The storm came in quietly during the night.

One moment the world had been dark and wet with cold rain, the next it was hushed beneath thick, drifting white. By morning, the first real snowfall of the season has swallowed everything — rooftops bowed under its weight, cars buried to their mirrors, the street reduced to a narrow, half-visible path carved by tire tracks and shadows.

Your apartment is warm, but heavy with exhaustion.

Your daughter lies curled against you on the couch, wrapped in too many blankets, her small breaths uneven with sleep and lingering fever. You’d barely slept at all, waking every hour to check her temperature, to wipe her flushed cheeks, to whisper reassurances she was too tired to hear.

When she finally settles into a deeper sleep, you carefully slip free and move to the window.

Outside, the snow is relentless. The driveway is completely buried.

Your stomach sinks, Sick child and no one else to call. A job that will have to get done even if your body is too tired to face it.

You rest your forehead gently against the cold glass, already calculating how long it will take, how many breaks you’ll need, how quickly you can be in and out without leaving her alone for too long.

You turn to grab your coat.

And that’s when you see him.

Across the yard, snow whipping around his shoulders, James is already shoveling.

Dark jeans soaked at the hem. Heavy jacket zipped high against the wind. Every steady push of the shovel sends an arc of snow sliding cleanly off the drive in practiced, powerful movements. His breath ghosts in the cold air with each exhale. The storm seems to move around him rather than slow him down.

For a second, your mind struggles to catch up.

You hadn’t asked. You hadn’t said a word. You hadn’t even opened the door yet and still here he is.

Clearing your driveway like it was instinct. Like it was necessary. Like it was simply a thing that needed to be done.

Your chest tightens in a way you weren’t prepared for.

You’ve barely spoken since he moved in. A few polite hellos in the hall. A shared smile over dropped mail. Once, he’d held the door open when your hands were too full. Nothing more. Nothing that explains this.

James pauses mid-shovel, sensing something before he sees it. Slowly, he looks up.

Your eyes meet through the falling snow.

For just a moment, he looks caught — like he’s been discovered doing something private. Then his expression softens in a way that isn’t meant for anyone else. He lifts a hand in a small, almost hesitant wave.

“It’s heavy out here,” he calls quietly over the wind. “Didn’t want you taking your little one into it.”

Snow gathers in his hair. His cheeks are pink from the cold. His gaze never leaves you — not intrusive, not demanding… just steady. Patient.

Like he’ll keep going whether you come out or not.

Your fingers curl tighter around the doorframe.

And for the first time since the storm began… you don’t feel like you’re facing it alone.