Mara woke before dawn, not because of noise, but because of presence.
The apartment felt fuller like the air itself remembered Julien was there, even when he wasn't beside her. She lay still for a moment, listening to the quiet hum of the heater, the distant murmur of traffic outside, and the softer sound of movement down the hall.
He was awake.
She hadn't meant to notice that so easily.
Pulling on a sweater, she padded toward the kitchen. Julien stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from the shower. He was slicing bread with focused care, as though precision could keep his thoughts in order.
"Morning," she said.
He looked up, surprise flickering briefly before settling into something warmer. "Morning."
The word felt intimate shared.
"I didn't wake you, did I?" he asked.
"No. I was already up."
They exchanged a look that said we both slept badly without either admitting it.
Julien finished what he was doing and set a plate on the counter toast, eggs, fruit arranged with more care than necessary.
"You didn't have to," she said.
"I wanted to."
Again, those words.
They ate together in silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It felt like learning a new language how to exist together without armor.
After breakfast, Julien reached for his coat. "I might be late again."
She nodded. "I figured."
He hesitated, then leaned down and pressed a brief kiss to her temple.
It was gentle. Unassuming.
It wrecked her.
She froze as he pulled back, eyes searching her face for any sign of regret.
There was none.
"See you tonight," he said.
She watched him leave, heart racing over something so small.
The day dragged.
Mara tried to work, but her thoughts wandered relentlessly toward the quiet intimacy of breakfast, toward the way Julien hadn't asked permission before kissing her, but had trusted her not to pull away.
It scared her how much she wanted more.
She had spent years believing love demanded grand gestures or complete certainty. But this , this careful choosing of each other felt heavier than fireworks.
By evening, snow began to fall again.
Soft at first. Then relentless.
When Julien finally came home, his cheeks were flushed from the cold, eyes tired but alert.
"It's getting bad out there," he said. "They're predicting another storm."
"Again?" she asked, half-laughing.
"February seems determined to test us."
She smiled despite herself.
They cooked dinner together this time, bumping elbows, sharing quiet jokes. At one point, Julien reached past her to grab a spice, his hand brushing her waist.
Neither of them moved away.
The air shifted.
"I'm sorry," he murmured automatically.
"Don't be," she replied, surprising them both.
His hand lingered for half a second longer before withdrawing.
Dinner tasted better than it had any right to.
Later, they sat on the couch again closer this time, legs touching. Julien handed her a glass of wine.
"You're tense," he said softly.
"So are you."
He smiled faintly. "Occupational hazard."
She turned toward him. "You don't always have to be the steady one."
"I know," he replied. "But someone has to be brave first."
Her breath caught.
"You think that's you?"
"No," he said honestly. "I think it's us."
The word settled between them us fragile and dangerous.
The storm worsened outside, wind howling against the windows. Power flickered once. Twice.
Then the lights went out completely.
Mara inhaled sharply.
Julien was on his feet instantly. "It's okay. I've got candles."
He moved confidently through the dark, returning moments later with warm light flickering in glass holders. The apartment softened under candlelight, shadows dancing across familiar walls.
"It's kind of beautiful," she admitted.
"It is," he agreed but he was looking at her.
Her pulse quickened.
They sat again, closer now. Julien's arm rested along the back of the couch, not touching her but close enough that she could feel the heat of him.
"Mara," he said quietly.
"Yes?"
"There's something I need to ask you."
Her chest tightened. "Okay."
"Are you afraid of me… or of how you feel?"
The question landed softly and brutally.
She stared at the candle flame, watching it waver. "Both."
He nodded. "That's fair."
"I don't want to ruin this," she whispered.
"I don't think honesty ruins things," he replied. "Silence does."
She turned toward him fully now. "I don't know how to promise something I might fail at."
"I'm not asking for promises," he said. "I'm asking for presence."
The word echoed inside her.
Presence.
Not perfection. Not certainty.
Just staying.
She reached out before fear could stop her, her fingers brushing his wrist. His breath hitched but he didn't move.
"I'm here," she said.
Julien's hand closed gently around hers.
The touch sent a tremor through her entire body.
They leaned closer not rushing, not desperate. When their foreheads touched, it felt like crossing a threshold.
"This isn't the holiday," he murmured. "It's us choosing."
She nodded. "I know."
Their kiss was slow and careful, lips meeting like a question rather than an answer. When they parted, her hands were shaking.
Julien rested his forehead against hers again. "We can stop."
"I don't want to," she said softly.
Neither did he.
They kissed again deeper this time, still restrained. Desire hummed beneath the surface, but neither crossed the line. It was trust they were building, not heat.
When they finally pulled apart, breathless, the candles were burning low.
"Valentine's Day is coming," Mara said quietly.
Julien smiled a real one this time. "So it is."
"And you're still here."
"Yes."
The power came back on with a sudden hum, light flooding the room. They blinked, startled, then laughed softly.
The moment didn't disappear.
It stayed.
That night, they slept in the same bed for the first time in days fully clothed, hands loosely entwined.
Mara lay awake, listening to Julien's breathing, feeling the steady weight of him beside her.
For the first time, February didn't feel like a threat.
It felt like a promise waiting to be tested.