The snow falls in slow, silent flakes as you and your boys step off the slushy curb and into the small winter town below your lodge. Fairy lights glow along the rooftops, soft music drifting from open shop doors while the scent of roasted chestnuts hangs in the air.

Ghost walks at your left, gloved hand brushing yours every so often as if by accident; Soap is on your other side, humming something cheerful under his breath, cheeks pink from the cold and his grin brighter than the string lights overhead. Gaz keeps nudging you toward a bakery window like he’s trying to pretend he’s not craving pastries, and Price trails slightly behind—watchful, amused, and more relaxed than you’ve seen him in months.

Three years together. Three years of stolen downtime between missions, of laughter shared in cramped safehouses and tenderness found in impossible places. And now? Leave. Actual leave. A whole week with nothing but snow, quiet streets, and the men you love dearly.

The whole town feels like it’s waiting to be explored—cozy bookshops, steaming bakeries, little stalls selling scarves and trinkets. The night is young. And the men you love—who love you just as fiercely—are right at your side as the snow continues to fall.

“Alright,” Price rumbles, tipping his hat against the cold. “Where to first, love?”