I would choose you

Dancing and spinning

By the time we trudged back up the hill to the house, our limbs were heavy and the world had dipped into that quiet just before twilight, when the snow turns blue and every sound feels wrapped in wool.

Inside, the lake house greeted us with warmth and woodsmoke. The fire from the morning had burned down to glowing embers, but Arthur fed it expertly, and soon it was roaring again, heat pulsing back into the living room. We shed our layers one by one - scarves unwound, coats hung to steam dry by the door, boots kicked off.

Arthur disappeared into the cellar and returned cradling a wrapped parcel against his chest. “Duck,” he announced proudly. “From the farm down the road.” He unwrapped it in the kitchen, and Abraham rolled up his sleeves to help prepare it.

The two of them moved like they’d cooked together before, slicing onions, pressing garlic, laying everything over a bed of rosemary and halved apples. The smell of raw spice and citrus and salt began to rise, earthy and mouthwatering. Arthur rubbed the duck with mustard, honey, a dash of wine - and then they placed it carefully in a deep dish and slid it into the wood stove. The oven door closed with a soft, satisfying click.

In the meantime, the girls claimed the kitchen. Nicole peeled apples at the counter, her sleeves rolled high and her cheeks still flushed from the cold. Maria and I measured flour, passed spices, rolled dough over the table, laughing at how clumsy we were with the old ceramic mixing bowls. Hannah was preparing tea.

The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and butter, warm apples and rising bread. We worked without rush. The house felt wrapped in golden light, like we were caught in the softest hour of the year, a moment that would stretch if we let it.

From the living room, August plucked at his guitar again, a slow melody that hung like smoke in the air. Max sat nearby, writing something in his notebook. Abraham hummed quietly as he stirred something on the stove.

Nicole brushed a strand of hair from her face, left a streak of flour on her cheek.

There was something holy about it. The way we moved around each other, the way we smiled without trying, the way everyone belonged in the same room. The duck sizzled quietly in the oven. The pie went in after it.

⸻

Dinner was perfect. The duck, roasted to golden crispness, filled the house with a scent so rich it was almost overwhelming - herbs, wine, melting fat, wood smoke. We ate slowly, tearing off pieces of bread, passing around the last of the homemade jam to smear on crusts, and refilling each other’s glasses with warm red wine Arthur had pulled from a corner of the pantry.

We were still wrapped in our post-skating glow, the fatigue in our limbs making everything feel softer, slower. We leaned toward the candles, shared jokes over full plates, and let our laughter rise and settle like steam.

And then came the pie.

Still warm, flaking apart at the edges, with cinnamon-bathed apple slices hidden under a crust that cracked softly beneath each fork. Hannah brewed a big pot of black tea and filled the mugs with dried orange peel and cloves before pouring it in, so the steam rose fragrant and sweet.

But the calm didn’t last.

Arthur stood suddenly and clapped his hands. “Right,” he said, the candlelight catching his wild curls, “we've all been too well-behaved. It’s time for some chaos.”

To our surprise, the storage closet he dragged a crate of bottles: vodka, tequila, vermouth, champagne, and a bottle of something blue and suspiciously unlabeled. We all stared, half-delighted, half-terrified.

“I knew you were hiding something,” Max said, smirking.

Arthur just winked. “I was saving this for a rainy day, but I think a snowstorm counts. Besides - what’s the point of a lake house if you can’t have a little in it?”

He shuffled over to the large record player in the corner of the living room and flicked through a box of vinyls with reverent fingers.

Then, with a grin, he selected one, slid it onto the turntable, and dropped the needle.

The unmistakable first notes of “Dancing Queen” burst into the room - shiny and joyful.

Arthur filled paper cups with vodka and tequila, and handed them out.

“To the lake house,” he declared, raising his cup.

“To questionable decisions,” August added.

“To not freezing to death!” Hannah chimed in, laughing.

“To... this,” I said, not sure what else to call it.

We clinked the flimsy little cups together.

“Bottoms up!” Arthur cried. “Let’s have some real fun, shall we?”

And just like that, the house changed again.

