The airport breathed around us—rolling suitcases humming across polished floors, boarding calls dissolving into the high ceiling, espresso machines hissing like impatient sighs. Strangers passed in hurried currents, jackets brushing, laughter spilling, goodbyes clinging to the air.
But beside Jayson, everything felt suspended.
He sat close enough that our shoulders touched. His fingers drummed against the handle of his carry-on—three quick taps, pause, three quick taps again. I knew that rhythm. It was the sound of an idea forming. His knee bounced lightly, and when I glanced at him, I caught that spark in his eyes—the one that meant he was already somewhere ahead of me, already building something in his mind.
He nudged me with his elbow, gentle but insistent.
"You know what we should do?" His voice carried that familiar brightness, barely contained. "There's an electronics store just down there. The new iPad's out. And the latest iPhone. You have to see it."
I leaned back in my seat, folding my arms in mock defense. "My phone works," I said, lifting it slightly as proof. "It texts. It calls. It survives being dropped in my bag without a case. What more could I possibly need?"
He turned toward me fully, eyes wide in exaggerated disbelief. "That's not the point."
"Oh? So what's the point? Buying a new gadget five minutes before boarding and setting it up at thirty thousand feet?" I tilted my head, trying—and failing—to suppress my smile.
He grinned.
Not the playful one he used on friends. The softer one that lingered and always made my resolve melt a little at the edges.
"Just look," he said, lowering his voice like he was inviting me into a conspiracy. "We've got time. No pressure. I'm just curious."
Curious.
I studied him—the way his thumb brushed absently against his palm, the way his gaze flickered toward the hallway where the store must have been. He wasn't just curious. He was lit from the inside.
I exhaled slowly, already standing before I could change my mind. "Fine," I said, brushing imaginary dust from my jeans. "But if I walk out of there with a new device, I'm blaming you for the next five years."
His smile widened, triumphant and boyish all at once. He reached for my hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Deal."
As we walked toward the electronics store, Jayson's grip on my hand tightened and loosened in quick bursts, like he was trying to contain something too big for his chest. The glass doors slid open with a soft hiss, and white light spilled over us—rows of glowing screens, polished metal, reflections layered on reflections.
He let go of me only to move ahead, drawn in. His fingers skimmed across display tables. Screens woke beneath his touch. He leaned in close to read the fine print of specifications, lips parting slightly when something impressed him.
"Look at this," he murmured, half-laughing under his breath.
I watched him more than the devices—the way his brows lifted, the way his shoulders squared like he'd stepped into sacred ground. He moved from one table to another, animated, explaining refresh rates and battery lives as though he were unveiling constellations. I folded my arms, pretending indifference, but my smile kept betraying me.
He stopped in front of the newest iPhone and picked it up carefully, like something fragile.
"You have to try this."
He placed it in my hands.
The screen flared to life—bright, impossibly clear. I turned it slightly, watching the light skim across the glass. It felt cool against my palm, smooth and balanced, engineered to perfection.
"It's beautiful," I admitted.
His grin deepened. "See?"
I ran my thumb along the edge, then looked up at him through my lashes. "Still don't need it."
He stepped closer. Close enough that our arms brushed. Close enough that I felt the warmth of him under the store's sterile lights.
"You don't always know you need an upgrade," he said softly, his voice dipping into something quieter, steadier, "until you see what's possible."
The way he held my gaze made the air shift.
I opened my mouth, ready with some sarcastic comeback—but he wasn't looking at the phone anymore.
His hand slipped into his pocket.
The store noise dulled. Conversations blurred. Even the bright screens around us seemed to dim at the edges.
He drew out something small.
Velvet.
My breath caught halfway in.
Not here, I thought. Not between price tags and charging cables.
He didn't look away from me as he opened the box.
Light struck the diamond and shattered into sparks.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. His fingers trembled—just slightly. Not from cold. From courage.
"Erika," he said, and the sound of my name in his mouth felt different—bare, unguarded. "You said you didn't need an upgrade."
His usual confidence wavered, then steadied again.
"But I can't imagine my life staying the same. Not when it could be more. More mornings. More trips. More everything—with you."
He lowered himself onto one knee, right there between polished display tables and stunned shoppers.
"So..." His breath hitched, but his eyes never left mine. "Will you marry me?"
