Snowbound Christmas Wish

Chapter Eight – The Distance

By late afternoon the snow stopped pretending to be gentle.

Thick, heavy flakes came down in slow, deliberate drops, each one big enough to see from the inn windows. The sky hung low over the village, pressing the world into a smaller, whiter circle.

Emma and Liam walked through it anyway.

Helga had insisted. “If you are going to be miserable, at least be miserable with fresh air,” she’d said, thrusting hats and scarves at them as if they were armour.

Now they climbed the short path behind the inn, boots crunching, breath misting the air. The trees stood around them like a silent crowd, branches burdened with snow.

Emma shoved her hands deeper into her pockets.

“How is your father?” she asked.

“Angry,” Liam said. “Which for him means very polite and very sharp. You would like his emails. They read like legal threats and Christmas cards at the same time.”

“I am starting to feel personally attacked by emails as a medium,” she muttered.

He smiled faintly.

“Did he calm down at all?” she tried.

“He reminded me of the last time I went against him,” Liam said. “When I refused to study law. He said he was ‘not surprised’ I had found another way to be difficult.”

“Rebel,” she said.

“I studied economics instead,” he replied. “It was not exactly burning down the system.”

They reached the small overlook and stopped.

Below, the village looked like a painting again. The inn roof curved under white weight. The square tree glowed, even in daylight. Smoke curled from chimneys into the heavy sky.

Beyond that, the forest stretched, a dark green river frozen mid-flow.

Emma watched Liam watching it.

“Are you scared?” she asked.

“Of the lawsuit?” he said. “Yes. Of the judge, yes. Of my father, definitely. Of losing this place…” His hand flexed at his side. “More than anything.”

“And of us?” she pushed.

He turned his head slowly.

“You really like hard questions,” he said.

“You really like avoiding them,” she replied.

He sighed.

“Yes,” he said finally. “I am scared about us. I am afraid this week will feel like a strange dream once we are back in our separate lives. That you will look at your Berlin and your deadlines and think ‘what was I doing with that man in a wooden box on a mountain.’”

“I already know what I am doing with that man in a wooden box on a mountain,” she said. “Very clearly.”

He huffed a laugh that came out more like a breath.

“Your turn,” he said. “Are you scared?”

“Yes,” she said immediately. “I am scared that I will go back to Berlin, open my laptop, and everything I write will feel half true without… this.” She gestured between them. “I am scared of wanting something that is not easy. I am scared you will look around your very real, very messy life in the city and think ‘I do not have space for a woman who turns my mistakes into metaphors.’”

He winced. “That is uncomfortably accurate,” he said.

“Which part?” she asked.

“Both,” he said.

A gust of wind blew snow sideways into their faces. Emma wiped melting flakes from her lashes.

“You know what scares me most?” she said.

“What?” he asked.

“That we might decide not to even try,” she said. “That we will both tell ourselves this was just a snowstorm. A holiday glitch. A thing that was never meant to survive train timetables and court calendars.”

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he stepped closer, closing the narrow gap between them. His hands came up to cup her face, thumbs brushing away cold drops on her skin.

“Emma,” he said, voice low and steady. “I have done many stupid things in my life. I have signed contracts too fast, hurt people I cared about by staying silent, stayed with someone I loved in a way that turned us both into ghosts. I am not adding ‘walked away from you without even trying’ to that list.”

Her eyes burned suddenly, embarrassingly.

“That is very unfair,” she said thickly. “You are not allowed to say things like that when my face is already frozen.”

He smiled and bent his head, pressing his forehead to hers, their hats bumping.

“I am leaving tomorrow,” he said. “You are leaving the day after. Between now and then, we have maybe… what. Thirty hours? Thirty five?”

“You are really not helping,” she said.

“Wait,” he murmured. “Let me finish ruining your composure.”

She let out a shaky laugh.

“In those thirty-five hours,” he went on, “we can either pretend this is nothing, or admit that it is something and behave like people who intend to see each other again.”

“How do people like that behave?” she whispered.

“They exchange numbers,” he said. “They talk about time zones. They argue about who’s visiting who first. They send dumb photos of trains and courtrooms and Berlin bakeries. They fight. They make up. They keep showing up. Even when it is hard. Especially then.”

Her heart squeezed.

“That sounds like work,” she said.

“It will be,” he said. “But I would rather do that work with you than do nothing with anyone else.”

