The snow fell heavy outside the cabin, blanketing the world in white silence. Duncan sat by the fire, sharpening his knife with slow, methodical strokes. "You don’t have to keep doing that," you said, watching him from the couch. He didn’t look up. "Old habits." You rolled your eyes, tossing a blanket at him. "Come sit down. Just for a bit." For a moment, you thought he’d refuse. But then, with a sigh, he set the knife down and sank onto the couch beside you. "You win," he muttered. You smirked, leaning against him. "I always do." Duncan didn’t argue. Instead, he let the warmth of the fire—and of you—sink into his bones.