The world narrowed to the space between us.
My hand flew to my mouth, but it couldn't stop the tears from spilling over. I had imagined this moment before—candles, sunsets, beaches—but never fluorescent lights and demo units. And somehow, that made it more ours. Clever. Unexpected. Slightly chaotic.
Perfect.
"Yes," I whispered, the word breaking against the rush in my chest.
He blinked, as if he wasn't sure he'd heard me.
"Yes," I said again, laughing through tears. "Yes, Jayson."
Relief crashed over his face, softening every line of it. I pulled him up before he could steady himself, wrapping my arms around him so tightly the velvet box pressed between us.
He laughed—breathless, shaking—as he slid the ring onto my finger. It settled there as if it had always known its place.
Applause rippled somewhere behind us. Someone sniffled. A stranger whispered, "Oh my God."
But all I felt was his heartbeat against mine.
When we finally pulled back, he ran a hand through his hair, half in disbelief. "I can't believe I actually did that."
"In an electronics store?" I let out a watery laugh. "Of all places."
He smiled—softer now. "You always surprise me. I figured I should return the favor."
I looked down at my hand. The diamond caught the overhead lights, scattering them in tiny bursts. It didn't matter that we still held shopping bags. It didn't matter that strangers were walking past.
The weight on my finger grounded me.
We left the store with new gadgets we barely noticed. As we boarded the plane, I kept stealing glances at him—at the man who had knelt under fluorescent lights and offered me forever.
We found our seats by the window, knees brushing, shoulders touching as though the narrow space had been built just for us. Our fingers slipped together without thinking. The ring pressed cool and certain against my skin, a small circle of metal that felt heavier than it looked. Every time I moved, it caught the cabin lights and scattered them in quiet sparks across the armrest.
Outside, runway lights streaked past in patient lines. The plane began to roll, slow at first, then faster. Jayson leaned toward the window, his reflection layered over the darkening sky. The faint glow from the wing lights traced the edge of his jaw, and I watched the way his eyes widened—not at the runway, but at the future unfolding in it.
I rested my head on his shoulder. Beneath us, the engines gathered their strength, a low vibration that traveled through the seat and into my bones. His thumb brushed absently over my knuckles, back and forth, back and forth, as if memorizing the shape of my hand.
"Ready for El Nido?" he asked, turning slightly so his temple brushed my hair.
The question felt bigger than the destination.
I tilted my hand so the diamond flashed between us and smiled. "Ready for anything," I murmured, tightening my grip.
The engines roared. The pressure pressed us gently into our seats. Then the ground slipped away.
The city below unraveled into ribbons of light, shrinking, softening, dissolving into the dark. Clouds rose to meet us—thick and luminous—and then swallowed the plane whole. For a moment, there was nothing outside the window but white.
Inside, everything felt suspended.
His shoulder was warm beneath my cheek. His heartbeat steady beneath my palm. The ring cool and constant against my skin.
Beyond the beaches we had planned and the laughter we imagined waiting for us, something unseen shifted—quiet, patient, vast. We were climbing toward it without knowing its name.
Above the clouds, the sky deepened into indigo.
And somewhere beyond that endless stretch of night, our story was already opening into something far greater than either of us could see.
Now I stand in a different kind of morning.
Pale light seeps through the frost-laced windows of the Frozen Hearth, turning the glass into fragile veins of silver. Outside, Winterhold stretches in silence—half-ruined buildings hunched against the wind, snow drifting across empty streets as if the world itself is slowly being erased. The sea beyond is a hard, endless gray.
Inside, the hearth crackles behind me. Warm and alive. However, it does not reach my chest.
I move a cloth in slow circles across a wooden table. Wipe, then turn, then wipe again. The wood is rough beneath my fingers, splintered from years of travelers who passed through and never stayed. The rhythm should soothe me. Instead, it opens the door to memory.
Fluorescent lights and polished glass. His breath catching as he opened the velvet box. The ring flashing like a small captured star between us.
My thumb finds it now.
The metal is colder here.
I stop moving. Lift my gaze toward the window. Beyond it, Winterhold feels like the edge of the world—wind howling through broken stone, snow swallowing footsteps as soon as they are made. No airport announcements. No rolling suitcases. No coffee steam curling into warm air.