She closed her eyes briefly.

“Okay,” she said. “We try.”

He pulled back just enough to see her face.

“Okay?” he repeated.

“Okay,” she said again. “You go fight in the city. I go… figure out what Berlin looks like now. We text. We call. I come to the hearing, if you want. As me, not as your journalist.”

“You sure?” he asked. “The editor will want you there with a notebook.”

“He can want all he likes,” she said. “He does not own every story I live.”

A slow, grateful smile spread over his mouth.

“Then yes,” he said. “I want you there. Even if you are sitting in the very last row and I can only see your hair when I turn around.”

She sniffed, trying to pretend it was the cold.

He kissed her once, quick and warm, then pulled back with obvious reluctance.

“Come on,” he said. “You have an appointment with the television.”

She groaned. “Do not remind me.”

“Oh, I am going to remind you the entire way down,” he said.

---

By the time they got back to the inn, Emma’s fingers had just started to forget what warmth felt like.

Helga had moved a small table near the lobby window for her, with a decent lamp and a background that did not scream “mountain chaos.” Someone had even placed a small vase with pine branches and a single red ornament on the corner, as if that would make global television easier.

Lina hovered with a brush in hand.

“Sit,” she ordered. “Your hair looks like you wrestled a tree.”

“I did wrestle a tree,” Emma said. “Emotionally.”

“Trees won,” Lina said. “They usually do.”

Liam watched from the sofa, pretending to read something on his phone, eyes flicking up every other second.

Emma opened her laptop, checked her connection three times and logged into the video call platform her editor had sent.

“Short spot,” the email had said. “Three minutes. Human angle. Do not swear.”

A producer appeared on screen first. Middle-aged, headphones, efficient.

“Emma, hi,” she said. “We love the piece. We’ll bring you in after the studio intro. Just look at the camera, not your own face. Talk like you’re explaining this to a friend. And remember: we are not here to make you say anything that gets us sued.”

“That’s very reassuring,” Emma said weakly.

She stole a glance sideways.

Liam sat where she could see him if she turned her head too far. He gave her a small nod. His presence felt like a hand at her back.

The producer counted her down. “And… we’re live.”

The studio anchor’s face filled the screen. Polished, calm. Behind her, the headline of Emma’s article floated on a graphic of mountains and a pine tree.

“Joining us from a small village somewhere under all that snow is journalist Emma Keller,” the anchor said with a practiced smile. “Emma, you’ve been staying at the inn that has become the unlikely center of this conflict. You wrote about one man’s decision to say no to a big development company. Why do you think this story is resonating so strongly?”

Emma inhaled.

“Because it is not just about one man,” she said. “It is about a whole community standing at a crossroads. Jobs, modernisation, money on one side. History, identity, the forest on the other. People are tired of being told those are always mutually exclusive.”

She found a rhythm, the same one she used when she wrote, just with less time to choose each word.

The anchor asked about the lawsuit. About NordAlp. About whether Liam Hartmann knew what he had started.

Emma answered carefully, feeling the weight of each sentence.

“He’s not a hero and not a villain,” she said. “He’s someone in the middle, like a lot of us, trying to make a choice he can live with when there are no perfect options.”

“Do you think he regrets it?” the anchor asked.

Emma’s gaze flicked, involuntarily, toward the sofa.

Liam was watching her, eyes steady.

“No,” she said. “I think he’s scared. And I think that’s normal. Doing the right thing isn’t always heroic. Sometimes it’s just terrifying.”

The anchor smiled. “Strong words from a mountain,” she said. “Thank you, Emma. Stay warm up there.”

The call cut.

Emma sagged back in her chair, letting out a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding. Her heart hammered.

Lina clapped once. “You looked cool,” she announced. “Even when your neck did that weird thing.”

“I have a weird neck?” Emma said, horror creeping in.

“On camera everyone has a weird neck,” Lina said. “Do not worry.”

Helga patted Emma’s shoulder on her way past. “You sounded like you meant it,” she said. “That matters more than necks.”

Emma turned toward the sofa.

Liam hadn’t moved.

“Well?” she asked.

“You were good,” he said. “You did not call my father a heartless businessman, which I consider a victory of restraint.”

She smiled, some of the tightness easing.

“You heard the part where I called you ‘not a hero and not a villain’?” she asked.

He nodded. “Accurate brand positioning,” he said. “Still terrible for my ego.”

