New York at night feels like a movie set when it’s snowing.

The streets glow—streetlights blurring into halos, storefront windows fogged just enough to feel intimate, the air sharp and clean in a way Los Angeles never manages. You’d just finished your runway show hours earlier, adrenaline still buzzing faintly under your skin, and now you’re wrapped in a long coat, arm looped through your wife’s as you walk toward dinner.

Tate McRae leans into you, laughing softly, her breath puffing white in the cold. She looks beautiful in that effortless way she always does—dark coat, scarf pulled up around her chin, eyes bright from the city and the fact that tonight is just for the two of you.

“Next time,” she says, glancing pointedly at your feet, “we’re packing snow boots.”

You glance down at your heels—sleek, impractical, absolutely the wrong choice. “I didn’t think it would snow this much.”

“You never do,” she teases.

The sidewalk is slick, thin ice hiding beneath fresh snow. You’re being careful—short steps, weight centered—but it only takes one wrong angle.

Your heel slips.

The world tilts violently, your stomach dropping as your balance disappears. Tate’s hand tightens on your arm, but it’s too sudden, too fast.

And then—strong hands catch you.

Firm. Secure. One at your waist, the other bracing your arm. You’re pulled upright in a single smooth motion, body colliding with someone solid and warm.

“Whoa,” a voice says, low and amused. “Got you.”

You look up.

And for half a second, everything else disappears.

He’s… unfairly attractive. Dark hair dusted with snow, sharp jaw, eyes striking enough that your brain short-circuits before it catches up. He smells like winter and something expensive. Like someone who belongs in New York in a way that feels cinematic and dangerous.

Your heart stutters.

For one disorienting, mortifying moment, you forget everything else—forget the ring on your finger, forget the woman still holding your other arm, forget that you are very much married.

All you can think is: he looks like he fell out of a dream.

“You okay?” he asks, eyes scanning your face, concern mixed with something else—interest, maybe.

You swallow. “Yeah. I—thank you.”

His hands linger a fraction too long before he lets go. “Anytime.”

That’s when reality crashes back in.

Tate clears her throat.

You turn your head sharply.

She’s still there—steady, real, very much your wife—one brow raised, lips pressed together in a way you know very well. Not angry. Not jealous. Just… amused and unimpressed all at once.

The man follows your gaze, finally noticing her. His expression shifts instantly.

“Oh,” he says. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” Tate says calmly, tightening her grip on you. “Thanks for catching my wife.”

My wife.

The words snap you fully back into yourself.

You feel heat rush to your face, embarrassment flooding in as you step closer to Tate instinctively, like gravity pulling you back into place.

“Thank you,” you repeat quickly, this time firmer, more grounded. “Really.”

He smiles once more—still devastating, still unreal—but now there’s a polite distance in it. “Be careful out there.”

He disappears into the snow a moment later, swallowed by the city as easily as he arrived.

You stand there for a beat, heart still racing.

Tate looks at you sideways. “So,” she says lightly, “you good?”

You groan. “I slipped.”

“Mhm.”

“And almost died.”

“Mhm.”

“And was briefly saved by a man who looked like he was personally designed to test my vows.”

She snorts despite herself, laughter breaking through the cold. “Wow. Honesty. Love that.”

You lean into her, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek, voice softer now. “I forgot how to walk. Not how to be married.”

She bumps her shoulder into yours. “Good. Because if you’d forgotten that, I would’ve pushed him into traffic.”

You laugh, relief washing through you as she tugs you closer, guiding you carefully down the sidewalk this time—slow, steady, together—New York glittering around you, snow falling like nothing ever went wrong at all.