Just wind.
I press my palm against the glass. The cold bites immediately, sharp and unforgiving.
I try to remember the weight of his shoulder beneath my cheek on the plane. The steady drum of his heartbeat. The way he said my name when he knelt—soft, like it was something sacred.
The memory flickers.
"Please..." The word leaves me before I can stop it.
The inn is nearly empty at this hour. Only the fire answers, wood splitting with a quiet snap.
"Jayson."
His name dissolves into smoke.
If he is somewhere in this frozen land, I cannot feel him. If he is not—if I am the only one who fell through the sky into this world of snow and magic—then the silence is a weight I am not strong enough to carry.
I curl my fingers into my palm until the ring presses hard into my skin. Pain, at least, is real. Solid.
Proof.
Outside, a violent gust tears across the cliffs, lifting snow into the air like scattered ash. For a moment, it looks as though the world itself is burning white.
"I need you," I whisper again—not to the hearth, not to the sea, but to whatever fragile thread might still bind us across realms.
The fire burns.
The wind howls.
And I stand in Winterhold, holding onto a circle of metal and the memory of a man who promised me forever—waiting for him to find me before the cold does.
Dagur presses an extra loaf into my hands some mornings without a word. Haran leaves a folded wool shawl by my bed when the wind grows cruel. They do not ask where I came from. They do not ask who I wait for. They simply make space for me at their table, as if I have always belonged there.
I repay them the only way I can.
I carry plates heavy with stew. I wipe ale from scarred wooden tables. I rise before dawn to stir the embers back to life. My hands stay busy so my thoughts do not wander too far. Busy hands do not ache as loudly.
But they still ache.
One evening, when the lanterns burn low and my shoulders throb from the day, I slip into the farthest corner of the inn with a mug of warm mead cupped between both palms. The heat seeps into my skin, but not deep enough. Around me, voices rise and fall—dice clatter, boots scrape, someone laughs too loudly at a joke I cannot follow.
The fire snaps.
I watch the flames bend and twist, gold devouring wood, sparks rising and vanishing before they reach the rafters. For a moment, I imagine they might shape themselves into something—into a sign, a face, a voice carried through the smoke.
They never do.
Even wrapped in wool and firelight, the cold finds me. It settles behind my ribs and stays there. I have learned the rhythms of this place—the way snow moves sideways when the sea wind howls, the way the floorboards creak near the bar—but I still feel like a guest in someone else's story.
The door groans open.
Wind barrels in with it, scattering snow across the threshold. My heart lifts before I can stop it. For one reckless breath, I expect a familiar silhouette. Dark hair. Warm eyes.
Instead, a band of adventurers stomps inside, shaking frost from their cloaks, laughter bright and careless. One of them calls for mead. Another slams coin onto the counter.
I smooth my expression into something serviceable and rise to greet them.
Their joy fills the room.
Mine does not.
When I return to my corner, the mug is half-empty and already cooling. I turn the ring around my finger slowly, watching the firelight catch in the stone. It flashes once—sharp, defiant—then dims again.
Somewhere, in some other sky, he once knelt beneath white lights and asked me for forever.
Now I measure time in shifts and snowfall.
The night deepens. Lanterns flicker like distant stars struggling against the dark. Conversations thin. Boots fade up the stairs. One by one, the sounds disappear until only the wind and the breathing hearth remain.
I close my eyes.
I can almost feel the weight of his shoulder beneath my cheek. The steady rhythm of his thumb tracing my knuckles. The way he said my name as if it were both a question and a promise.
"We'll find each other," I whisper into the quiet.
The words tremble, but they do not break.
This world is vast—stone and snow and ancient magic—but so was the sky the night our plane climbed through the clouds. And we crossed that.
I finish the last of the mead and stand, the bench scraping softly against the floor. Before climbing the stairs, I pause and look back at the inn—the warm glow, the worn tables, the life that is not mine and yet holds me anyway.
I press the ring once more into my skin.
It hurts.
It helps.
Until the day I see him step through that door, until his voice cuts through wind and fire and doubt, I will stay. I will serve. I will endure the cold.
And somewhere beyond the sea cliffs of Winterhold, beyond the reach of snow and silence, I choose to believe he is walking toward me too.