She crossed the space between them, the inn lobby blurring around the edges.

“Come upstairs,” she said under her breath. “Before someone else asks me to be insightful.”

---

They did not talk much in their room.

Words had been pouring out of her all day – into microphones, into cameras, into arguments inside her own head. Now she was tired of hearing her own voice.

Liam seemed to feel the same. He kicked off his boots, shrugged out of his sweater and dropped onto the bed on his back, arm thrown over his eyes.

Emma watched him for a second, then climbed up beside him. She turned onto her side and laid a hand on his chest, fingers splaying over the steady rise and fall.

“Overwhelmed?” she asked.

“A little,” he said. “Today I received a lawsuit, disappointed my father, became a symbol for a fight I did not plan and watched my… someone talk about me on television.”

He chose the word carefully. It made her chest warm.

“Busy day,” she said.

He removed his arm from his eyes and looked at her.

“And you?” he asked.

“Weird,” she said. “I woke up in your arms, got told the company wants to eat your family for breakfast, found out my article is on the front page, got invited to be wise on live TV and now…” She glanced down at his mouth. “Now I am here again.”

“Terrible place to end the day,” he murmured.

“Awful,” she agreed.

He reached up and threaded his fingers into her hair, drawing her closer.

The kiss was soft at first, more comfort than hunger. The kind of kiss you give someone not because you cannot wait, but because you want to say I’m still here without more words.

She moved closer anyway.

Her body curled into his side as if it had been designed for that exact stretch of mattress. His hand slid from her hair to her back, drawing small circles through the fabric of her sweater. Each circle loosened a knot she hadn’t realised was there.

“Stay tonight,” he said against her mouth. “Properly. No midnight panic about interviews or emails. Just… stay.”

“I was planning on kicking you out actually,” she said. “Taking the whole bed for myself. You know. To prepare for life without you.”

His hand tightened on her waist.

“Do not joke about that,” he said quietly.

She sobered.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I will not.”

He rolled onto his side to face her fully, their noses almost touching.

“I leave in the morning,” he said. “I have no idea what the next week will look like. Or the next month. I could call you from an office. From a hallway outside a courtroom. From my car. From a very small, very depressing guest room in my parents’ house. I do not know. But I am going to call you. A lot. You might get sick of it.”

“Unlikely,” she said.

“And when it gets too much,” he went on, “when the lawyers and the files and my father’s voice and the company’s letters all get too loud, I am going to need to remember that there was a week when it was just snow and your laugh and this bed.”

Her throat closed.

“You make it sound like we’re about to go to war,” she said.

“In a way, we are,” he replied. “Just with less heroism and worse snacks.”

She laughed, a small sound full of ache.

“Then we stock up on what we can,” she said. “Memories. Stupid jokes. Things to text at three in the morning when you cannot sleep.”

“Like what?” he asked.

“Like a photo of your father’s emails,” she said. “So I can send back sarcastic commentary.”

He smiled.

“Or a picture of my coffee,” she added. “So you know I am awake with you somewhere else.”

“And if I send you a picture of a tree?” he asked.

She pressed her forehead to his.

“Then I will send you one back,” she said.

He kissed her again, and the conversation dissolved into warmth and the familiar slide of his mouth over hers.

The fear was still there. It lived in the corners of the room, in the packed bag by the chair, in the train ticket folded in her wallet. But it did not feel quite as big when his hands were on her, when she could feel the way his body relaxed around hers as if, for all the chaos outside, this still made sense to him.

They undressed each other with a slow, unhurried care, like people unpacking something they intended to keep, not rush through. Every kiss felt like a promise engraved on skin rather than a distraction from what waited outside.

He touched her as if memorising, mapping each reaction, filing it away for a time when he would not be able to just reach out and feel it. She did the same, letting her hands linger on his shoulders, the line of his back, the curve of his hip, storing the warmth and weight and sound of him for some later night in Berlin when her bed would be suddenly too big.

Their bodies fit together, again and again, and each time it felt both more familiar and more terrifying.

Later, when they lay tangled in the dark, her leg thrown over his, his hand resting low on her spine, she listened to his breathing slow and curl around the edges of sleep.

“Liam?” she whispered.

“Mhm,” he answered, somewhere between awake and gone.

“If it gets too hard,” she said. “If the court, the company, your father… if all of it becomes too much and you need to let go of something, let go of the idea that you have to do this perfectly. Not of us. Promise?”

