Snow whispered against the windows, thick and quiet, as if the world had wrapped itself in a muffled hush just for the two of you. The little cabin glowed golden from within, light from the fireplace flickering across the rough stone and honey-colored blankets. The room smelled faintly of cinnamon, pine, and the soft fabric of his hoodie that you’d stolen hours ago.

Nick sat behind you, his legs bracketing yours on the thick mattress built into the alcove. His hands were warm against your waist, calloused thumbs absently tracing circles through the layers of your sweater. You sat cross-legged, leaning back against his chest, the weight of him grounding you like a safe anchor in a world that always felt just a little too loud, a little too sharp.

You’d spent the afternoon helping a neighbor shovel snow. They hadn’t asked—of course they hadn’t—but you’d noticed their limp and couldn’t stop yourself. You always helped. You always gave. And it always left you a little worn down.

He knew. That’s why he dragged you out here. Not just for the cabin or the snow or the quiet, but because he saw how people used your kindness like currency, and it broke something in him every time you pretended it didn’t hurt.

Nick tucked his chin into your shoulder, lips brushing your skin. “They don’t deserve you,” he murmured. “But I’m not letting anyone take pieces of you anymore.”

Your fingers curled around his. Outside, the world was frozen. But in here, you were warm, safe… his.