The lights looked warmer. The laughter sounded louder. Someone turned up the music.

The record spun again, and this time it was Mamma Mia. The opening chords bounced through the room like sugar.

“I love this song!” Hannah shouted, eyes wide with delight, and before I could answer she grabbed both me and Maria by the wrists and pulled us into the center of the living room.

“Mamma mia, here I go again!” we sang in perfect chaos, spinning in a little circle, arms half-raised, legs bouncing awkwardly in our woolen shoes. Maria was laughing too hard to sing, but Hannah and I kept going, shouting out the lyrics with all the confidence of people who knew every word by heart and none of the notes.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Nicole’s gaze - she was leaning against the doorframe with a smile and two drinks in hand: one a half-full cocktail in a glass that caught the firelight like stained glass, the other a quick shot, probably something stronger.

I nodded to her, inviting to join us.

She didn’t hesitate. She weaved through the dancing bodies like she was stepping through water and slipped in beside me just in time for the chorus.

“Gimme, gimme, gimme a man after midnight,” she belted, swaying beside me, her head thrown back and one arm raised with her glass still in hand.

The room felt golden and spinning. Our shadows danced across the walls, long and warped, like something from a dream you never wanted to end.

By the time Waterloo came on, we were all breathless, red-cheeked, laughing too loudly and singing too badly to care. The boys had joined us now, bringing with them new bottles, fresh pours, and the kind of rowdy energy that turned the living room into a makeshift disco. Someone tipped a bottle of tequila into Nicole’s drink, and I saw her eyes widen before she laughed and sipped it anyway. I filled my own cup with sweet vermouth, deep red and cloying, and felt the warm curl of intoxication settle somewhere behind my eyes.

That was when I saw her stumble.

Nicole caught her toe on the edge of the rug and nearly fell, her drink sloshing out in a glistening arc across the floor.

“Whoa,” I said, catching her by the waist. “You alright?”

She blinked at me, her eyes slightly unfocused. “I don’t feel so well.”

I guided her gently to the couch, where she sank down like the whole night had suddenly gotten heavier. Her glass dangled from her fingers, nearly tipping again, so I took it and set it on the floor.

“I’ll get you some water,” I said, already turning toward the kitchen.

By the time I returned with a glass and a handful of paper towels, she had curled into one side of the couch, looking small and pale beneath the soft light of the ceiling lamp. I wiped the spill on the floor and handed her the glass.

“Here. Drink slowly.”

She nodded and obeyed, eyes barely open now, her voice no more than a whisper. “Why is everything spinning so much? Just gonna nap a little. Then we can go back... dancing.”

“Sure,” I said, brushing hair from her forehead. “Just a little nap.”

The music kept playing, and the laughter kept rising from the others. I turned to say goodnight to whoever noticed, but no one did - they were too deep into whatever came next.

I helped Nicole up, slung her arm around my shoulder, and began leading her up the stairs one slow step at a time. My head was spinning just enough to feel soft, but not enough to forget where I was. Still, when I reached the top floor, I realized I couldn’t remember which door led to her room. The hallway seemed longer than it should’ve been. The doorknobs looked identical. I didn’t want to fumble in the dark.

So I brought her into mine.

She didn’t protest, just dropped her weight onto the bed the moment she saw it and mumbled something about stars and velvet curtains. I knelt and slipped off her shoes. Her legs curled up immediately, like she’d done this a hundred times before, and I pulled the blanket over her shoulders.

“I’ll be right back,” I whispered, not sure if she was still awake.

Downstairs, the music had changed to something slow and unfamiliar. The lights were low. Someone was telling a story too loudly. I filled another glass of water and carried it carefully upstairs.

When I returned, she hadn’t moved.

I set the glass on the nightstand, then climbed in beside her.

Her hair spilled across my pillow like sunlight. I could smell citrus and something floral. Her breathing was even and slow, her face peaceful in a way I wasn’t used to seeing.

I lay on my side, careful not to touch her, and stared up at the ceiling. The moonlight slipped through the curtain in thin, quiet lines.

It was silent now, except for the soft thump of music below and the sound of snow tapping against the window.