His hand tightened slightly on her back.

“I was going to say the same thing,” he murmured. “Just with less eloquence.”

“Promise,” she insisted.

“I promise,” he said. “I will not let go of you first.”

The words sank into her like heat.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Neither of them said the part they were both thinking.

That sometimes, even with promises, distance and time and pressure could warp the strongest intentions.

But as she drifted toward sleep, pressed along the length of him, feeling the soft rise and fall of his chest under her hand, Emma decided to believe him.

At least for tonight.

---

When the alarm went off the next morning, it was still dark.

The room smelled like them and faintly of coffee from the thermos Helga had smuggled in before she went to bed. The air was cold on the side of Emma’s face not buried against Liam’s shoulder.

He moved first.

“Turn it off,” he groaned, voice wrecked with sleep.

“You set it,” she mumbled.

“Clearly past me was an i***t,” he muttered, but he rolled away anyway, fumbling for his phone on the nightstand.

The alarm cut.

Silence swelled back in.

For a few seconds they both lay very still, as if staying under the blanket could somehow freeze time with it.

Then Liam took a long breath and sat up.

The loss of his body heat made her shiver.

“I hate this part,” he said.

“Leaving?” she asked.

“Waking up,” he replied. “Leaving is the part that comes after I have to look at your face and remember I am choosing to walk away from the only place I have felt even remotely right in months.”

She rolled onto her back, hair a mess on the pillow.

“You are not walking away from me,” she said. “You are walking toward a judge who needs to see your face and hear your voice.”

“And possibly watch me lose badly,” he said.

“You’re not going alone,” she said. “You just have an early start.”

He looked at her, then nodded, as if that helped.

They dressed mostly in silence, broken by small, ordinary things.

“Do you have your charger?”

“Yes.”

“Your documents?”

“Yes.”

“Warm socks?”

“I live in a village that can kill you with a bad pair of shoes, Emma. Yes.”

He zipped his bag with more force than necessary.

Downstairs, the inn still slept. Helga had left a thermos and a paper bag on the counter with his name on it. “Food. Do not argue,” the note read.

Outside, the world was a blue-grey pre-dawn, the snow on the road pressed into two pale tracks by the only car that had passed that night.

They stood by his car for a second, breath visible in the cold.

He opened the driver’s door, then closed it again without getting in.

“I am going to text you when I get down the mountain,” he said. “And when I get to the city. And probably when I see my father’s face and think about turning around. You can ignore some of those.”

“I won’t,” she said.

He stepped closer. His gloved hand came up to her cheek, clumsy and big.

“One more?” he asked.

“Always,” she said.

The kiss was not long. It was not heated or desperate. It was something deeper and quieter, pressed into the thin line between night and morning.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers for a second.

“Do not let your editor turn me into a tragic side character,” he said.

“Do not let your father turn you into a villain,” she answered.

He smiled, crooked and tired and everything she had fallen for.

“I will call you,” he said.

“I will answer,” she replied.

He let her go slowly, like he was checking that his fingers still worked.

Then he forced himself into the car, started the engine and pulled away.

Emma watched the red glow of his taillights until they disappeared around the curve.

The sudden silence felt like something physical.

She stood there for a long moment, arms wrapped around herself, breath clouding the air in small, uneven bursts.

Behind her, the inn door creaked.

Helga stepped out, wrapped in a thick coat, her hair in a plait down her back.

“He is gone?” she asked.

“For now,” Emma said.

Helga hummed.

“The first leaving is always the worst,” she said. “The next ones are either easier because you know what you are doing, or harder because you know what you are losing.”

Emma swallowed.

“I do not know which this will be,” she admitted.

Helga looked at her for a long, assessing second.

“You sent him down the mountain with full thermos and a heart that is no longer hollow,” she said. “That is more than he had last week.”

She tucked her arm through Emma’s and steered her gently back toward the warm light spilling from the inn.

“Come,” she said. “You have one more day here. Time to decide whether you are going back to Berlin as a visitor or as someone who has somewhere else to come back to as well.”

Emma let herself be pulled inside.

As the door closed against the cold, her phone buzzed.

She didn’t have to check to know who it was.

Still, she took it out and looked.

A simple message.

Road is bad but I am still on it. Like us.

She smiled, a thin, aching thing, and typed back with fingers that finally felt steady.

Then drive carefully. I am not finished with you yet.