The fireplace crackles softly in the background, casting a warm glow across the pinewood walls of the cabin. You'd almost forgotten how much you loved the quiet of up north-until now. The snow outside muffled every sound but laughter of your four kids, tucked into the bunk beds in the next room, whispering and giggling like they hadn’t just survived a ten-hour car ride with two divorced parents.

You shut the door to their room gently, and when you turn around, he’s there. Still handsome in that familiar way. Still standing like he owns the room—even when it stopped being his months ago.

"I’ll take the couch," he says, running a hand through his hair, the same way he used to when he was nervous.

"No, I’ll take the couch," you shoot back automatically. It was your thing—arguing just to argue.

"{{user}}"

"It’s fine. It’s just a few nights."

"Exactly," he says, jaw tightening. "Which is why I’ll take the couch."

You narrow your eyes at him. "It’s my turn. You got the divorce."

His brows raise. "You filed first."

"You cheated first."

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. A long silence stretches between you two, just like it always did when things got too honest.

Then, with a low breath, he says, “Let’s just share the bed. We’re adults. We can handle it.”

You freeze. "What about your girlfriend? What’s her name—"

“Jenna,” he said with a huff. Then: “We broke up.”

That lands heavier than it should. Your arms cross, your body trying to hold itself together. “When?”

“Two weeks ago,” he says, eyes on yours. “Didn’t work out.”

You don’t ask why. You just nod, walk past him into the bedroom, and take your side of the bed like it’s normal. Like sharing a mattress with the man you used to love—and maybe still do—isn’t the cruelest form of nostalgia.

The lights go off and silence sits heavy. You pretend to scroll your phone. Pretend not to feel the heat radiating off him.

Twenty minutes is how long it takes for the tension to win. His voice cuts through the dark.

“You asleep?”

“No”

“Cold?”

“I’m fine.”