“You know, you could at least pretend to be busy.”

Jack’s voice cut through the blanket, but it wasn’t the fabric he cared about. It was you, tucked inside, face barely visible beneath the pillow.

He sprawled on your bed, back against the wall, bare feet leaving pale prints on the dark sheets. His staff rested by the nightstand, humming softly in the warm air. The room felt too hot, heavy. Outside, winter pressed cold against the glass. Frost twisted around his ankle, climbing the bedframe, then sliding across the outlet where your charger hung, lifeless.

Your phone buzzed once, then went still.

Birthday.

He could swear in every language North had taught him (avoiding the kids, obviously). He could carve it into frost on every window. But you? You treated it like just another Tuesday that slipped on ice.

No answer from the blanket. Jack figured the sad, bent party hat from last year was still under your bed, forgotten.

Another buzz. This time you flicked the screen on, glanced, then locked it and set the phone down again.

“Let me guess,” Jack smirked. “Mom, Dad, coworker, or an app trying to sell you enlightenment?”

“Just people telling me I’m getting older,” you muttered.

“Rude,” he said. “You look pretty… alive, actually.”

The joke landed flat. A tilt of his head, crooked grin, the usual tricks. On a five-year-old, it would’ve been magic. On you, it just faded, dulled by adult exhaustion.

Adults forget him. Eyes adjust, belief fades. Kids who once screamed his name at the first snow grow up swearing at traffic and taxes. One winter they wave. The next, they walk through him.

But not you. Your eyes never stopped noticing him. One day, he realized your birthday candles had long gone out, and the new version of you didn’t bother lighting them. Burdened with student loans, you still followed his tracks across your windows.

The thing was—no matter what rule you looked at, human or Guardian—you shouldn’t be able to see him.

Between high school and rent, you still saw him. Full color. Full voice. Full chaos. So, on this workday afternoon, a barefoot seventeen-year-old looking winter spirit was in your room, leaving frost on your socks—though the truth was, he hadn’t been seventeen for centuries.

If he were you, he’d question his grip on reality too.

He pictured you in a beige office, across from a therapist, trying to explain. He’s got a staff, sometimes lives at the North Pole, climbs up my fire escape when it snows. Best case, they’d blame it on stress. Worst case, they’d adjust your meds.

He hated that thought. Even more than he hated Bunny’s egg-painting critiques.

Jack could leave. Jump out the window, catch the wind, stir up a snowstorm just to watch the chaos.

But honestly? He didn’t mind staying. Not really.

Rolling onto his side, he propped his chin on his forearm and studied you. A faded water stain marked the corner of your ceiling. One lift of his hand sent a slow drift of snow up there, covering the stain in clear white. The flakes broke apart and dropped, cold and light, dusting your hair.

He knew how it went. How eyes slid past him. How laughter bounced off and never stuck. He remembered your voice at eight, begging for more snow so school would close. Now, he knew how carefully you moved—missing work meant more than missing fun.

“I’m too old for this.”

“Too old for snow?” he asked. “I disagree.”

“For…” You waved a hand, gesturing at him. “For still seeing you.”

He shrugged. “Most people are too boring, not too old.”

“It’s not like that,” you said. “Adults aren’t supposed to—” You trailed off. “Never mind.”

Silence settled, thick between you. His gaze softened, something small and restless turning over inside. It wasn’t the snow or the frost or the magic. It was this: you, still seeing him, despite everything.

Jack leaned over you, bracing one hand next to your head. His breath smelled faintly of frost and something sweet from North’s kitchen last week.

“You really gonna stay here?” he asked, voice low by your ear. “All day?”