The rented SUV crawled up the last switchback, tires crunching over packed ice that the chains bit into with reluctant growls. Sofia Moreau kept both hands tight on the wheel even though Gabriel had offered three times to drive the final hour. She needed the illusion of control. Paris, the half-signed divorce papers, the empty apartment that still smelled of her husband's cologne—everything felt smaller the higher they climbed, as if altitude could squeeze the mess of the last year out of her lungs.
Gabriel sat in the passenger seat, long legs folded awkwardly, one earbud dangling loose so he could hear her if she spoke. He had grown again since summer; the sleeve of his black parka rode halfway up his forearm, exposing the new roped muscle that climbing walls at university had carved into him. Nineteen looked good on him—dangerously good—and Sofia tried not to notice how the late-afternoon light through the windshield turned the fine dark hair at his temples into something almost golden.
"There," she said, nodding toward the chalet as it appeared around the bend. Tucked against the mountain like something that had grown there rather than been built: dark timber, steep roof already wearing a thick cap of snow, a single chimney that hadn't smoked in years.
Gabriel pulled the earbud free. "It's smaller than the photos."
"Cozy," she corrected, hearing the defensiveness in her own voice. She had chosen this place for its isolation, for the promise of five quiet days where no one could reach them—no lawyers, no pitying friends, no ex-husband texting apologies at 2 a.m. Just her and her son, the way it used to be before everything got complicated.
They parked beside the woodpile. The air that slapped them when they opened the doors was sharp enough to make Sofia's eyes water. Minus twelve, maybe colder. Gabriel took the keys from her cold fingers without asking and unlocked the front door while she wrestled the first bag from the trunk.
Inside smelled of pine resin and cold stone. The previous owner had left the heat on low; the radiators ticked like impatient bones. Sofia dropped her bag in the living room and went straight to the fireplace, kneeling on the slate hearth to open the flue. The iron handle was icy. She blew into her hands, then began stacking kindling with the efficiency of someone who had spent childhood winters in exactly this kind of mountain house.
Gabriel carried in the groceries, then the two duffels, then the box of wine. On his last trip he paused in the doorway, snowflakes melting on his lashes. "Maman." He only used French when he was worried or teasing; this was worried. "It's coming down hard. Like—really hard."
She stood and joined him at the window. The forest road they had driven an hour ago had vanished under a moving white curtain. The SUV was already half-buried.
"Forecast said flurries," she said weakly.
Gabriel's mouth twitched. "Forecast lied."
By the time they finished bringing in the last armful of firewood from the porch, the world outside had gone monochrome and soundless. The single track down the mountain was gone; in its place, only drifting snow and the occasional heavy thud of accumulation sliding off the roof.
They stood in the small living room, breathing hard, cheeks stung red from cold. Sofia laughed first—a short, surprised sound that turned into something real when Gabriel's eyes met hers and he started laughing too. The kind of helpless laughter that only happens when plans collapse completely.
"Five days," she managed, wiping her eyes. "We brought enough food for two weeks. We're idiots."
"Rich idiots," he corrected, grinning. "At least we have wine."
They opened the first bottle at six-thirty, sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of the fire because the couch felt too far away from the heat. The chalet had only one bedroom—something the rental listing had mentioned in passing that Sofia had somehow overlooked when booking. One queen bed, thick duvet, a single tiny window already frosted solid. They would deal with that later.
The fire caught quickly. Flames threw gold over the low ceiling beams, over the worn leather armchair, over Gabriel's sharp cheekbones when he leaned forward to poke the logs. Sofia watched the light slide across his throat and looked away fast, reaching for her glass instead.
They talked the way they hadn't in years—easy, unfiltered. About his first semester, the girl who had ghosted him after three dates, the professor who graded like a sadist. She told him about the project in Lisbon that had fallen apart, about finding her husband's messages to his twenty-six-year-old assistant, about how strangely freeing it felt to sign the separation agreement. Gabriel listened the way he always had, head tilted, dark eyes steady, but tonight there was something new in them—something adult and appraising that made her shift on the rug.
At some point the bottle was empty and the room was too warm. Sofia's jeans and thick sweater felt suddenly suffocating. She stood.
"My suitcase is still in the car," she said. "Everything I packed for five days is under a meter of snow."
Gabriel glanced out the window—now only blackness and the frantic dance of flakes in the outside light—then back at her. "You can borrow something of mine. I overpacked."
He disappeared into the bedroom and came back with a faded gray university hoodie and a pair of soft black leggings he sometimes slept in. They were enormous on her, but clean and warm. She took them, hesitating.
"I'll change in the bathroom," she started.
"The fire's here," he said simply, turning his back to give her privacy, busying himself with adding another log.
Sofia's pulse thudded in her ears. It was nothing—he was being polite, practical. They had seen each other in swimming suits a hundred times. Still, something about the quiet room, the storm sealing them off from the world, made the ordinary act feel charged.
She pulled her sweater over her head, the static lifting her hair. The thermal underneath followed. For a moment she stood in only her black lace bra—ridiculous city lingerie she hadn't thought anyone would see—and felt the fire's heat kiss her bare back and shoulders. Gooseflesh rose on her arms. She reached behind and unclasped the bra, letting it slide down her arms to the floor. The air on her breasts was shocking, exquisite; her nipples tightened instantly. She told herself it was just cold.
Quickly—too quickly—she tugged Gabriel's hoodie over her head. It smelled like him: cedar soap, the faint trace of the climbing chalk he never quite washed out of everything, something warm and male that made her stomach dip. The hem fell to mid-thigh, soft and worn. She shimmied out of her jeans and socks, then stepped into the leggings. They were too long; she had to roll the waistband twice so they wouldn't sag. When she straightened, the fabric clung softly to her hips and the curve of her ass.
She turned.
Gabriel was still facing the fire, but his reflection in the dark window showed he hadn't moved at all. His shoulders were rigid. In the glass she could see his eyes—fixed, unblinking—on the exact spot where her reflection would have been moments ago.
He had watched.
The knowledge landed between her legs like a hot coin. Sofia's breath caught. She should say something light, teasing—You were supposed to keep your eyes closed, monsieur—but the words stuck. Instead she crossed the room on bare feet and sat again on the rug, closer to the fire this time, knees drawn up inside the huge hoodie.
Gabriel cleared his throat and turned around slowly. His gaze flicked over her—quick, involuntary—then fixed on the flames. The firelight painted the sharp line of his jaw, the pulse beating too fast at the base of his throat.
"You look…" He stopped, swallowed. "Warm. That's good."
Sofia tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, aware of how the hoodie gaped at the neck, how the position pulled the fabric tight across her breasts. She wasn't wearing anything underneath now except the leggings and simple cotton panties. She felt every inch of bare skin where the soft cotton brushed her.
"Yes," she said, voice lower than she intended. "Very warm."
Outside, the storm kept building, wind rattling the windows like it wanted in. Inside, the only sounds were the crackle of pine logs and two heartbeats learning a new, dangerous rhythm.
Neither of them suggested opening the second bottle. Neither of them moved to claim the single bedroom yet. They simply sat, inches closer than before, watching the fire burn higher, as if warmth alone could explain why the air between them suddenly felt too thin to breathe.