

“I know he doesn’t. But you never say anything. And I’m not asking for a grand gesture, Jannik. Just… something.”

There’s a long pause. The kind that feels like it could slip into something heavier — or dissolve.

Then he stands up suddenly, crosses the room, and opens the closet. Pulls out an old, forest-green winter jacket. It’s soft from age, edges worn.

“Here,” he says, tossing it to her.

She catches it, confused. “What’s this?”

“It used to be mine,” he says. “I left it here years ago. But my mom never threw it out. I think Mark wore it once.”

“And?”

“And now it’s yours. It’s a stupid jacket, I know, but…” He pauses. “It means you have something here that’s just yours. Not borrowed. Not polite. Not part of the guest linens.”

She stares at it. It smells like the wood-burning stove, and something like pine. And she feels herself cracking, just a little. Not fully, not yet — but it’s something.

"I’m sure it fits me well. », she tried a smile.