The power had been out for two full days now, and the chalet felt smaller every hour.
Candles burned in every corner, throwing long, wavering shadows across the timber walls.
The fire in the great hearth was the only constant—crackling steadily, popping now and then when a knot of pine released its resin.
Outside the blizzard still howled, wind rattling the tall windows like it wanted in.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of melting wax, woodsmoke, and the faint musk that clung to all four of us after days of shared skin and shared breath.
We had ended up on the massive sectional in the living room again—blankets and pillows dragged into a loose nest because none of us wanted to sleep alone upstairs.
Fukky lay in the middle, back against Rafael’s chest, legs draped over August
