Mara woke before dawn, the unfamiliar silence pressing in on her chest.
For a brief, disorienting second, she didn't know where she was. The ceiling above her was too smooth, too bare. The air smelled faintly of pine and something darker coffee, maybe. Not home. Not a hotel either.
Then memory slid back into place.
The storm.
The apartment.
Julien.
Her jaw tightened as she turned onto her side and checked the time on her phone. 5:41 a.m.
Too early to be awake. Too late to pretend she'd slept well.
She lay still, listening.
The apartment was quiet, but not empty. She could sense another presence the way she always could like a low hum beneath the surface. It unsettled her more than noise would have.
Mara prided herself on control. On awareness. On never being caught off guard.
Last night had done all three.
She pushed herself up and swung her feet onto the cold floor, welcoming the bite of it. Pain, at least, was honest. She dressed quickly, choosing neutral colors black sweater, dark jeans, nothing soft, nothing inviting. Armor disguised as clothing.
When she opened her bedroom door, she paused.
Light spilled from the kitchen.
Julien stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp as if he'd showered recently. The sight of him awake, moving quietly through the space hit her with an unexpected sense of displacement. Like she'd stepped into someone else's life mid-sentence.
"Oh," he said softly when he noticed her. "Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't," she replied, though it wasn't entirely true.
He gestured toward the counter. "I made coffee. I didn't know if you."
"I drink it black," she said automatically.
He nodded, as if filing the information away. No comment. No smile. Just acceptance.
That annoyed her more than flirting would have.
She poured herself a cup and leaned against the opposite counter, keeping distance between them. Snow drifted lazily outside the window, the world still hushed in that way it only was before morning fully claimed it.
"You're up early," she said.
"So are you."
"I'm not used to sleeping in strange places."
"Neither am I."
Something about the way he said it flat, unembellished made her glance at him. He wasn't looking at her. His focus was on the mug in his hands, fingers wrapped around it like it anchored him.
"Work?" she asked.
"Yes.
She waited for more. When it didn't come, she felt a flicker of irritation she didn't bother to hide.
"You don't talk much."
He glanced up then, one eyebrow lifting slightly. "Neither do you."
That earned him a look.
He surprised her by smiling not wide, not charming. Just brief. Like he hadn't meant to.
Silence settled again, heavier this time. Not awkward. Loaded.
Mara hated loaded silences.
She finished her coffee quickly and set the mug down with a little more force than necessary. "I'll be out most of the day."
"So will I."
"Good."
Julien hesitated. "For what it's worth, I didn't ask for this arrangement either."
She met his gaze then, something sharp and curious flickering between them.
"I know," she said. "But we're still stuck with it."
"Yes."
He didn't argue. Didn't placate. Didn't pretend.
It disarmed her.
Mara grabbed her coat and bag and moved toward the door. Her hand paused on the handle.
"For what it's worth," she added without turning around, "I don't celebrate Valentine's Day."
There. Boundary drawn. Line in the snow.
She waited for a response.
Instead, Julien said quietly, "Neither do I."
Her fingers tightened briefly around the handle before she pulled the door open and stepped out into the cold.
The town had shifted overnight.
Shops were brighter. Windows fuller. Florists already arranging bouquets in shades of red and white. A violinist played softly near the square, the melody lilting and hopeful.
Mara felt like an outsider moving through a play she hadn't auditioned for.
She headed straight to the municipal office, paperwork tucked under her arm. Business first. Distraction later. That was how she survived things.
Still, her thoughts kept circling back to the apartment. To Julien's quiet presence. To the way he hadn't asked questions he was clearly curious about.
People usually asked.
Why are you alone?
Why don't you smile more?
Why do you look like February hurts you?
Julien hadn't asked any of it.
The realization followed her through the morning, lingering longer than she liked.
By afternoon, the sky darkened again, clouds rolling in heavy and gray. Snow began to fall harder, faster. The storm wasn't finished with the town yet.
Mara left the office later than planned, shoulders tight with fatigue. Her phone buzzed as she stepped outside.
Unknown Number: Train services suspended for the next 72 hours due to severe weather.
She stared at the message.
Fourteen days was beginning to feel like a lie.
The walk back to the apartment was slower, the snow thick enough now to soak through her boots. By the time she reached the building, her fingers were numb, her patience thinner than the ice forming along the railing.
She opened the door and was met with warmth and the smell of something rich and savory.
She froze.
Julien stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot. Music played softly from his phone, low enough not to intrude.
"You're back," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "I made too much."
"I didn't ask you to cook."
"I know."
That again. Calm. Unbothered.
She removed her coat slowly. "I said I don't share meals."
He nodded. "I remember. The kitchen's yours if you want it."
He didn't turn the stove off. Didn't offer her a plate. Didn't push.
She hated that part of herself the one that noticed the care in that restraint.
Mara set her bag down and moved toward her room, stopping only when her stomach betrayed her with a quiet, humiliating growl.
Julien pretended not to hear it.
That somehow made it worse.
"Fine," she muttered. "One meal."
He turned then, surprise flickering briefly across his face before he masked it. "Okay."
They ate at opposite ends of the table. No candles. No wine. Just food and silence and the sound of snow against the windows.
It should have felt ordinary.
It didn't.
Mara became acutely aware of small things the way Julien cut his food neatly, the faint scar near his wrist, the tiredness that deepened when he thought she wasn't looking.
"Why are you here?" she asked suddenly.
He looked up, startled. "Work," he repeated.
"That's vague."
"So is grief."
The words landed between them like shattered glass.
Mara went very still.
"I didn't" he began, then stopped. "I'm sorry. That was."
"Accurate," she said quietly. "But unnecessary."
He studied her for a moment, something heavy passing through his eyes. "You're not as closed off as you think."
She laughed once, bitter and sharp. "You don't know me."
"No," he agreed. "But I know what it looks like when someone survives instead of lives."
The room felt smaller suddenly. Warmer. Charged.
Mara pushed her chair back and stood. "I need air."
Julien didn't stop her.
Outside, the snow swallowed her footsteps as she walked, breath fogging in front of her. Her heart beat too fast, her thoughts tangled and uncooperative.
This was dangerous.
Not him.
The way she felt seen without being stripped bare.
February had a way of doing this of cracking her open just enough to remind her why she'd sealed herself shut in the first place.
Behind her, the apartment door opened softly.
Julien stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets, not crossing the distance.
"I won't chase you," he said. "But I won't pretend I didn't notice you either."
She turned slowly.
Snow settled in his hair, melting into darkness. His eyes held something steady. Something patient.
"I don't do easy," she warned.
"Neither do I."
The words lingered between them, fragile and unspoken.
Above them, Valentine lights flickered on across the street, glowing against the storm.
And for the first time in years, Mara felt something shift not hope, not love but the terrifying possibility that this February might demand more from her than survival.