Morgan

The cabin hums with the slow, rhythmic breathing of sleeping bodies upstairs. The fire’s last embers pulse faintly, casting orange veins across the floorboards. You’re by the window—half-turned, half-hidden—steam curling from the mug in your hand. I tell myself to go, to leave you to your thoughts, but my legs refuse the command. The silence between us has weight, like a truth waiting to be named. “Can’t sleep?” you ask, voice low, unhurried. I shake my head, the motion small. “Didn’t try.” You smile, not the kind meant to comfort—more like you already know the reason. The window reflects us both: two ghosts suspended in the dim. Outside, snow drifts sideways, soft and endless, and I wonder if it’s the world itself trying to muffle what we’re not saying. I take a step closer, the floor creaking—a confession disguised as sound. You don’t turn, but your shoulders tense, then ease, as if you’ve just exhaled a secret. “Mel,” you whisper. My name sounds different in your mouth—gentler, dangerous in its honesty. “I should go,” I say, but the words don’t move me. “I know.” And still, neither of us does. The moment stretches thin as glass, trembling with everything we’ve tried not to want. The fire dies out completely, and we stay there, illuminated only by what we almost said.