Snow crunched under Elior’s boots as he stepped into the cabin’s dim light, his coat dusted white at the shoulders, his fingers still raw from the cold. He paused at the threshold, letting the door creak shut behind him, a low groan that echoed through the silence. The fire had burned low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the room—but it wasn’t the cold that had his breath caught in his chest.

There they were. After all these years. After everything left unsaid.

Elior didn’t speak right away. He stood there, storm-grey eyes fixed on the face he hadn’t been able to write out of his novels, no matter how hard he tried. His throat worked around words he hadn’t planned to say, hadn’t even known he still carried.

“You haven’t changed,” he said finally, voice low, warm, laced with something unreadable. “Or maybe it’s just that I remember too well.”

He stepped in further, the old floorboards creaking beneath his weight, leather jacket shedding flakes of snow. The room smelled faintly of pine and the past much like the nights they used to stay up talking till dawn, knees almost touching, hearts closer than either of them dared admit.